"No, dear, not now," said Mrs. Brown.

Bunny and Sue thought they had never been in such a nice place as Aunt Lu's city home. From the windows they could look down to the street, ten stories below.

"It's a good way to fall," said Bunny, in a whisper.

"But you musn't lean out of the windows, and then you won't fall," his mother told him.

The children were given their supper, and then Wopsie took them up on the roof. This was higher yet. It was a flat roof, with a broad, high railing all around it so no one could fall off. And from it Bunny and Sue could look all over New York, and see the twinkling lights far off, for it was now getting on toward evening, though it was not yet dark.

A little later Wopsie took them down in the elevator again, to the street. There they saw other children walking up and down, some of them playing; some babies being wheeled in carriages, and many men and women walking past.

"My! What a lot of people!" cried Bunny. "Is it always this way in a city, Wopsie?"

"Yes'm," answered the little colored girl, who seemed to mix up "Yes, ma'am," and "Yes, sir." But what of it? She meant all right. "It's bin dis way eber sence I come t' New York," she went on. "Allers a crowd laik dis. Everybuddy hurryin' an' hurryin'."

Wopsie stood still a moment to speak to another colored girl, who came out of the next house, and Bunny and Sue walked on ahead. Before they knew it they had turned a corner. Down at the end of the street they saw a man playing a hand-piano, or hurdy-gurdy, as they are called.

"Oh, Bunny!" cried Sue. "Let's go down and listen to the music."

"All right," Bunny agreed. "And maybe he has a monkey, like Wango."

Hand in hand the two children ran on. They saw other children about the hurdy-gurdy. Some of them were dancing. Bunny and Sue danced too. Then the music-man wheeled his music machine away, and Bunny and Sue turned to go back. They walked on and on, and finally Bunny, stopping in front of a big house said:

"This is where Aunt Lu lives."

"But where is Wopsie?" asked Sue. "Why isn't she here?"

"Oh, maybe she went inside," replied Bunny. "Come on, we'll go in the elevator and have a ride."

They went into the marble hall. It looked just like the one in Aunt Lu's apartment. And there was the same colored elevator boy in his queer little cage. Bunny and Sue went to the entrance.

"Where yo' want to go?" asked the elevator boy.

"To Aunt Lu's," answered Bunny.

"What floor she done lib on?" the boy asked.

"I -- I don't know," Bunny said. "I -- I forgot the number."

"What's her name?"

"Aunt Lu," said Sue.

"No, I mean her last name?"

"Oh, it's Baker," said Bunny. "Aunt Lu Baker."

The colored elevator boy shook his head.

"They don't no Miss Baker lib heah!" he said. "I done guess yo' chilluns done got in de wrong house!"



Chapter X

In The Dumb Waiter


Bunny Brown looked at his sister Sue, and his sister Sue looked at Bunny Brown. Then they both looked at the colored elevator boy. He was smiling at them, so Bunny and Sue were not as frightened as they might otherwise have been.

"Isn't this where Aunt Lu lives?" asked Bunny.

"Nope. Not if her name's Baker," answered the elevator lad. "We sure ain't got nobody named Baker in heah!" (He meant "here.")

"Oh, Bunny!" cried Sue. "Then we're losted again!"

"Where'd you come from?" asked the colored boy. "Now don't git skeered, 'cause yo' all ain't losted very much I guess. Maybe I kin find where yo' all belongs. What's de number of, de house where yo' auntie libs?"

"I -- I don't know," said Bunny. He had not thought to ask the number of his aunt's house, nor had he looked to see what the number was over the door before he and Sue came out. In the country no one ever had numbers on their houses, and Bellemere was like the country in this way -- no houses had numbers on them.

"Well, what street does your aunt done lib on?" asked the colored boy, in the funny way he talked.

"I don't know that, either," said Bunny.

"Huh! Den yo' suah am lost!" cried the elevator lad. "But don't yo' all git skeered!" he said quickly, as he saw tears coming in Sue's brown eyes. "I guess yo' all ain't losted so very much, yet. Maybe I kin find yo' aunt's house."

"If you could find Wopsie for us, she could take us there," said Bunny.

"Find who?"

"Wopsie. She's a little girl that lives with my aunt, and -- "

But the elevator boy did not wait for Bunny to finish.

"Wopsie!" he cried. "Am she dat queer li'l colored gal, wif her hair all done up in rags?"

"Yes!" cried Sue eagerly. "That's Wopsie. We came out to walk with her, but we heard the hand-piano music, and we got lost."

"Do you know Wopsie?" asked Bunny.

"I suah does!" cried the elevator boy. "She's a real nice li'l gal, an' we all likes her."

"She's losted too," said Bunny.

"Yes, I knows about dat!" replied the elevator boy. "We all knows 'bout Wopsie. Why she's jest down the street, and around the corner a few houses. Now I know where yo' Aunt Lu libs. If you'd a' done said Wopsie fust, I'd a knowed den, right off quick!"

"Can you take us home?" asked Sue.

"I suah can!" cried the kind colored boy. "Jes yo' all wait a minute."

He called to another colored boy to take care of his elevator, and then, holding one of Bunny's and one of Sue's hands, he went out into the street. Around the corner he hurried, and, no sooner had he turned it, than up rushed Wopsie herself. She made a grab for Bunny and Sue.

"Oh, mah goodness!" cried the little colored girl. "Oh, mah goodness! I'se so skeered! I done t'ought I'd losted yo' all!"

"No, Wopsie," said Bunny. "You didn't lost us. We losted ourselves. We heard music, and we went to look for a monkey."

"But there wasn't any monkey," said Sue, "and we got in the wrong house, where Aunt Lu didn't live."

"But he brought us back. He knows you, Wopsie," and Bunny nodded toward the kind elevator boy.

"I guess everybody around dish yeah place knows Wopsie," said the boy, smiling. "Will yo' all take dese chilluns home now?" he asked.

"I suah will!" Wopsie said. "Mah goodness! I'se bin lookin' all ober fo' 'em! I didn't know where dey wented. Come along now, an' yo' all musn't go 'way from Wopsie no mo'!"

"We won't!" promised Bunny.

He and Sue were beginning to find out that it was easier to get lost in the city, even by going just around the corner, than it was in the country, when they went down a long road. For in the city the houses were so close together, and they all looked so much alike, that it was hard to tell one from the other.

"But yo' all am all right now, honey lambs," said Wopsie, who seemed to be very much older than Bunny and Sue, though really she was no more than three or four years older.

"Do we have to go in now?" asked Bunny, as Wopsie led him and Sue down the street, having said good-bye to the kind elevator boy who had brought them part way home.

"Yes, I guess we'd better go in," said the little colored girl. "Yo' ma might be worried about yo'. We'll go in. It's gittin' dark."

The elevator quickly carried them up to Aunt Lu's floor.

"Oh, now I see the number!" cried Bunny. "It's ten -- I won't forget any more."

"Well, did you have a good time?" asked Mother Brown when Bunny and Sue came in, followed by Wopsie.

"We got losted!" exclaimed Sue.

"What! Lost so soon?" cried Aunt Lu. "Where was it?"

"In a house just like this," broke in Bunny. "And it had a lift elevator and a colored boy and everything. Only he said you didn't live there, and you didn't, and I didn't know the number of your floor, or of your house, and we got losted!"

"But I found them!" said Wopsie, for she felt it might be a little bit her fault that Bunny and Sue had gotten away. But of course it was their own fault for running to hear the music.

"You must be careful about getting lost," said Aunt Lu. "But of course, if ever you do, just ask a policeman. I'll give you each one of my cards, with my name and address on, and you can show that to the officer. He'll bring, or send, you home."

Sue and Bunny were each given a card, and they put them away in their pockets, where they would have them the next time they went out on the street.

For the next two or three days Bunny Brown and his sister Sue did not go far away from Aunt Lu's house. Wopsie took them up and down the block for a walk, but more often they were riding in Aunt Lu's automobile. And many wonderful sights did the children see in the big city of New York. They could hardly remember them, there were so many.

Bunny and Sue grew to like Wopsie very much. She was a kind, good girl, anxious to help, and do all she could, and she just loved the children. She was almost like a nurse girl for them, and Mrs. Brown did not have to worry when Bunny and Sue were with Wopsie.

"Do you think you'll ever find her folks?" asked Mrs. Brown of Aunt Lu, when they were talking of the colored girl one day.

"Well, I'm sure I hope so," answered Aunt Lu, "though I like the poor little thing myself very much, and I would like to keep her with me. But I know she is lonesome for her own aunt whom she has not seen since she was a little baby. And I think the aunt must be worrying about lost Wopsie. The police haven't been able to find any one who is looking for a little colored girl, to come up from down South. Perhaps her aunt has moved away. Anyhow I'll keep Wopsie until I find her folks."

Sometimes Bunny and Sue thought that Wopsie looked sad. Perhaps she did, when she thought of how she was lost. But she had a good home with Aunt Lu, and after all, Wopsie was quite happy, especially since Bunny and Sue had come.

The two Brown children thought riding in the elevator was great fun. Often they would slip out by themselves and get Henry, the colored boy, to carry them up and down. And he was very glad to do it, if he was not busy.

One day Bunny and Sue went out into Aunt Lu's kitchen, where Mary, the colored cook, was busy. She often gave the children cookies, or a piece of cake, just as Mother Brown did at home.

This day, after they had eaten their cookies, Bunny and Sue heard a knocking in the kitchen.

"Somebody's at the door," called Bunny.

"No, chile! Folks don't knock at de kitchen do' heah," said Mary. "Dey rings de bell."

"But somebody's knocking," said Bunny.

"Yes chile. I s'pects dat's de ice man knockin' on de dumb waiter t' tell me he's put on a piece ob ice," went on the cook.

She opened a door in the kitchen wall, and Bunny and Sue saw what looked like a big box, in a sort of closet. In the box was a large piece of ice.

"Yep. Dat's what it am. Ice on de dumb waiter," said Mary, as she took off the cold chunk and put it in the refrigerator. It was an extra piece gotten that day because she was going to make ice cream for dessert.

"What's a dumb waiter?" asked Bunny.

"Dis is," said Mary, pointing to the box, back of the door in the wall. "It waits on me -- it brings up de milk and de ice. It's jest a big box, and it goes up an' down on a rope dat runs ober a wheel."

"I know -- a pulley wheel," said Bunny.

"Dat's it!" cried Mary. "De box goes up an' down inside between de walls, and when de ice man, or de milk man puts anyt'ing on de waiter in de cellar, dey pulls on de rope and up it comes to me."

"What makes them call it a dumb waiter?" asked Sue.

"'Cause as how it can't talk, chile. Anyt'ing dat can't talk is dumb, an' dis waiter, or lifter, can't talk. So it's dumb."

Bunny and Sue looked at the dumb waiter for some time. Mary showed them how it would go up or down on the rope, very easily.

A little while after that, Mary went to her room to put on a clean apron; Bunny and Sue were still in the kitchen.

"Sue," said Bunny. "I know something we can do to have fun."

"What?" asked the little girl.

"Play with the dumb waiter. It's just like a little elevator. Now I'll get in, you close the door, and I'll ride down cellar. Then when I ride up it will be your turn to ride down."

"All right!" cried Sue. "I'll do it. You go first, Bunny."

Standing on a chair, Bunny managed to crawl into the dumb waiter box, where the piece of ice had been. And then, all at once something happened.



Chapter XI

A Long Ride


"Are you all ready, Bunny?" asked Sue, as she stood on the chair close to the little door of the dumb waiter, or elevator.

"Yep," Bunny answered.

Sue closed the door, and then there was a squeaking sound inside the little closet where the waiter slid up and down. At the same time Bunny's voice was heard crying:

"Oh, Sue! I'm falling! I'm falling down!"

Sue did not know what to do. She tried to open the door, but it had shut with a spring catch when she pushed on it, and her small fingers were not strong enough to open it again.

"Oh dear!" cried the little girl. "Oh dear! Bunny! Mother! Aunt Lu! Mary! Wopsie!"

She called every name she could think of, and she would have called for her father, Grandpa Brown and even Uncle Tad, only she knew they were far away.

"Bunny! Bunny!" Sue called. "Is you there? Is you in there?"

But Bunny did not answer. And now Sue could hear no noise from the dumb waiter, inside of which she had shut her brother.

"Bunny! Bunny!" begged Sue. "Speak to me! Where is you?"

But no answer came. Bunny was far off. I'll tell you, soon, where he was.

Sue got down off the chair, on which she stood to push shut the door, after Bunny crawled inside the dumb waiter. The little girl ran out of the kitchen, calling to her mother, Aunt Lu and Wopsie. The colored cook was the first one to answer.

"What's the matter?" she called. "What hab happened, Sue?"

"Oh, it's Bunny! He's gone! He's gone!" sobbed Sue.

"Gone? Gone where?" Mary asked.

"Down there!" and Sue pointed to the dumb waiter door.

Mary ran across the kitchen, and opened the door. She looked down, and then she turned to Sue and asked:

"Did he fall down, Sue?"

"No, he didn't fall down. But he got in the little box, where the ice was, and told me to shut the door. He was going to have a ride. It was going to be my turn when he came back. But there was a big bump, and Bunny hollered, and he didn't come back, and oh dear! I guess he's losted again!"

Mrs. Brown and Aunt Lu came hurrying into the kitchen. Behind them was Wopsie, her hair standing up more than ever, for she had just finished tying it in rags.

"What's the matter?" asked Mother Brown and Aunt Lu at the same time.

"Oh, Bunny's gone!" wailed Sue.

"He's in de dumb waiter," explained Mary.

"Oh, did he fall?" cried Aunt Lu.

"No'm, he jest got in to hab a ride, same as dat little boy who used to lib up stairs," Mary explained. "We'll find him in de cellar all right, Miss Baker."

"Find who?" Sue wanted to know.

"Yo' brudder!" said Mary. "Now don't yo' all git skairt. 'Case little Massa Bunny am suah gwine t' be all right."

"I'll go and get him!" cried Aunt Lu.

"And I'll go with you," said Mother Brown.

"Oh, I'm coming too!" exclaimed Sue.

"No, you stay here, dear," said her mother. "You stay here with Mary and Wopsie."

Mrs. Brown and her sister, who was the aunt of Bunny and Sue, went down in the big elevator to the basement or cellar of the apartment house. And there they saw a strange sight.

Bunny, whose clothes were all dusty, and whose hair was all topsy-turvy, was standing in front of the janitor, an iceman and a policeman. These three men were looking at the little boy who did not seem to know what to do or say. But he was not crying. He was too brave for that.

"Oh, Bunny Brown!" cried his mother. "Why did you do it?"

Bunny did not answer, but the policeman spoke, and said:

"Is it all right, lady? Does he belong here?"

"Oh, yes, he's my little boy," explained Mrs. Brown.

"He rode down in the dumb waiter," Aunt Lu said. "You see he is visiting me, and he had never seen a dumb waiter before."

"Well, he came down in one all right," said the iceman. "It was like this," he explained to Aunt Lu. "After I sent up your piece of ice, Miss Baker, I stood here talking to the janitor. All at once we heard the dumb waiter come down with a bang, and then we heard someone in it yelling. I thought it was a sneak-thief, or a burglar, for you know they often rob houses by going up in dumb waiters.

"So I spoke to the janitor about it, and we called in the policeman who was going past. We thought if it was a burglar we'd sure have him. But when we opened the door there was only this little chap."

"I -- I didn't mean to do it," said Bunny, as he saw them all looking at him. "I just wanted to get a ride, and then Sue was going to have one. But, as soon as I got in, the dumb waiter went down so quick I couldn't stop."

"He sure did come down with a bump!" exclaimed the iceman. "I guess he was a little too heavy for it, or else the rope must have slipped. Anyhow he's not hurt much, except he's a bit mussed up."

"Are you hurt, Bunny?" his mother asked him.

"No'm," he answered. "Just bumped, that's all. I -- I won't do it again."

"No, you'd better not, because you might get hurt," said the policeman. "Well," he added, "I might as well go along, for you have no burglars for me to arrest this day," and away he went.

Then the iceman went off, laughing, and Mrs. Brown and Aunt Lu took Bunny up to their apartment in the elevator.

"This is nicer than the dumb waiter," Bunny said, as Henry took them up. "I was all scrunched up in that, and I got a awful hard bump."

Mrs. Brown sighed.

"I'm sure I don't know what you will do next," she said. "You and Sue never do the same thing twice, so there's no use in telling you to be careful."

"Oh, I won't get in any more dumb waiters," said Bunny, with a shake of his head. "They're too small, and they're too bumpy."

Sue felt much better when she saw that Bunny was all right, and Mary gave each of the children a piece of cake, after which Wopsie took them up to the roof, where an awning had been stretched to make shade, and there, high above the city streets, the two children had a sort of play-party.

"I like it in the city; don't you, Bunny?" asked Sue.

"Yes, I think it's fine at Aunt Lu's house," returned Bunny. "Don't you like it here, Wopsie?"

"Yes'm, I suah does. But I wishes as how I could find mah folks. It's awful nice heah, an' Miss Baker suah does treat me mighty fine, but I'd like to find mah own aunt."

"And don't you know where she is?" asked Bunny.

"No'm, I don't 'member much about it all," said the colored girl, with a shake of her kinky head. "I lived down Souf, an' I s'pects dey got tired ob me down dere. Or else maybe dey didn't hab money 'nuff t' keep me. Colored folks down Souf is terrible poor. They ain't rich, laik yo' Aunt Lu."

"Aunt Lu is terrible rich," said Sue. "She's got a diamond ring."

"I knows dat!" said Wopsie.

"An' it was losted, like we was," Sue went on, "but Bunny, he found it in a lobster claw. And we had a Punch and Judy show."

"I'd laik dat!" exclaimed Wopsie, her eyes sparkling.

"Maybe we could help you find your folks," said Bunny. "We found Aunt Lu's diamond ring, and grandpa's horses, that the Gypsies took; so maybe we could find your folks, Wopsie."

"I don't believe so," and the little colored girl shook her head. "Yo' all sees it was dis heah way. Somebody down Souf, what was takin' care ob me, got tired, and shipped me up Norf here. Dey didn't come wif me deyse'ves, but dey puts a piece ob paper on me, same laik I was a trunk, or a satchel.

"Well, maybe it would a' bin all right, but dat piece ob paper come unpinned offen me, an' I got losted, same laik you'd lose a trunk. Only Miss Lu found me, an' she's keepin' me, but she don't know who I belongs to, nohow."

"And is your aunt up here?" asked Bunny.

"Yes'm, she's somewheres in New York," and Wopsie waved her hand over the big city, down on which Sue and Bunny could look from the roof of the apartment house.

"Well, maybe we can find her for you," said Bunny. "We'll try; won't we, Sue?"

"Course we will, Bunny Brown."

Just how he was going to do it Bunny Brown did not know. But he made up his mind that he would find Wopsie's aunt for her. And two or three times after that, when he and Sue happened to be out in the street, and saw any colored women, the children would ask them if they were looking for a little, lost colored girl named Wopsie. But of course the colored women knew nothing about the little piccaninny.

"Well, we'll have to ask somebody else," Bunny would say, after each time, when he had not found an aunt for Wopsie. "We'll find her yet, Sue."

"Yes," Sue would answer, "we will!"

From the windows of Aunt Lu's house Bunny and Sue could look down on the street and see many strange sights. Oh! how many automobiles there were in New York!

There were big ones, and little ones, but there were more of the small kind, with little red flags in front, than any other.

"Those are called taxicabs," Aunt Lu told Bunny. "They are like the old cabs, drawn by horses. If a person wants to ride in a taxicab he just waves his hand to the men at the steering wheel."

"And does he stop?" asked Bunny.

"Yes," answered Aunt Lu. "The taxicab man stops."

"And gives 'em a ride?" Sue wanted to know.

"Yes, he takes them wherever they want to go."

Bunny and Sue looked at each other. Their eyes sparkled, and it is too bad Aunt Lu did not see them just then, or she might have said something that would have saved much trouble. But she was busy sewing, and she did not notice Bunny and Sue.

The next day the two children slipped out into the hall, and went down to the street in the elevator.

Once out in the street Bunny and Sue watched until they saw, coming along, one of the little taxicabs, with the red flag up, which meant that no one was having a ride in it just then.

"Hi there!" called Bunny, holding up his hand to the man at the steering wheel.

"Want a ride?" asked the man, as he swung his taxicab up to the curb.

"Yes," answered Bunny. "My sister -- Sue and I -- we want a ride."

"Where to?" asked the man, as he helped the children up inside the car.

"Oh, we want a nice, long ride," said Bunny. "A nice, long ride; don't we, Sue?"

"Yep," answered the little girl.



Chapter XII

Bunny Orders Dinner


You may think it strange that the man on the taxicab automobile would so quickly help Bunny Brown and his sister up into his machine and give them a ride. And that, without asking for any money.

But it was not at all strange in New York. There are many children in that big city, and often they go about by themselves, some who are no larger than Bunny and Sue. They get used to looking out for themselves, learn how to make their way about, and they often go in taxicabs alone.

So the automobile man thought nothing of it when Bunny said he wanted a ride. The automobile man just thought the children's father, or mother, had sent them out to go somewhere.

"And so you want a long ride," repeated the automobile man, as he closed the door so Bunny or Sue would not fall out when he started. "How about Central Park? Do you want to go there?"

"Do we want to go to Central Park, Sue?" asked Bunny.

"Is they elephants there, like a circus?" asked the little girl.

"Is they?" Bunny asked of the automobile man.

"Yes, there are some animals in the park. Not as many as up in the Bronx Zoo, but that's a little too far for me to go. I'll take you to Central Park if you say so."

"Please do," begged Bunny. "We want to see the animals. We were in a circus once, Sue and I were. Our dog was a blue striped tiger, and we had a green painted calf, for a zebra."

"That must have been some circus!" laughed the automobile man, as he got up on his seat, and took hold of the steering wheel. "Well, here we go!"

And away went the automobile, taking Sue and Bunny off to Central Park, and their mother and Aunt Lu didn't know a thing about it!

"Isn't this nice, Sue?" asked Bunny, when they had ridden on for a few blocks.

"Yes," answered Sue. "I like it. But I wish we had our dog Splash here with us, Bunny."

"Yes, it would be fine!" Bunny said.

Speaking of the circus had made Sue think about Splash, who was far away, at home in Bellemere.

The taxicab wound in and out among other cabs, horses and wagons of all sorts. Now it would have to go slowly, through some crowded street, and again the children were moving swiftly, when there was room to speed.

"He's a awful nice man to give us a ride like this," said Bunny to Sue.

"Yes; isn't he?" answered the little girl. "There's lots of people getting rides, Bunny; see!"

Indeed there were many other taxicabs, and other automobiles on the streets of New York, but Bunny and Sue looked most often at the taxicabs like their own.

"There must be a awful lot of nice men, like ours, in New York," Bunny went on. And, mind you, neither he nor Sue thought they would have to pay for their automobile ride. They just thought you got in one of the taxicabs, and rode as far as you liked, for nothing.

Pretty soon they were at Central Park.

"Now where shall I take you?" asked the man.

"Down by a elephant," spoke up Sue.

"Are you sure your mother will let you go?" asked the taxicab man. He felt he must, in a way, look after the children.

"Oh, yes," said Bunny. "Mother would let us. She likes us to see animals. She lets us have a circus whenever we like."

Bunny and Sue had on nice clothes, and the chauffeur knew they had come from a street where many rich persons lived, so he was sure if the children did not have with them the money to pay him, that their folks would settle his bill.

"You can get out here, and walk along that path," he said, stopping his machine on a roadway. "Then you can see the elephant, the lion and the tiger. I'll wait for you here."

Hand in hand, Bunny and Sue went to the place in Central Park where the animals are kept. It was not far from where the automobile had stopped, out on Fifth Avenue, New York, and Bunny looked back, several times, as he and his sister went down the steps, to make sure he would know the place to find the automobile again, when he wanted to go home.

"Oh, there's a elephant!" cried Sue, as, walking along, her hand in Bunny's, she saw one of the big animals, just stuffing some hay into his mouth with his trunk. It was a warm day, and the elephant was out in the "back yard" of his cage. In the winter he was kept in the elephant house, where the people could look at him standing behind the heavy iron bars, but in summer he was allowed to go out of doors, though his yard had a fence of big iron bars all around it.

"I wish we had some peanuts to give him," said Sue.

"Well, I haven't any money," answered Bunny. "Anyhow, if I had, Sue, I'd rather buy us each a lollypop. The elephant has hay to eat."

"Yes, I know," said Sue. "But I like to see him pick up peanuts with his trunk."

However, they had no money, so they could not feed peanuts to the elephant. Some other children, though, had bought bags of the nuts, and these they tossed in to the big animal. There was a sign on his yard, which said no one must feed the animals, but no one stopped the children, so Sue did see, after all, the elephant chewing the roasted nuts.

For some time Bunny and Sue watched the elephants. There were two of them, and, after a while, a keeper came into the yard, and handed a large mouth organ to the biggest elephant. The wise creature held it in his trunk, and, to the surprise of Sue and her brother, began to blow on the mouth organ, making music, though of course the elephant could not play a regular tune.

"Oh, isn't he smart, Bunny!" cried Sue.

"He -- he's a regular circus elephant!" Bunny cried. "I like him!"

The other children, who had come to Central Park, also enjoyed seeing the big elephant eat peanuts, and play a mouth organ.

"I'd like to see some monkeys," said Bunny, after a bit, when the elephant seemed to have gone to sleep standing up, for elephants do sleep that way.

"The monkeys are over in that house," a boy told Bunny, pointing to a brown building not far from the elephant's cage and yard.

"Oh, let's go!" cried Sue.

Soon she and her brother were watching the monkeys do funny tricks, climb up the sides of their cage, eat peanuts and pull each other's tails and ears.

Bunny and Sue spent some time in Central Park, looking at the different animals. There was one, almost as big as an elephant, only not so tall. He was called a hippopotamus, and he swam in a tank of water, next door to a pool in which lived some mud turtles and alligators. When the hippopotamus opened his mouth it looked big enough to hold a washtub.

"Oh!" cried Sue, as she saw this. "I wouldn't like him to bite me, would you, Bunny?"

"No, I guess not!" said the little boy.

But there was no danger that the hippopotamus would bite anyone, for he was behind big, strong, iron bars, and could not get out. There was also a baby hippopotamus, swimming around in a tank with the mother.

Bunny and Sue saw many other animals in Central Park, and then, as he was getting hungry, and as he began to think his mother might be wondering where he was, Bunny said to Sue that they had better go back home.

"All right," Sue answered. "I'm tired, too."

They went back to where they had left the automobile taxicab.

"Well, did you see enough?" the man asked them.

"Yes," Bunny answered, "and now we want to go home, if you please."

"All right," said the man. He knew just where to take Bunny and Sue, for he remembered where he had found them, right in front of Aunt Lu's house. So the two children did not get lost this time, though they had gone a good way from home.

"Thank you very much," said Bunny as he and Sue got out.

The automobile man laughed, as Bunny and Sue started up the front steps, and then he called to them:

"Wait a minute, little ones, I must have some money for giving you a ride."

"Oh!" exclaimed Bunny. "I -- I thought you gave folks rides for nothing. Wopsie said you did."

"Well, I don't know who Wopsie is," said the cab man, "but I can't afford to ride anyone around for nothing. You'd better tell your mother that I must be paid."

"Oh, I'll tell her," said Sue. "Mother or Aunt Lu will pay you."

"I'll come up with you I guess," said the automobile man, and he rode up in the elevator with Bunny and Sue.

And you can guess how surprised Mrs. Brown and Aunt Lu were when the two children came in.

"Oh, where have you been?" cried Mother Brown. "We've been looking all over for you; up on the roof, down in the basement, out in the street -- and Wopsie was just going to ask the policeman on this block if he had seen you. Where have you been?"

"Riding," answered Bunny.

"Up in Central Park, to see a elephant," added Sue.

"And we had a good time," Bunny went on.

"And now the automobile man wants some money, and we haven't any so you must pay him, Mother," said Sue.

"We -- we thought we were riding for nothing," Bunny explained.

Mrs. Brown and Aunt Lu looked at the automobile man, who smiled, and told how the children had called to him, and asked him to give them a long ride.

"Which I did," he said. "I thought their folks had maybe sent them to get the air, as folks often do here, and -- "

"Oh, it isn't your fault," said Mrs. Brown. "I'll pay you for the children's ride, of course. But oh, dear! Bunny, you musn't do this again."

"No'm, I won't," Bunny said. "But we had a nice ride."

Mrs. Brown gave the taxicab man some money, and thanked him for having taken good care of the children. Then Wopsie did not have to go to tell the policeman, for Bunny and Sue were safe home again.

"I wonder what they'll do next?" said Mrs. Brown.

"No one knows," answered Aunt Lu.

But, for several days after this, Bunny and Sue did nothing to cause any trouble. They went with their aunt and mother to different places about New York in Aunt Lu's automobile, Wopsie sometimes going with them. Several times Bunny or Sue asked colored persons they met if they were looking for a little lost colored girl, but no one seemed to be.

"Never mind, Wopsie," Bunny would say. "Some time we'll find your folks."

"Yes'm, I wishes as how yo' all would," Wopsie would answer.

Bunny and Sue liked it very much at Aunt Lu's city home. They had many good times. And that reminds me; I must tell you about the time Bunny ordered a queer dinner for himself and Sue.

The children had been out with Wopsie for a walk, and when they came back to Aunt Lu's house it was such a nice day that Bunny and Sue did not want to go in.

"Let us stay out a while, Wopsie," Bunny begged.

"Well, don't go 'way from in front, an' yo' all can stay," Wopsie said. So Bunny and Sue sat on the side of the big stone steps, in front of Aunt Lu's house.

They really did not intend to go away, but when they saw a fire engine dashing down the street, whistling and purring out black smoke, they just couldn't stand still.

"Let's go and see the fire!" cried Bunny.

"Come on!" agreed Sue.

But it was only a little fire, after all, though quite a crowd gathered. It was upstairs in a store, and it was soon out. Bunny and Sue started back, for they had not come far. They were getting so they knew their way around pretty well now.

As they passed a restaurant, or place to eat, they saw, in the window, a man baking griddle cakes on a gas stove. He would let the cakes brown on one side, toss them up in the air, making them turn a somersault, catch them on a flat spoon, and then they would brown on the other side.

"Oh Bunny!" cried Sue. "Wouldn't you like some of those?"

"I would," said Bunny. "Come on in and we'll have some. I'm hungry!"

He and Sue went into the restaurant, and sat down at one of the tables. A girl, with a big white apron on over her black dress, brought them each a glass of water and a napkin, and said:

"Well, children, what do you want?"

"We want dinner," said Bunny. "We're hungry, and we want some of those cakes the man in the window is baking."



Chapter XIII

The Stray Dog


The girl waitress in the restaurant smiled at Bunny Brown and his sister Sue. They seemed too small to be going about, ordering meals for themselves, but then the girl knew that in New York people do not live as they do in other cities, or in the country. Many New York persons never eat a meal at home, nor do their children. They go out to hotels, restaurants or boarding houses.

And perhaps this girl thought Bunny and Sue might be the children of some family who had rooms near the restaurant, and who went out to their meals. So she just asked them:

"Are cakes the only things you want?"

"Oh, no, we'll want more than that," said Bunny. "But we want the cakes first; don't we, Sue?"

"Yep," Sue answered. "I like pancakes. And I want some syrup on mine."

"So do I!" cried Bunny.

"I'll bring you some maple syrup when I bring you the cakes," the girl said as, with a smile, she went up to the front of the restaurant to tell the white-capped cook in the window to bake a plate of cakes for each of the children.

Several other persons in the restaurant smiled at Bunny and Sue, as they sat there waiting for the cakes. They seemed such little tots to be all alone. But Bunny and Sue knew what they were doing. At least they thought they did, and they were not at all bashful.

When the hot cakes were brought to them they spread on some butter, poured the maple syrup over their plates, out of the little silver pitchers, and began to eat.

"They're awful good, aren't they, Bunny?" asked Sue, as she took up the last piece of her third cake.

"Yep," he answered. "I like 'em."

"Let's have some more," Sue said.

"No, let's have something else," said Bunny. "I'm hot now."

"Oh, then we ought to have ice-cream," cried Sue. "You know the other night, when Aunt Lu and mother were so warm, they had ice-cream."

"Then we'll have some," agreed Bunny.

"Anything else?" asked the waitress girl, coming up to their table.

"Ice-cream, please -- two plates," ordered Bunny. Soon he and Sue were eating the cold dessert. As they were taking up the last spoonfuls they saw the waitress girl, at the next table carrying a large piece of red watermelon to a man.

"Oh, Bunny!" cried Sue. "I want some of that!"

"So do I!" exclaimed Bunny. "We'll have some."

And so, after the ice-cream, they ordered watermelon.

"Do you think it will be good for you?" asked the waitress girl.

"Oh, yes, we like it," said Bunny. That was all he thought of -- just then.

The ice-cream had been cold, and so was the watermelon, for it had been on the ice, and by the time they had finished that Bunny and Sue were quite chilled through.

"Now I'd like to be warm again," said Sue. "Let's have some more hot cakes, Bunny."

"All right," agreed her brother. He waved his hand to the waitress girl.

"Some more hot cakes!" ordered Bunny.

The girl laughed and said:

"I guess you tots had better not eat any more. I'll call the manager, and ask him if he thinks it safe."

A man, with a black moustache and red cheeks, came up to the table.

"What is it?" he asked. The waitress girl explained. At the same time she put down on the table, by Bunny's plate, two little cards, with some numbers on them, and some round holes punched near the numbers.

"We want some hot cakes, 'cause the ice-cream and watermelon made us so cold," Bunny said.

"How much money have you?" asked the manager, who is the man who sees that everyone gets enough to eat, and then that they pay for it.

"Money?" cried Bunny Brown. "Money?"

"Yes, you must have money to pay for what you eat," the man said.

"I've five cents," explained Sue. "My mother gave it to me for a toy balloon, but I didn't spend it yet."

"I've four cents," said Bunny, reaching into his pocket, and bringing out four pennies. "I had five cents," he explained, "but I spent a penny for a lollypop."

He shoved the four pennies over toward the girl. Sue began looking in her pocket for her five cent piece.

"I'm afraid you won't have enough money," the manager said. "But if you tell me where you live, and give me the name of your father, I'll call him up on the telephone, and let him know you are here."

"Oh, our daddy's away off," said Bunny. "But you can talk to Aunt Lu on the telephone. She's got one. My mother is with her. She'll buy some cakes for us."

"What's your aunt's name?" the manager wanted to know.

"Aunt Lu!" said Sue.

"Aunt Lu Baker," added Bunny.

"All right. I'll call her up," said the man, smiling. "And I don't believe you had better eat any more griddle cakes. You might be made ill. Give them some dry, sweet crackers, and a glass of milk," he said to the girl. "That won't hurt them."

Bunny and Sue liked the crackers very much. They were eating away, having a fine time, when, all at once, into the restaurant came Mrs. Brown.

"Oh, Mother!" cried Bunny, as he saw her. "Are you hungry too? Sit down by us and eat! We had a fine meal, didn't we, Sue?"

"Yep," answered the little girl. "The ice-cream and watermelon is awful good, Mother!"

"Yes, I suppose it is," and Mrs. Brown could not help smiling. "But you musn't come in restaurants, and order meals like this, Bunny Brown, without having money to pay for them. It isn't right!"

"I -- I thought I had money enough," and Bunny looked at his four pennies.

The manager laughed. He had found Aunt Lu's name in the telephone book, and had talked to her, telling her about Bunny and Sue. And then, as the restaurant was just around the corner from Aunt Lu's house, Mrs. Brown had hurried there to get her children.

She paid for what they had eaten, and took them back with her. The waitress girl smiled, so did the manager, and so did many persons in the restaurant, who had seen Bunny and Sue eating.

"Don't ever do anything like this again, Bunny," said Mrs. Brown.

"I won't," Bunny promised. "But we went to the fire, and we were awful hungry; weren't we, Sue?"

"Yes, we was. And the hot cakes was good."

"Oh dear!" sighed Mrs. Brown. "I wonder what it will be next."

But even Bunny Brown and his sister Sue did not know.

For several weeks the two children stayed at Aunt Lu's city home. They had more good times, and often went with their mother or Aunt Lu to the moving pictures. Then, too, there was much to see on the city streets, and Bunny and Sue never grew tired of looking at the strange sights. Daddy Brown wrote letters, saying he was so busy, looking after his boat business, that he could not come to see them for a long time.

"Does he say how Splash, our dog, is?" asked Bunny, when part of one of his father's letters had been read to him and Sue.

"Yes, Daddy says Splash is all right, but lonesome," Mrs. Brown answered.

"I wish we had Splash here with us," sighed Sue.

"So do I," echoed her brother.

After that, whenever they saw a dog out in the street, they looked anxiously at him, especially if he looked like Splash. And one day, when Bunny and Sue had gone down to the corner of their street, to listen to another hurdy-gurdy hand-piano, they saw a big yellow dog running about, sniffing at some muddy water in a puddle in the sidewalk, as though he wanted a drink.

"Oh, look at that dog!" cried Bunny to Sue. "He's thirsty!"

"He looks as nice as Splash, only, of course, it isn't Splash," Sue said.

"Maybe we could take him," said Bunny. "Let's try. Then we'll have a city dog and a country dog, too."

Sue was willing, and she and Bunny walked up to the stray dog.

"Come here!" called Bunny, just as he used to call to Splash.

The dog looked up. He seemed to like children, for he came straight to Bunny and Sue.

"Oh, he's got a nice collar on," said Sue. "Let's take him to Aunt Lu's, Bunny, and give him a nice drink of water."

"All right," agreed Bunny. "We will." Then, each with a hand on the dog's collar, Bunny and Sue walked along with the nice animal, whose red tongue hung out of his mouth, for the dog had been running, and was quite hot.



Chapter XIV

The Ragged Man


"Come on, nice dog!" coaxed Sue, for as the children came nearer to the house where Aunt Lu lived, the animal seemed to want to turn back and run away.

"Yes, don't be afraid," said Bunny. "We'll give you something nice to eat, and some cold water."

Whether the dog understood what Bunny and Sue said to him, or whether he was thirsty and hungry and hoped to get something to eat, I do not know. Some dogs seem to know everything you say to them, and certainly this one was very wise. So he walked on willingly with the two children.

"Do you think we can keep him?" asked Sue.

"I guess so," answered her brother. "He's my dog, 'cause I saw him first."

"Isn't he half mine?" Sue wanted to know.

"Nope, he's all mine!" and Bunny took a firmer grasp on the dog's collar.

"Well, I don't care!" cried Sue, stamping her foot, which she sometimes did when she was getting angry. "Half of our dog Splash at home is mine, and I don't see why I can't have half of this one."

"Nope, you can't!" cried Bunny. He hardly ever acted this way toward his sister. Generally he gave her half of everything. "I want all this dog," Bunny said. "I'm going to train him to be a circus animal, and if a girl owns part of a dog she don't want him to run, or get muddy or anything like that."

"Oh, Bunny Brown!" cried Sue. "I don't care if he does get muddy. I want him to be a circus dog, too. So please can't I have half of him? I'll take the tail end for my half, or the head end half or down the middle, just like we do with Splash!"

"Well," and Bunny seemed to be thinking about it. "Maybe I'll let you have half of him, Sue. But you've got to let me train your half the same as mine, to be a circus dog."

"Yes, Bunny, I will. Oh, isn't he a nice dog!" and she patted him on the head. The dog wagged his tail and seemed happy.

Into the apartment house hall walked the children, leading the stray dog they had found in the street. The elevator was not open, being on one of the upper floors, and Bunny pushed the button that rang the bell, which told Henry, the colored elevator boy, that someone was on the lower floor, waiting to be taken up.

When Henry came down in the queer iron cage that slid up and down, he looked first at Bunny, then at Sue, and then at the dog.

"What yo' all want?" asked the colored boy, smiling and showing his big, white teeth.

"We want to ride up to Aunt Lu's house," answered Bunny.

"We got a new dog, Henry," said Sue.

Henry shook his head.

"I'll take you little folks up to yo' aunt's house," he said, "but I can't take up dat dawg."

"Why not?" asked Bunny. "Is he too heavy? 'Cause if he is, Henry, we'll go up with you first, and you can bring the dog up alone. We'll wait for him up stairs."

Once more the elevator boy shook his head.

"No, sah! I can't do it!" he exclaimed.

"Is you afraid, Henry?" asked Sue, putting her head down on the dog's back. "Is you afraid he'll bite you, Henry? He won't. He's as nice a dog as Splash is, the one we have at home. He won't bite, Henry."

"No, Miss Sue. I ain't askeered ob dat," said Henry, with another smile. "But yo' all can't bring no dawgs in heah! It ain't allowed, nohow!"

"You mean we can't bring a dog in the house?" asked Bunny.

"Yes, sah!" Henry exclaimed. "Dat's it. De man what owns dis house done gib strict orders dat no dogs or cats or parrots can come in, an' I got t' keep 'em out. Yo' all jest go up an' ast yo' Aunt Lu 'bout it."

"Shall we?" asked Sue, as she looked down at the dog.

"Yes," said Bunny. "But, of course, Henry ought to know. But we've got to give this dog something to eat and drink, Sue, 'cause we promised we would. So we'll just leave him down here, and go up and tell Aunt Lu. We can do that; can't we, Henry?" Bunny asked.

"Oh, yes, Bunny. Yo' all kin do dat I'll jest tie de dawg down here in de hall, an' yo' all kin go ast yo' Aunt Lu."

The dog did not seem to mind being tied and left alone. Henry fastened him with a cord, and the dog lay down on the cool marble floor, while the colored boy took the two children up in the elevator.

"Oh, Bunny!" said Sue, in a whisper, as they were waiting for their aunt's maid, or for Wopsie, to open the door of the hall. "Oh, Bunny, I know what we could do."

"What?" Bunny wanted to know.

Sue looked around, and seeing that Henry had gone down in his elevator, she said:

"We could have walked our new dog up the stairs. We didn't need to bring him up in the elevator. Then Henry wouldn't have seen him."

"Yes, but he'd hear him when he barks. If they won't let us keep our new dog here we can take him to Central Park, Sue."

"What for, Bunny?"

"To put him in a cage until we go home. Then we can take him with us to play with Splash."

"Oh, maybe we could!" cried Sue, clapping her hands.

By this time Wopsie had opened the door.

"Well, where yo' chilluns bin?" she asked. "Yo' ma an' yo' aunt Lu am gettin' worried 'bout yo'."

"We found a dog!" cried Bunny. "A real dog!"

"And he's down stairs," said Sue. "Henry won't bring him up on the elevator, but it isn't 'cause Henry's afraid. They won't let dogs live in here, he says. Don't they, Aunt Lu?"

"Don't they what, Sue?" asked Miss Baker, coming into the room just then.

"Dogs," answered Bunny. "We found a nice dog, Aunt Lu, and we want to keep him, but Henry won't let us," and he told all that had happened.

"No, I am sorry," said Aunt Lu. "They don't allow any dogs, cats or parrots in this building. You see they think persons who have no pets would be bothered by those animals of the neighbors. I'm sorry, Bunny and Sue, but you can't have the dog. One is enough, anyhow, and you have Splash."

"Yes, but he's away off home," said Bunny.

"Never mind, dears. I'm sorry, but I haven't any place for a dog, or a cat or even a parrot."

Bunny and Sue thought for a moment Then Bunny asked:

"Could you keep a monkey, Aunt Lu?"

"Gracious goodness, no!" cried his aunt. "I should hope not! A monkey would be worse than a dog, a cat or a parrot. I hope you don't think of bringing a monkey home, Bunny."

"Oh, no'm. I was just wondering what we'd do if a hand-organ man gave us a monkey."

Mrs. Brown and Aunt Lu laughed.

"Well, I hope a hand-organ man won't give you a monkey," said Bunny's mother, "but, if one does, you'll have to say that you're much obliged, but that you can't keep it."

"Well," broke in Sue, "can we give this dog something to eat and drink, Aunt Lu? We promised him some."

"Yes, you can do that. Poor dog, he's probably a stray one, and will be glad of a meal. Mary will get you some cold meat and a pail of water, and you can take it down to the poor dog. But don't invite him up here, Bunny dear."

The children were sorry they could not keep the dog they had found in the street, but perhaps it was better not to have him. They gave him the water and meat, standing with Henry in the lower hall while the animal ate and drank. Then the elevator boy loosened the string from the dog's collar.

"Run along now!" called Henry, and the dog with a bark, and a wag of his tail, trotted off down the street.

"He's happy, anyhow," remarked Sue. "Dogs is always happy when they wag their tails; aren't they Bunny?"

"I guess so. Well, what will we do next?"

That question was answered for Bunny and Sue when they went up stairs again. For Wopsie was waiting to take them to a moving picture show not far away. There Bunny and Sue had a good time the rest of the afternoon.

It was two or three days after this that, as Bunny and Sue were walking up and down on the sidewalk in front of Aunt Lu's house, waiting for Wopsie to come down and go with them to another moving picture show, the two children saw, walking along, a very ragged man. And, as they watched him, they saw the poor man stoop over a can of ashes on the street, and take from it a piece of dried bread, which he began to eat as though very hungry indeed.

"Oh, Bunny! Look at that!" cried Sue.

"What is it?" asked the little boy.

"That man! He's so hungry he took bread out of the ash can."

"He must be terrible hungry," said Bunny. "Oh, Sue, I know what we can do!"

"What?"

"We can get him something to eat," said Bunny. "I heard Aunt Lu say she didn't know what she was going to do with all the meat left over from dinner. This man would like it, I'm sure. We can ask him up to Aunt Lu's rooms. She'll feed him."

"All right," cried Sue, always ready to do what Bunny did.

"We'll ask him. But we won't take him up in the elevator, Sue," Bunny went on.

"Why not?"

"'Cause maybe Henry won't let him come up, same as he wouldn't let the dog we found. We'll walk up the stairs with the man."

"It -- it's awful far," said Sue, with a sigh, as she thought of the ten flights. Once she and Bunny, just for fun, had walked up them. It took a long while.

"Well, I'll walk up with the ragged man," said Bunny. "You can ride up in the elevator, Sue, and tell Aunt Lu we're coming, so she can have something to eat all ready."

"All right," agreed Sue. "That will be nice!"

Then she and Bunny started toward the ragged man who was poking about in the ash can with a long stick, as though looking for more pieces of bread.



Chapter XV

Bunny Goes Fishing


"Are you hungry, Mr. Man?" asked Bunny, standing, with his sister Sue, behind the ragged man. "Are you hungry?"

The man turned quickly, and seeing it was only two little children, he smiled.

"Yes, I am hungry," he said. "I guess you'd be hungry, too, if you hadn't had any breakfast, or dinner or supper, except what you picked out of the ashes."

"My Aunt Lu will give you something to eat," said Sue. "You're going to walk up stairs with Bunny, so Henry, the elevator boy, won't see you. You don't mind walking, do you?"

"Not if I get something to eat," and the man chewed on a piece of the dried bread.

"Oh, Aunt Lu will give you lots!" promised Sue. "She's got plenty of meat left over from dinner, I heard her say so. But you can't go in the elevator. Henry wouldn't let us take up a dog we found."

"Course you're not a dog," Bunny explained quickly, "but they don't let dogs or cats or parrots, or I guess monkeys, up in this place, so maybe they wouldn't let you. But I don't know about that. Only I'll walk up stairs with you, and get you something to eat."

"And I'll go on ahead and tell Aunt Lu you're coming," said Sue. "Then Henry won't see you in his elevator. Go on, Bunny."

"Come along," said the little fellow, holding out his hand to the ragged man. Even though he was ragged he seemed clean.

"Oh, I guess I'd better not go up with you, little ones," the man said. "I'm not dressed nice enough to go in there," and he looked up at the fine, big apartment house in which lived Aunt Lu. "If there was a back door I'd go round to that," he said, "but they don't have back doors to city houses. I'm not used to being a tramp, and begging, either," he said. "But I've been sick, and I can't get any work, and I don't want to beg."

"Aunt Lu likes to help people," said Bunny, "and so does my mother. You come on up stairs with me and I'll get you something to eat. Sue, you go in first, and get Henry to take you up in the elevator. Then Henry won't see me and this man come in, and he can't stop us."

"All right," agreed Sue. So, while Bunny stayed outside, with the ragged man, Sue went into the hall, and rang the elevator bell.

"Hello!" exclaimed Henry, as he opened the sliding door for Sue. "Where's Bunny?"

"Oh, he's coming," Sue said.

"Then I'll wait for him," said Henry.

"Oh, no! You needn't!" Sue exclaimed. "Maybe he won't be in for a long time. I want to go up right away, to tell Aunt Lu she's going to have company."

"Company!" cried Henry. "If company is comin', I'll wait and take 'em up."

"No, please don't!" begged Sue. "Take me up right away, and then you can come down again." She did not want Henry to wait there in the lower hall, with his elevator, and see Bunny going up the stairs with the ragged man. Sue wanted to get Henry safely out of the way.

"All right. I'll take you up," promised Henry, and, a second later, Sue was shooting upward in the elevator car.

"Come on now. We can get in without Henry's seeing us!" called Bunny to the ragged man. "It's a long walk, but Sue and I did it once."

"Say, I'm much obliged to you," said the tramp, for that's what he was. "But maybe I'd better not go in. They might arrest me."

"No they won't -- not while I'm with you," Bunny said. "I'll tell a policeman you're going up to my Aunt Lu's. She's got lots to eat."

And so Bunny and the ragged man began the long climb up the stairs, while Sue rode in the elevator. She, of course, was the first to reach her aunt's rooms. Wopsie let Sue in.

"Oh, Aunt Lu!" cried Sue. "The hungry, ragged man's coming. He ate bread out of the ash can, and he hasn't had any breakfast, dinner or supper. Bunny's walking up stairs with him, so Henry won't see him, 'cause Henry, maybe, wouldn't let him ride in the elevator. But he's awful hungry, so please give him some of that meat!"

For a moment Aunt Lu stared at Sue, and so did Mrs. Brown.

"Bless my stars!" cried Aunt Lu, after a bit. "What does the child mean?"

"It's the ragged man," Sue explained. "Bunny's bringing him up the stairs," and then the little girl told her aunt and mother all about it.

"But, Sue, dear! You musn't bring strange men in the house," said her mother.

"Oh, he was so hungry and ragged!" cried the little girl.

"She meant all right," remarked Aunt Lu. "I dare say it is some poor tramp. There are many of them in New York. I'll give him something to eat. Is Bunny bringing him here?"

"Yes, Aunt Lu. Bunny's walking up the stairs with him, so Henry won't see him, and put him out, like he did our dog that we found."

Aunt Lu and Mother Brown laughed at this, but Sue did not mind. Soon there came a ring at Aunt Lu's hall bell. She opened the door herself, and saw, standing there, Bunny and the ragged man.

"Here he is!" Bunny cried. "I got him up stairs all right, but he slipped on one step. I didn't let him fall, though, and Henry didn't see us. He's hungry, Aunt Lu."

The ragged man took off his ragged cap.

"I'm sorry about this, lady," he said to Aunt Lu. "But the little boy would have it that I come up with him. He said you'd give me a meal, but I don't like to trouble you -- "

"Oh, I'm glad to help you," said Aunt Lu. "Wait a minute and I'll hand you out something to eat."

"Come on in!" said Bunny, who did not see why the ragged man should be left standing in the hall.

"No, little chap, I'll wait here," said the man. A few minutes later he was drinking a bowl of coffee Mary, the colored cook, brought him, and he was given a bag of bread and meat, with a piece of cake.

"It's mighty good of you, lady," said the ragged man, as he started to walk down the stairs again.

"You can thank the children," said Aunt Lu with a smile, as she gave the man some money. "And you needn't walk down. I'll ring for the elevator for you."

"Oh, no'm, I'd rather walk. I'm stronger now I've had that coffee. I'll walk down. The elevator boy wouldn't want me in his car. I'll walk."

Down he started, not so hungry now, though as ragged as ever. And, too, Aunt Lu had given him money enough to last him for a few days, until he could find work to earn money for himself.

"But, Bunny and Sue, please don't ask any more ragged men up without first coming to tell me," said Aunt Lu with a smile. "I like to be kind to all poor persons, but you see I live in a house with many other families, and some of them might not like to have tramps come up here. However, you meant all right, only come and tell me or your mother first, after this."

"I will," promised Bunny. "But he was awful hungry; wasn't he?"

"I guess he was, and I'm glad we could help him. But now Wopsie is ready to take you to the moving pictures. Run along."

Bunny and Sue had another good time at the pictures. They saw the play of Cinderella, and liked it very much. After they came out they went to a drug store, and had ice-cream.

One day Aunt Lu said to Bunny and Sue:

"How would you like to go to the aquarium?"

"What's that?" asked Bunny. "Is it like a moving picture show?"

"Well, it is moving, and it is a show," answered Aunt Lu, with a smile. "But it is not exactly pictures. It is a big building down at the end of New York City, in a place called Battery Park, and in the building are tanks and pools, where live fish are swimming around. There are also seals, alligators and turtles. Would you like to go to see that?"

Bunny and Sue thought they would, very much, and a little later, with their mother and Aunt Lu, they were in the aquarium. All around the building, which was in the shape of a circle, were glass tanks, in which big and little fish could be seen swimming about. In white tile-lined pools, in the middle of the floor, were larger fish, alligators, turtles and other things. Bunny was delighted.

"Oh, if I could only catch some of these big fish," he said to Sue.

"But you can't!"

"Maybe I can," he said to her in a whisper. "I brought some pins with me, and some string. I'm going to try and catch a fish. Come on over here."

From his pocket Bunny took a string and a pin. His mother and his aunt were looking down in the pool where some seals were swimming about. Bunny, holding Sue's hand, led her over to the other side of the aquarium where there was a pool containing some large fish, and some big turtles.

"I'm going to fish here," said Bunny Brown.



Chapter XVI

Lost In New York


Bunny's sister Sue did not think her brother was doing anything wrong. She had so often seen him do many things that other boys did not do that she thought whatever Bunny did was all right.

"How you going to catch fish?" she asked.

"I'll show you," Bunny answered. "But don't call mother or Aunt Lu. They want to stay looking at the seals. I've seen enough of them."

But I think, though, that the real reason Bunny did not want Sue to call his mother, or his aunt, was because he was afraid they might stop him from trying to catch a fish.

And that was what Bunny Brown was going to try to do.

While Sue watched, Bunny bent a pin up in the shape of a hook. He and his sister had often fished with such hooks down in the brook near their house. Bunny tied the bent pin to the end of a long string, and then he walked over toward the white, tile-lined pool.

Just at this time there was no one near this pool, for most of the visitors in the aquarium were watching the seals, as Mrs. Brown and Aunt Lu were doing. The seals, of whom there were three or four, seemed to be having a game of tag. They swam about very swiftly, and leaped half out of the water, splashing it all about, and even on the persons standing about the pool. But the men, women and children only laughed, and crowded up closer to look at the playing seals.

"I want to see them," said Sue, pointing to where the crowd stood, laughing.

"Wait until I catch a fish," pleaded Bunny. "I'll soon have a fish, or a turtle or an alligator, Sue."

"I don't want any alligators," said the little girl. "They bite, and so does a turtle."

"All right. I won't catch them," promised Bunny. "I'll just catch a fish. Then we'll go to look at the seals."

"All right," agreed Sue. She went with her little brother over to the other pool. They were the only ones there, because everyone else was so anxious to look at the seals.

"Now watch me catch a fish," Bunny said. To the bent pin hook, on the end of the string, he tied a piece of rag. He had brought all these things with him, hoping he might get a chance to fish in the aquarium.

"What's that rag?" Sue wanted to know.

"That's my bait," Bunny answered. "You can't dig any worms in the city, 'cause there's all sidewalk. So I use this rag for bait."

"I don't like worms, anyhow," said Sue. "They is so -- so squiggily. Rags is nicer for bait. But will the fish eat rags, Bunny?"

"I guess so."

The pool that Bunny had picked out to fish in was in two parts. There was a wire screen across the middle, and on one side were the alligators and turtles -- some large and some small, while on the other side of the wire were fish. It was these fish -- or one of them at least -- that Bunny Brown was going to try to catch.

Into the water he cast his bent pin hook, with the fluttering rag for bait. No one saw him, everyone else being at the seal-pool. Sue watched her brother eagerly. She wanted him to hurry, and catch a fish, so they could go over where their mother and Aunt Lu were.

But the fish in the pool did not seem to care for Bunny's rag bait. Perhaps they knew it was only a piece of cloth, and not a nice worm, or piece of meat, such as they would like to eat. Anyhow, they just swam past it in the water.

"Hurry up, Bunny, and catch a fish!" begged Sue. "I want to go and look at the seals."

"All right -- I'll have a fish in a minute," Bunny said, hopefully.

But he did not. The fish would not bite. Bunny wanted to catch something, and, all at once, he decided that if he could not get a fish he might get a turtle, or a small alligator. But he did not tell Sue what he was going to do, for he knew she would not like it. She was afraid of alligators and turtles.

Bunny pulled his line from the fish-pool and tossed the pin-hook over into the turtle-pool. And then something happened, all at once! There was a rush through the water, as a big turtle saw the fluttering rag, and the next minute Bunny was nearly pulled over the low railing into the pool. For the turtle had swallowed his bent pin hook.

"Oh, Sue! I've got one! I've got one!" cried Bunny, shouting out loud, he was so excited.

"Have you got a fish, Bunny?" asked Sue, who had walked a little way over toward the seal-pool.

"No, I haven't got a fish, but I've got a turtle. But I won't let him hurt you, Sue!" he called. "Oh, I've got a big one! Look, Sue!"

Bunny was holding tightly to the string. He had wound it about his hands, and as the cord was a strong one, and as the turtle had swallowed the bent-pin hook on the other end, Bunny was almost being pulled over into the tank full of water, where the alligators and other turtles were now swimming about, very much excited, because the turtle which Bunny had caught was making such a fuss.

"Oh, I've got him! I've got him!" cried Bunny, eagerly.

"I rather think he has got you!" said a man, rushing up to Bunny just in time to grab him. The little fellow's feet were being lifted off the floor and, in another few seconds, he himself was in danger of being pulled into the pool. For the cord was a strong one, and the turtle was one of the largest.

"Let go the string!" called the man who had hold of Bunny. "Let go the string!"

Bunny did so, and the turtle swam away with it.

By this time Mother Brown and Aunt Lu, who had heard Bunny's calls, had rushed over to him. Others, too, left the seals, to see what was the excitement at the turtle and alligator pool.

"Oh, Bunny! What have you done?" cried his mother.

"I -- I was catching a fish," Bunny explained, as the man who had stopped him from being pulled into the pool, set the little fellow down. "I was catching a fish and -- "

"But you musn't catch any fish in here!" exclaimed one of the men in uniform, who was on guard in the aquarium. "You're not allowed to catch fish in here!"

"It -- it wasn't a fish," said Bunny. "It was a turtle. I tried to get a fish, but I couldn't. But the turtle bit on the rag bait."

"Yes, turtles will do that," said the guard. "But you must never again try to fish in here. These fish are to look at, not to catch."

"Oh, I'm sure he didn't mean to do wrong," said the man who had saved Bunny from getting wet in the pool.

"I'll forgive him this time," the guard said, "but he must not do it again."

"I won't," Bunny promised.

The turtle that had taken the pin hook was swimming about with the string dragging after it. One of the aquarium men, with a net, caught the turtle, and took the pin and string out of its mouth.

"Now let's go and look at the seals," said Bunny, when the crowd, laughing at what the little boy had done, had moved away.

"But you musn't try to catch any of them," his mother said.

"I won't," promised Bunny.

Watching the seals was fun, and Bunny and Sue had a good time there, until it was time to go out of the aquarium for dinner. The children had a nice meal, in a restaurant, and Aunt Lu said:

"I think this afternoon we will take a little ride on the boat to Coney Island. You children can have an ocean bath there. It is getting on toward fall, I know, but it is all the nicer down at the beach, and there won't be such crowds there as in real hot weather."

"Oh, won't it be fun to paddle in the water again!" cried Sue.

"That's what it will!" said Bunny Brown.

The place to take the boat for Coney Island was two or three blocks from the restaurant where they had eaten lunch. Bunny and Sue walked behind Mother Brown and Aunt Lu along the street to the boat-dock.

"This is just like home," said Bunny as he saw the water-front, with many boats tied up along the docks, just as they were at his father's pier at home.

Sue liked it, too. There were many things to see. In one window the children saw a number of monkeys, and birds with brightly colored feathers.

"Oh, let's stop and look at them!" cried Sue. Bunny was willing, so they stood looking in the window. Mrs. Brown and Aunt Lu, thinking the children were coming right along, walked on. And it was not until they were ready to cross the street that the mother and aunt missed the little ones.

"Why, where can they have gone?" cried Mrs. Brown, looking all around.

"Oh, they're just walking slowly, behind us," Aunt Lu said. "We'll go back and find them."

She and her sister walked back, but they could not see Bunny and Sue.

"Oh, where are they?" cried Mrs. Brown. "My children are lost! Lost in New York! Oh dear!"



Chapter XVII

At The Police Station


Bunny Brown, and his sister Sue, standing in front of the window where the monkeys and birds were, in cages, had forgotten all about Mother Brown and Aunt Lu. All the children thought of was watching the funny things the monkeys did, for there were three of the long-tailed animals in one cage, and they seemed to be playing tricks on one another.

"Oh, Bunny!" said Sue, "this must be where the hand-organ men get their monkeys."

"Maybe," Bunny agreed. "But hand-organ monkeys have red caps on, and wear green coats, and these monkeys haven't anything on."

"Maybe they make caps and jackets for them from the birds' feathers," Sue said.

"Maybe," agreed Bunny. Certainly the feathers of the birds were red and green, just the colors of the caps and jackets the monkeys wore.

"I wonder if the man would give us a monkey?" Sue said, as she pressed her little nose flat against the window glass, so she would miss nothing of what went on in the store.

"Maybe he would, or we could save up and buy one," Bunny answered.

"Monkeys don't cost much I guess. 'Cause hand-organ mens isn't very rich, and they always have one. I'd like a parrot, too," said Sue.

"Yes, a parrot is better than a doll, for a parrot can talk."

"A parrot is not better than a doll!" Sue cried.

"Yes it is," said Bunny. "It's alive, too, and a doll isn't."

"Well, I can make believe my doll is alive," said Sue. "Anyhow, Bunny Brown, you can't have a parrot or a monkey, 'cause Henry, the elevator boy, won't let 'em come inside Aunt Lu's house."

"That's so," Bunny agreed. "Well, anyhow, we can go in and ask how much they cost, and we can save up our money and buy one when we go home. We aren't always going to stay at Aunt Lu's. And our dog, Splash, would like a monkey and a parrot."

"Yes," said Sue, "he would. All right, we'll go in and ask how much they is."

Hand in hand, never thinking about their aunt and their mother, Bunny and Sue went into the animal store, in the window of which were the monkeys and the parrots. Once inside, the children saw so many other things -- chickens, ducks, goldfish, rabbits, squirrels, pigeons and dogs -- that they were quite delighted.

"Why -- why!" cried Sue, "it's just like Central Park, Bunny!"

"Almost!" said the little boy. "Oh, Sue. Look at the squirrel on the merry-go-'round!"

In a cage on the counter, behind which stood an old man, was a bushy-tailed squirrel, and he was going around and around in a sort of wire wheel. It was like a small merry-go-'round, except that it did not whirl in just the same way.

"What do you want, children?" asked the old man who kept the animal store.

"We -- we'd like a monkey, if it doesn't cost too much," said Bunny.

"And a parrot, too. Don't forget the parrot, Bunny," whispered Sue. "We want a parrot that can talk."

"And how much is a parrot, too?" asked Bunny.

The old man smiled at the children. Then he said:

"Well, parrots and monkeys cost more than you think. A parrot that can talk well costs about ten dollars!"

Bunny looked at Sue and Sue looked at Bunny. They had never thought a parrot cost as much as that. Bunny had thought about twenty-five cents, and Sue about ten.

"Well," said Bunny with a sigh, "I guess we can't get a parrot."

"Does one that can't talk cost as much as that?" Sue wanted to know.

"Well, not quite, but almost, for they soon learn to talk, you know," answered the nice old man.

"How much are monkeys?" asked Bunny. It was almost as if he had gone into Mrs. Redden's store at home, and asked how much were lollypops.

"Well, monkeys cost more than parrots," said the old man.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Bunny. "I -- I guess we can't ever save up enough to get one."

"No, I guess not," agreed Sue.

The old man smiled in such a nice way that Bunny and Sue felt sure he would be good and kind. He was almost like Uncle Tad.

"Where did you get all these animals?" asked Bunny, as he and his sister looked around on the dogs, cats, monkeys, parrots, guinea pigs, pigeons and goldfish, that were on all sides of the store.

"Oh, I have had an animal store a long time," said the old man. "I buy the animals and birds in different places, and sell them to the boys and girls of New York who want them for pets."

"We have a pet dog named Splash," said Bunny. "He's bigger than any dogs you have here."

"Yes, I don't keep big dogs," said the old man. "They take up too much room, and they eat too much. Mostly, folks in New York want small dogs, because they live in small houses, or apartments."

"My Aunt Lu can't have a dog or a parrot or a monkey in her house," said Sue. "Henry, the colored elevator boy, won't let her. Bunny and me, we found a dog, and Henry made us tie him down in the hall to feed him."

"Yes, I suppose so," said the old man.

"And we found a ragged man," went on Bunny, "and I had to lead him up stairs -- ten flights -- 'cause Henry maybe wouldn't let him ride in the elevator."

"That was too bad," said the old animal store-keeper. "But where do you children live? Is your home near here, and do your folks know you are trying to buy a monkey and a parrot?"

Then, for the first time since they had looked in the window of the animal store, Bunny and Sue thought of Mother Brown and Aunt Lu. They remembered they had started for the seashore.

"Oh, our mother and aunt are with us," said Bunny. "We had our dinner, and we're going to Coney Island. I guess we'd better go, too, Sue. Maybe they're waiting for us."

Bunny and Sue started out of the animal store, but, just then, one monkey pulled another monkey's tail, and the second one made such a chattering noise that the children turned around to see what it was. Then the monkey whose tail was pulled, reached out his paw, through the wires of his cage, and caught hold of the tail of a green parrot. Perhaps he thought the parrot was pulling his tail.

"Stop it! Stop it!" screamed the parrot. "Polly wants a cracker! Oh, what a hot day! Have some ice-cream! Stop it! Stop it! Pop goes the weasel!"

Bunny and Sue laughed, though they felt sorry that the monkey's and parrot's tails were being pulled. The animal-store man hurried over to the cages to stop the trouble, and Bunny and Sue stayed to watch.

So it happened, when Mother Brown and Aunt Lu turned around, to find the missing children, Bunny and Sue were not in sight, being inside the store. So, of course, their mother and their aunt did not see them.

"Oh, where could they have gone?" cried Mother Brown.

"Perhaps they are just behind us," said Aunt Lu. "We'll find them all right."

"But suppose they are lost?"

"They can't be lost very long in New York," Aunt Lu said. "The police will find them. Come, we'll walk back and look for them."

But though Mother Brown and Aunt Lu walked right past the store, they never thought that Bunny and Sue were inside.

"Oh, dear!" cried Aunt Lu, "I don't see where they can be!"

"Nor I," said Mrs. Brown. "Oh, if my children are lost!"

"If they are we'll soon find them," asserted Aunt Lu, looking up and down the street, but not seeing Bunny or Sue. "Here comes a policeman now," she went on. "We'll ask him."

But, though the policeman had seen many children on the street, he was not sure he had seen Bunny and Sue.

"However," he said, "the police station is not far from here. You had better go there and ask if they have any lost children. We pick up some every day, and maybe yours are there. Go to the police station. You'll find 'em there."

And to the police station went Mother Brown and Aunt Lu. They walked in toward a big, long desk, with a brass rail in front. Behind the desk sat a man dressed like a soldier, with gold braid on his cap.

"Have you any lost children?" asked Mother Brown.

"A few," answered the police officer behind the brass rail. "You can hear 'em crying."

Aunt Lu and Mother Brown listened. Surely enough, they heard several little children crying.

"They're in the back room," said the officer. "I'll take you in, and you can pick yours out."



Chapter XVIII

Home Again


Mother Brown and Aunt Lu went into the back room of the police station. Around the room, at a table, sat many policemen, most of them with their coats off, for it was rather a warm day. These were the policemen who were waiting for something to happen -- such as a fire, or some other trouble -- before they went out to help boys and girls, or men and women.

But, besides these policemen, there were some little children, three little boys, and two little girls, all rather ragged, all quite dirty, and at least one boy and one girl were crying.

"Oh, where did you get them all?" asked Mother Brown.

"They are lost children," said the policeman who looked like a soldier, with the gold braid on his cap. "Our officers find them on the street, and bring them here."

"And how do their fathers and mothers find them?" asked Aunt Lu.

"Oh, they come here looking for them, the same as you two ladies are doing. The children are never lost very long. You see they're so little they can't tell where they live, or we'd send them home ourselves. Are any of these the lost children you are looking for?"

"Oh, no! Not one!" exclaimed Mother Brown. It took only one look to show her and Aunt Lu that Bunny and Sue were not among the lost children then in the police station.

"Well, I wish some of these were yours," returned the officer. "Especially those two crying ones. They've cried ever since they came here."

"Boo-hoo!" cried two of the lost children. They seemed to be afraid, more than were the others. The others rather liked it. One boy was playing with a policeman's hat, while a little girl was trying to see if she was as tall as a policeman's long club.

"Will they stay here long?" asked Aunt Lu.

"Oh, no, not very long," said the officer.

"Their mothers will miss them soon, and come to look for them. So none of these are yours?" he asked.

"No, but I wish they were," said Mother Brown. "Oh, what has happened to Bunny and Sue?" she asked, and there were tears in her eyes.

"They'll be all right," said the officer in the gold-laced cap. "Maybe they haven't been found yet. As soon as a policeman on the street sees that your children are lost he'll bring them here. You can sit down and wait, if you like. Your little ones may be brought in any minute now."

But Aunt Lu and Mother Brown thought they would rather be out in the street, looking for Bunny and Sue, instead of staying in the police station, and waiting.

"If you leave the names of your children," said the officer to Mother Brown, "we'll telephone to you as soon as they are found. That is if they can tell their names."

"Oh, Bunny and Sue can do that, and they can also tell where they live," said Aunt Lu.

"Oh, then they'll be all right," the officer said, with a laugh. "Maybe they're home by this time. If they told a policeman where they lived he might even take them home, or send them home in a taxicab. We often do that," he said, for he could tell by looking at Aunt Lu and Mother Brown that the two ladies lived in a nice part of New York, maybe a long way from this police station.

"Oh, perhaps Bunny and Sue are home now, waiting for us!" said Mother Brown. "Let's go and see!"

"And if they're not, and if they are brought here, we'll telephone to you," the officer said, as he put the names of Bunny and Sue down on a piece of paper, and also Aunt Lu's telephone number.

So Mrs. Brown and her sister left the police station, and, after another look in the street where they last had seen Bunny and Sue, hoping they might see them (but they did not), off they started for Aunt Lu's house.

"Maybe they are there now," said Mother Brown.

But of course Bunny Brown and his sister Sue were not. We know where they were, though their mother and aunt did not. The children were still in the animal store, laughing at the funny things the monkeys were doing.

After a while, though, one monkey stopped pulling the other monkey's tail, and the other monkey stopped trying to pull the green feathers out of the parrot's tail, and it was quiet in the animal store, except for the cooing of the pigeons and the barking of the dogs.

"So you don't think you want to buy a monkey or a parrot to-day, children?" asked the animal-man, with a smile.

"No, thank you. We haven't the money," said Bunny. "But I would like a monkey."

"And I'd like a parrot," added Sue. "But Henry, the elevator boy, wouldn't let us keep 'em, so maybe it's just as well."

"We can come down here when we want to see any animals," said Bunny to his sister. "I like it better than Central Park."

"So do I," said Sue.

"Yes, come down as often as you like," the old man invited them. "Are you going?" he asked, as he saw Bunny and Sue open the door.

"Yes, we're going to Coney Island with mother and Aunt Lu," Bunny answered.

He and Sue stepped out into the street. They had forgotten all about their mother and their aunt until now, and they thought they would find them on the sidewalk, waiting. But, of course, we know what Mother Brown and Aunt Lu had done -- gone to the police station, looking for the lost ones.

So, when Bunny and Sue looked up and down the street, as they stood in front of the animal store, they did not see Mrs. Brown or Aunt Lu.

"I -- I wonder where they went?" said Sue.

"I don't know," answered Bunny. "Maybe they're lost!"

Sue looked a little frightened at this. The animal-man, seeing the children did not know what to do, came out to them.

"Can't you find your mother?" he asked.

"No," answered Bunny. "She -- she's lost!"

"I guess it's you who are lost," said the animal-man. "But never mind. Tell me where you live, and I'll have the police take you home."

Bunny and Sue, when first they came to New York, had been told by their Aunt Lu that if they ever got lost not to be worried or frightened, for a policeman would take them home. So now, when they heard the animal-man speak about the police, they knew what to expect.

"Where do you live, children?" asked the gray-haired animal-man. "Tell me where you live."

But, strange to say, Bunny and Sue had each forgotten. Some days past their aunt and mother had made them learn, by heart, the number and the street where Aunt Lu's house stood. But now, try as they did, neither Bunny nor Sue could remember it. Watching the monkeys and parrots had made them forget, I suppose.

"Don't you know where you live?" asked the animal-man.

Bunny shook his head. So did Sue.

"Our elevator boy is named Henry," Bunny said.

The animal-man laughed.

"I guess there are a good many elevator boys named Henry, in New York," he said. "I'll just tell the police that I have two lost children here. They'll come and get you, and take you home. Maybe your aunt and mother have already been at the police station looking for you."

It took only a little while for the kind man to telephone to the same police station where Aunt Lu and Mother Brown had been. Of course they were not there then.

But soon a kind policeman came and took Bunny and Sue to the police station, leading them by the hand. Bunny and Sue thought it was fun, and persons in the street smiled at the sight. They knew two lost children had been found.

"What are your names, little ones?" asked the policeman behind the big brass railing, when the two tots were led into the station house.

"I'm Bunny Brown, and this is my sister Sue," spoke up the little boy. "We're lost, and so is our mother and our Aunt Lu."

"Well, you won't be lost long," said the officer with a laugh. "Your mother and aunt have been here looking for you, but they've gone home. I'll telephone them you are here, and they'll come and get you."

And that's just what happened. Bunny and Sue sat in the back room, with the other lost children, though there were not so many now, for two of them -- the crying ones -- had been taken away by their mothers. And, pretty soon, along came Aunt Lu's big automobile, and in that Bunny and Sue were ready to be taken safely home.

Then Aunt Lu rode past the kind animal-man's place, and she and Mother Brown thanked him for his care of the children.

"We couldn't have a monkey and a parrot, could we, Mother?" asked Bunny, as they left the animal store.

"No, dear. I'm afraid not."

"I didn't think we could," Bunny went on. "But when we get back home, where Henry, the elevator boy, can't see 'em, Sue and I is going to have a monkey and a parrot."



Chapter XIX

Bunny Flies A Kite


Mother Brown and Aunt Lu laughed when Bunny said this. Bunny's and Sue's mother and aunt were glad to have the children safely with them again. They were soon at Aunt Lu's home.

"Whatever made you two children go into that animal store?" asked Mrs. Brown. "Aunt Lu and I thought you were right behind us, going to take the boat for Coney Island. Now we can't go."

"We can go some other day," declared Bunny. "You see we just stopped to look in the animal store window, Mother, and then we thought we'd go in to see how much a monkey and a parrot cost."

"But they cost ten dollars," said Sue, "so we didn't get any."

"I should hope not!" exclaimed Aunt Lu.

The next day Bunny and Sue went to Coney Island with their aunt and their mother. This time Aunt Lu and Mother Brown kept close hold of the children's hands, so they were not lost. They very much enjoyed the sail down the bay, and they had lots of fun at Coney Island.

Of course Bunny and Sue were not like some children, who have never seen the grand, old ocean. Bunny and Sue lived near it at home, and had seen it ever since they were small children. But, to some, their visit to Coney Island gives the first sight of the sea, and it is a wonderful sight, with the big waves breaking on the sandy shore.

But if Bunny and Sue were not so eager to see the ocean, they were glad to look at the other things on Coney Island. They rode on a merry-go-'round, slid down a long wooden hill, in a wooden boat, and splashed into the water; this was "shooting the chutes," of which you have heard.

They even rode on a tame elephant, in a little house on the big animal's back. Then they had popcorn and candy, and some lemonade, that, if it was not pink, such as they had at their little circus, was just as good. In fact Bunny Brown and his sister Sue had a very good time at Coney Island.

Coming back on the boat was nice, too. There was a band playing music, and Bunny and Sue, and some other children, danced around. They reached home after dark, and Bunny and Sue were glad to go to bed.

But Bunny was not too sleepy to ask:

"What are we going to do to-morrow, Mother?"

"Oh, wait until to-morrow comes and see," she answered. "I hope you don't get lost again, though."

But Bunny and Sue were not afraid of getting lost in New York, now. They knew the police would find them, and be kind to them.

Their mother and Aunt Lu had made them say, over and over again, the number of the house, and the name of the street where Aunt Lu lived. The children also had cards with the address on. But the day they went into the animal store they had left their cards at home.

"What shall we do, Bunny?" asked Sue, the day after their trip to Coney Island. "I want to have some fun."

"So do I," said Bunny.

Having fun in the big city of New York was different from playing in the country, on grandpa's farm, or near the water in Bellemere, as Bunny and Sue soon found. But they had many good times at Aunt Lu's, though they were different from those at home. One thing about being in the country, at grandpa's, or at their own home, was that Bunny and Sue could run out alone and look for fun. In New York they were only allowed to go on the street in front of Aunt Lu's house alone. Of course if Aunt Lu, or Mother Brown, or even Wopsie went with them, the children could go farther up or down the street.

"Let's see if we can go out and find Wopsie's aunt to-day," said Bunny to Sue, after they had eaten breakfast.

"All right," agreed the little girl. "Where'll we look?"

"Oh, down in the street," said Bunny. "We'll ask all the colored people we meet if they have lost a little girl. And we could ask at a police station, too, if we knew where there was one."

"Yes," said Sue, "we might ask at the station where we was tooken, after we saw the monkeys and parrots in the animal store."

"But we don't know where that police station is," Bunny said. "I guess we'd just better ask in the street."

Bunny and Sue were quite in earnest about finding little Wopsie's aunt for her. For they wanted to make the little colored girl happy.

And, strange as it may seem, Bunny and Sue had asked many colored persons they met, if they wanted a little lost colored girl. Bunny and Sue did not think this was at all strange, for they were used to doing, and saying, just what they pleased, as long as it was not wrong.

Of course some colored men and women did not know what to make of the queer questions Bunny and Sue asked, but others replied to them kindly, and said they were sorry, but that they had not lost any little colored girl.

"But we'll find Wopsie's aunt some time," said Bunny, and Sue thought they might. So now, having nothing else to do to "have fun," as they called it, Bunny and Sue started to go down to the street.

"Don't go away from in front of the house!" their mother called to them.

"We won't," Bunny promised.

Henry, the colored elevator boy, took them down in his car.

"We're going to find Wopsie's aunt," said Bunny.

"Well, I hopes you do," replied Henry. For, all this while, though Aunt Lu had tried her best, nothing could be found of any "folks" for the little colored girl. She still lived with Aunt Lu, helping keep the apartment in order, and looking after Bunny and Sue.

Down on the sidewalk went Bunny and his sister. For some time they sat on the shady front steps, watching for a colored man or woman. But it was quite long before one came along. Then it was a young colored man. Up to him ran Bunny.

"Is you looking for Wopsie?" he asked. For the colored man was looking up at the numbers on the houses.

"No, sah, little man. I'se lookin' fo' Henry," was the answer. "He's a elevator boy, an' he done lib around yeah somewheres."

"Oh, he lives in here!" cried Sue. "Henry's our elevator boy. We'll show you!"

She and Bunny ran into the hall, calling:

"Henry! Henry! Here's your brother looking for you!"

And so it was Henry's brother. He worked as an elevator boy in another apartment house, and, as he had a few hours to spare, he had come to see Henry.

The two colored boys talked together, riding up and down in the sliding car, while Bunny and Sue went back to the street.

"Well, we didn't find anyone looking for Wopsie," said Bunny, "but we found someone looking for Henry, and that's pretty near the same."

"Yes," said Sue. "Maybe we'll find Wopsie's aunt to-morrow."

But no more colored persons came along, and, after a while, Bunny and Sue grew tired of waiting. Looking up in the air Bunny suddenly gave a cry.

"Oh, Sue! Look!" he shouted. "There's a boy on the roof of that house across the street, flying a kite. I'm going to get a kite and fly it from our roof!"

"Do you think mother will let you?" asked Sue.

"I'm going to tell her about it!" Bunny exclaimed.

At first Mrs. Brown would not hear of Bunny's flying a kite from the roof of the apartment house. But Aunt Lu said:

"Oh, the boys here often do it. That's the only place they have to fly kites in New York. There is a good breeze up on our roof, and it's safe. I don't know anything about a kite though, or how we could get Bunny one."

"You can buy 'em in a store," said the little boy. "There's a store just around the corner, and the kites cost five cents."

Mrs. Brown, hearing her sister say it was safe, and all right, to fly kites from the roof, said Bunny might get one. So he and Sue, with Wopsie, went to the little store around the corner. There Bunny got a fine red, white and blue kite, with a tail to it.

"Now we'll take it up on the roof and fly it," he said to his sister and the little colored girl, after he had tied the end of a ball of string to his kite.

There was a good wind up on the roof, and the railing was so high there was no danger of the children sliding off. Bunny's kite was soon flying in the air, and he and Sue took turns holding the string, as they sat on cushions on the roof. Wopsie stood near, looking on.

"I never flied a kite like this before," laughed Bunny -- "up on a house roof."



Chapter XX

The Play Party


High up in the air flew Bunny Brown's kite. The wind blew very hard on the high roof of Aunt Lu's house, harder than it blew down in the street. And, too, on the roof, there were no trees to catch the kite's tail and pull it. I think a kite doesn't like its tail pulled any more than a pussy cat, or a puppy dog does. Anyhow, nothing pulled the tail of Bunny's kite.

"Doesn't it fly fine!" cried Sue, as Bunny let out more and more of the ball of cord.

"Yes," he answered. "I'll let you hold it awhile, Sue, after it gets up higher."

"And will you let Wopsie hold it, too?" asked the little girl.

Sue was very kind hearted, and she always wanted to have the lonely little colored girl share in the joys and pleasures that Bunny and his sister so often had.

"Sure, Wopsie can fly the kite!" Bunny answered. "It's almost up high enough now. Pretty soon it will be up near the clouds. Then I'll let you and Wopsie hold it awhile."

Up and up went the kite, higher and higher. The wind was blowing harder than ever, sweeping over the roof, and Bunny moved back from the high rail for fear that, after all, the kite might pull him over. Pretty soon he had let out all the cord, except what was tied to a clothes pin his aunt had given him, and Bunny said:

"Now you can hold the kite, Sue. But keep it tight, so it won't pull away from you."

Sue did not come up to take the string, as Bunny thought she would. Instead, Sue said:

"I -- I guess Wopsie can take my turn, Bunny. I don't want to hold the kite. Let Wopsie."

"Why, I thought you wanted to," the little boy said.

"Well, I -- I did, but I don't want to now," and Sue looked at the kite, high up in the air above the roof.

"Come on, Wopsie!" called Bunny to the little colored girl. "You can hold the kite awhile."

Wopsie shook her kinky, black, curly head.

"No, sah, Bunny! I don't want t' hold no kite nohow!" she said.

"Why not?" Bunny wanted to know.

"Jest 'case as how I don't!" Wopsie explained.

"Is -- is you afraid, same as I am?" asked Sue.

"Why, Sue!" cried Bunny. "You're not afraid to hold my kite; are you?"

"Yes I is, Bunny."

"What for?"

"'Cause it's so high up," Sue told him. "The wind blows it so hard, and we're up on such a high roof, and the kite pulls so hard I'm afraid it might take me up with it."

"That's jest what I'se skeered ob, too!" cried Wopsie. "I don't want t' git carried off up to no cloud, no sah! I wants t' find mah aunt 'fore I goes up to de sky!"

Bunny Brown laughed.

"Why this kite wouldn't pull you up!" he said. "It can't pull hard enough for that. Come on, I'll let both of you hold it together. It can't pull you both up."

"Shall we?" asked Sue, looking at Wopsie.

"Well, I will if yo' will," said the colored girl slowly.

Slowly and carefully Sue and Wopsie took hold of the kite string. No sooner did they have it in their hands than there came a sudden puff of wind, harder than before, and the kite pulled harder than ever.

"Oh, it's taking us up! It's taking us up!" cried Sue, and she let go the string.

"I can't hold it all alone! I can't hold it all alone!" cried Wopsie. "I don't want to go up to de clouds in de sky!"

And she, too, let go the cord. As it happened, Bunny did not have hold of it just then, thinking his sister and Wopsie would hold it, so you can easily guess what happened.

The strong wind carried the kite, string and all, away through the air, the clothes pin, fast to the end of the cord, rattling along over the roof.

"Oh, look!" cried Sue. "Your kite is loose, Bunny!"

"Cotch it! Cotch it!" shouted Wopsie, now that she saw what had happened.

Bunny did not say it was the fault of his sister and the little colored girl that the kite had gone sailing off by itself, though if the two girls had held to the string it never would have happened. But Bunny was too eager and anxious to get back his kite to say anything just then.

With a bound he sprang after the rolling clothes pin. But it kept just beyond his reach. He could not get his hand on it. Faster and faster the kite sailed away. Bunny was now running across the roof after the clothes pin that was tied on the end of his kite cord.

Then, all of a sudden, the clothes pin was pulled over the edge of the roof railing. Bunny could not get it. He stopped short at the edge of the roof, and looked at his kite sailing far away.

"It -- it's gone!" said Sue, in a low voice.

"It -- it suah has!" whispered Wopsie. "Oh, Bunny. I'se so sorry!"

"So'm I!" added Sue.

Bunny said nothing. He just looked at his kite, growing smaller and smaller as it sailed away through the air. It was too bad.

"Never mind," said Bunny, swallowing the "crying lump" in his throat, as he called it. "It -- it wasn't a very good kite anyhow. I'm going to get a bigger one."

"Den we suah will be pulled offen de roof!" said Wopsie, and Bunny and Sue laughed at the queer way she said it.

However, nothing could be done now to get the kite. Away it went, sailing on and on over other roofs. The long string, with the clothes pin on the end of it, dangled over the courtyard of the apartment house. Then the wind did not blow quite so hard for a moment, and the kite sank down.

"Oh, maybe you can get it!" cried Sue.

"Let's try!" exclaimed Bunny. "Come on, Wopsie. We'll go down to the street and run after my kite."

Down to Aunt Lu's floor went the children. Quickly they told Mother Brown and Aunt Lu what had happened.

"We're going to chase after my kite," said Bunny. "That's what we do in the country when a kite gets loose like mine did."

"But I'm afraid it won't be so easy to run after a kite in the city as it is in the country," said Mother Brown. "There are too many houses here, Bunny. But you may try. Wopsie will go with you, and don't go too far away."

Wopsie knew all the streets about Aunt Lu's house, and could not get lost, so it was safe for Bunny and Sue to go with her. A little later the three were down on the street, running in the direction they had last seen the kite. But they could see it no longer. There were too many houses in the way, and there were no big green fields, as in the country, across which one could look for ever and ever so far.

For several blocks, and through a number of streets, Bunny Brown and his sister Sue, with Wopsie, tried to find the kite. But it was not in sight. They even asked a kind-looking policeman, but he had not seen it.

"I guess we'll have to go back without it," said Bunny, sighing. "But I'll buy another to-morrow."

The children turned to go back to Aunt Lu's house. Bunny and Sue looked about them. They had never been on this street before. It was not as nice as the one where their aunt lived. The houses were just as big, but they were rather shabby looking -- like old and ragged dresses. And the people in the street, and the children, were not well dressed. Of course that was not their fault, they were poor, and did not have the money. Perhaps some of them did not even have money enough to get all they wanted to eat.

"I -- I don't like it here," whispered Sue to Wopsie. "Let's go home."

"There's more children here than on our street," said Bunny. "Look at those boys wading in a mud puddle. I wish I could."

"Don't you dare do it, Bunny Brown!" cried Sue. "You know we can't go barefoot in the city. Mother said so."

"Yes, I know," Bunny answered.

The three children walked on. As they passed a high stoop they saw a number of ragged boys and girls sitting around a box, on which were some old broken dishes and clam shells. One girl, larger than the others, was saying:

"Now you has all got to be nice at my party, else you won't git nothin' to eat. Sammie Cohen, you sit up straight, and don't you grab any of that chocolate cake until I says you kin have it. Mary Mullaine, you keep your fingers out of dat lemonade. The party ain't started yet."

"I -- I don't see any party," said Bunny, looking at the empty clam shells, and the empty pieces of broken dishes on the soap box.

"Hush!" exclaimed Sue in a whisper. "Can't you see it's a play-party, Bunny Brown. Same as we have!"



Chapter XXI

The Real Party


The poor children on the stoop (I call them poor just so you'll know they didn't have much money) these poor children were pretending so hard to have a party, that they never noticed Bunny Brown, and his sister Sue, with Wopsie, watching them.

"When are we goin' to eat?" asked a ragged little boy, who sat on the lowest step.

"When I says to begin, dat's when you eat," said the big, ragged girl, who seemed to have gotten up the play-party. "And I don't want nobody to ask for no second piece of cake, 'cause there ain't enough."

"Is there any pie?" asked a little boy, whose face was quite dirty. "'Cause if there's pie, I'd just as lief have that as cake."

"There ain't no pie," said the big girl. "Now we'll begin. Mikie Snell, you let that ice-cream alone, I tells you!"

"I -- I was jest seein' if it was meltin'," and Mikie drew back a dirty hand he had reached over toward a big empty clam shell. That shell was the make-believe dish of ice-cream, you see.

"Say, dis suah am a funny party," whispered Wopsie to Sue. "I -- I don't see nuffin to eat!"

"Hush!" whispered Sue. "You never have anything to eat at a play-party; do you, Bunny?"

"Nope. But when we have one we always go in the house afterward, and mother gives us something."

"Let's watch them play," whispered Sue.

And so, not having found Bunny's kite, he and his sister Sue, and Wopsie, stood by the stoop, and watched the poor, ragged children at their play-party.

It was just like the ones Bunny and Sue sometimes had. There was make believe pie, cake, lemonade and ice-cream. And the children on the stoop, in the big, busy street of New York, had just as much fun at their play-party as Bunny and Sue had at theirs, in the beautiful country, or by the seashore.

"Now we're goin' to have the ice-cream," said the big girl, as she smoothed down her ragged dress. "And don't none of you eat it too fast, or it'll give you a face-ache, 'cause it's awful cold."

Then she made believe to dish out the pretend-ice-cream, and the children made believe to eat it with imaginary spoons.

"I couldn't have no more, could I?" asked a little girl.

"Why Lizzie Bloomenstine! I should say not!" cried the big girl. "The ice-cream is all gone. Hello, what you lookin' at?" she asked quickly as she saw Bunny, Sue and Wopsie.

For a moment Bunny did not answer. The big girl frowned, and the others at the play-party did not seem pleased.

"Go on away an' let us alone!" the big girl said. "Can't we have a party without you swells comin' to stare at us?"

Bunny and Sue really were not staring at the play-party to be impolite.

"What they want?" asked another of the ragged children.

"Oh, jest makin' fun at us, 'cause we ain't got nothin' to play real party with, I s'pose," grumbled the big girl. "Go on away!" she ordered.

Then Sue had an idea. I have told you of some of the ideas Bunny Brown had, but this time it was Sue's turn. She was going to do a queer thing.

"If you please," she said in her most polite voice to the big ragged girl, "we only stopped to look at your play-party, to see how you did it."

"'Cause we have 'em like that ourselves," added Bunny.

"And they're lots of fun," went on Sue. "We play just like you do, with empty plates, and tin dishes and all that. Do you ever have cherry pie at your play parties?"

The big girl was not scowling now. She had a kinder look on her face. After all she had found that the "swells," as she called Bunny and Sue, were just like herself.

"No, we never have cherry pie," she said, "it costs too much, even at make-believe parties. But we has frankfurters and rolls."

"Oh, how nice!" Sue said. "We never have them; do we Bunny?"

"Nope."

"But we will, next time we have a play-party," Sue went on. "I think they must be lovely. How do you cook 'em?"

"Well, we just frys 'em -- make believe," said the big girl, who was smiling now. "But I can cook real, an' when we has any money at home, an' me ma buys real sausages, I boils 'em an' we eats 'em wit mustard on."

Sue thought the big girl talked in rather a queer way, but of course we cannot all talk alike. It would be a funny world if we did; wouldn't it?

"It must be nice to cook real sausages," said Sue. "I wish I could do it. But will all of you children come to my party to-morrow?" she asked.

"Are you goin' to have a party?" inquired the big girl.

"Yes," nodded Sue. "We're going to have a party at our Aunt Lu's house; aren't we, Bunny? We are, 'cause I'm going to ask her to have one, as soon as we get back," Sue whispered to her brother. "So you say 'yes.' We are going to have a party; aren't we, Bunny?" Sue spoke out loud this time.

"Yes," answered the little boy. "We're going to have one."

"A real party?" the big girl wanted to know.

Bunny looked at Sue. He was going to let her answer.

"Yes, it will be a real party," said Sue, "and we'll have all real things to eat. Will you come?"

"Will we come?" cried the big girl. "Well, I guess we will!"

"Even a policeman couldn't keep us away!" said the boy who had wanted to feel the ice-cream, to see if it was melting.

"Then you can all come to my Aunt Lu's house to-morrow afternoon," Sue went on. "I'll tell her you're coming."

"Where is it?" asked the big girl.

Sue felt in her pocket and brought out one of Aunt Lu's cards, which Miss Baker had given the little girl in case she became lost.

"That's our address," said Sue. "You come there to-morrow afternoon, and we'll have a real party. I'm pleased to have met you," and with a polite bow, saying what she had often heard her mother say on parting from a new friend, Sue turned away.

"Will you an' your brother be there?" the big, ragged girl wanted to know.

"Yes," said Bunny. "I'll be there, and so will Wopsie."

"Is she Wopsie?" asked the big girl, pointing to the colored piccaninny.

"Dat's who I is!" Wopsie exclaimed. "But dat's only mah make-believe name. Mah real one am Sallie Jefferson. Dat name was on de card pinned to me, but de address was tored off."

"Well, Sallie or Wopsie, it's all de same to me," said the big girl. "We'll see you at de party!"

"Yes, please all come," said Sue once more. Then she walked on with Wopsie and her brother.

"Say, Miss Sue, is yo' all sartin suah 'bout dis yeah party?" asked Wopsie, as they turned the corner.

"Why, of course we're sure about it, Wopsie."

"Well, yo' auntie don't know nuffin 'bout it."

"She will, as soon as we get home, for I'll tell her," said Sue. "It will be fun; won't it, Bunny?"

"I -- I guess so."

Bunny did not know quite what to make of what Sue had done. Getting up a real party in such a hurry was a new idea for him. Still it might be all right.

"It's a good thing I lost my kite," said Bunny. "'Cause if I hadn't we couldn't have seen those children to invite to the party."

"Yes," said Sue, "it was real nice. We'll have lots of fun at the party. I hope they'll all come."

"Oh, dey'll come all right!" said Wopsie, shaking her head. "But I don't jest know what yo' Aunt Lu's gwine t' say."

"Oh, that will be all right," answered Sue easily.

When the children reached home, they rode up in the elevator with Henry, and Sue found her aunt in the library with Mother Brown.

"Aunt Lu," began Sue, "have you got lots of cake and jam tarts and jelly tarts in the house?"

"Why, I think Mary baked a cake to-day," Sue. "What did you ask that for?"

"And can you buy real ice-cream at a store near here, or make it?" Sue wanted to know.

"Why, yes, child, but what for?" Aunt Lu was puzzled.

"Then it's all right," Sue went on. "You're going to give a real play-party to a lot of ragged children here to-morrow afternoon. I invited them. I gave them your card. And now, please, I want a jam tart, or a piece of cake, for myself. And then we must tell Henry when the ragged children come, to let them come up in the elevator. They're little, just like me, and they never could walk up all the stairs. I hope your real play-party will be nice, Aunt Lu," and Sue, smoothing out her dress, sat down in a chair.



Chapter XXII

In The Park


Aunt Lu looked first at Sue, and then at Bunny Brown. Mother Brown did the same thing. Then they looked at Wopsie. Finally Aunt Lu, in a sort of faint, and far-away voice asked:

"What -- what does it all mean, Sue?"

Sue leaned back in her chair.

"It's just like I told you," she said. "You know Bunny's kite got away, and we ran after it. We didn't find it, but we saw some poor children having a play-party, with broken pieces of dishes on a box, same as me and Bunny plays sometimes. We watched them, and I guess they thought we was makin' fun of 'em."

"Yes," said Bunny, "that's what they did."

"But we wasn't makin' fun," said Sue. "We just wanted to watch, and when they saw us I asked them to come here to-morrow to a real party."

"Oh, Sue, you never did!" cried her mother.

"Yes'm, I did," returned Sue. "I gave 'em Aunt Lu's card, and they're coming, and we're going to have real cake and real ice-cream. That one girl can cook real, or make-believe, sausages, but we don't need to have them, 'less you want to, Aunt Lu! Only I think it would be nice to have some jam tarts, and I'd like one now, please."

Aunt Lu and Mrs. Brown again looked at one another. First they smiled, and then they laughed.

"Well," said Aunt Lu, after a bit. "I suppose since Sue has invited them I'll have to give them a party. But I wish you had let me know first, Sue, before you asked them."

"Why, I didn't have time, Aunt Lu. I -- I just had to get up the real party right away, you see."

"Oh, yes, I see."

So Aunt Lu told Mary, her cook, and her other servants, to get ready for the party Sue had planned. For it would never do to have the big girl, and the little boys and girls, come all the way to Aunt Lu's house, and then not give them something to eat, especially after Sue had promised it to them.

Bunny and Sue could hardly wait for the next day to come, so eager were they to have the party. They were up early in the morning, and they wanted to help make the jam and jelly tarts, but Aunt Lu said Mary could better do that alone. Wopsie helped dust the rooms, though, and she lifted up to the mantel several pretty vases that had stood on low tables.

"Dem chilluns might not mean t' do it," said the little colored girl, "but dey might, accidental like, knock ober some vases an' smash 'em. Den Miss Lu would feel bad."

Bunny and Sue spoke to Henry, the elevator boy, about the ragged children coming to the party.

"You'll let them ride up with you; won't you, Henry?" asked Sue.

"Oh, suah I will!" he said, smiling and showing all his white teeth. "Dey kin ride in mah elevator as well as not."

And, about two o'clock, which was the hour Sue had told them, the ragged children came, the big girl marching on ahead with Aunt Lu's card held in her hand, so she would find the apartment house. But the children were not so ragged or dirty now. Their faces and hands were quite clean, and some of them had on better clothes.

"I made 'em slick up, all I could," said the big girl, who said her name was Maggie Walsh. "Is the party all ready?"

"Yes," answered Sue, who with Bunny, had been waiting down in the hall for the "company."

Into the elevator the poor children piled, and soon they were up in Aunt Lu's nice rooms. The place was so nice, with its satin and plush chairs, that the children were almost afraid to sit down. But Aunt Lu, and Mrs. Brown soon made them feel at home, and when the cake, ice-cream, and other good things, were brought in, why, the children acted just like any others that Bunny and Sue had played with.

"Say, it's real ice-cream all right!" whispered one boy to Maggie Walsh. "It's de real stuff!"

"Course it is!" exclaimed the big girl. "Didn't she say it was goin' to be real!" and she nodded at Sue.

"I t'ought maybe it were jest a joke," said the boy.

Aunt Lu had not had much time to get ready for Sue's sudden little party, but it was a nice one for all that. There were plenty of good things to eat, which, after all, does much to make a party nice. Then, too, there was a little present for each of the children. And as they went home with their toys, pleased and happy, there was a smile on every face.

They had had more good things to eat than they had ever dreamed of, they had played games and they had had the best time in their lives, so they said. Over and over again they thanked Sue and her mother and Aunt Lu, and Bunny -- even Henry, the elevator boy.

"We'll come a'gin whenever you has a party," whispered a little red-haired girl, to Sue, as she said good-bye.

"And youse kin come to our make-believe parties whenever you want," said the big girl.

"Thanks." Sue waved her hands to the children as they went down the street. She had given them a happy time.

For a few days after Sue's party she and Bunny did not do much except play around Aunt Lu's house, for there came several days of rain. The weather was getting colder now, for it was fall, and would soon be winter.

"But I like winter!" said Bunny. "'Cause we can slide down hill. Are there any hills around here, Aunt Lu?"

"Well, not many. Perhaps you might slide in Central Park. We'll see when snow comes."

One clear, cool November day Bunny and Sue were taken to Central Park by Wopsie. They had been promised a ride in a pony cart, and this was the day they were to have it.

Not far from where the animals were kept in the park were some ponies and donkeys. Children could ride on their backs, or sit in a little cart, and have a pony or donkey pull them.

"We'll get in a cart," said Bunny. "I'm going to drive."

"Do you know how?" asked the man, as he lifted Bunny and Sue in. Wopsie got in herself.

"I can drive our dog Splash, when he's hitched up to our express wagon," said Bunny. "I guess I can drive the pony. He isn't much bigger than Splash." This was so, as the pony was a little one.

So Bunny took hold of the lines, but the man who owned the pony carts sent a boy to walk along beside the little horse that was pulling Bunny, Sue and Wopsie.

"Giddap!" cried Bunny to the pony. "Go faster!" For the pony was only walking. Just then a dog ran out of the bushes along the park drive, and barked at the pony's heels. Before the boy, whom the man had sent out to take charge of the pony, could stop him, the little horse jumped forward, and the next minute began trotting down the drive very fast, pulling after him the cart, with Bunny, Sue and Wopsie in it.



Chapter XXIII

Old Aunt Sallie


"Bunny! Bunny! Isn't this fun?" cried Sue, as she looked across at her brother in the other seat of the pony cart. "Don't you like it?"

"Yes, I do," Bunny answered, as he pulled on the reins. "Do you, Wopsie?"

The colored girl looked around without speaking. She looked on the ground, as though she would like to jump out of the pony cart. But she did not. The little horse was going faster than ever.

"Don't you like it, Wopsie?" asked Sue. "It's fun! This pony goes faster than our dog Splash, and Splash couldn't pull such a nice, big cart as this; could he, Bunny?"

"No, I guess not," Bunny answered. He did not turn around to look at Sue as he spoke.

For, to tell the truth, Bunny was a little bit worried. The dog that had jumped out of the bushes, to bark at the pony's heels, was still running along behind the pony cart, barking and snapping. And, though Bunny and Sue did not mind their dog Splash's barking, when he pulled them, this dog was a strange one.

Then, too, the boy, who had started out with the pony cart, was running along after it crying:

"Stop! Stop! Wait a minute. Somebody stop that pony!"

But there was no one ahead of Bunny, Sue and Wopsie on the Park drive just then, and no one to stop the pony, which was kicking up his heels, and going faster and faster all the while.

"He's running hard; isn't he, Bunny?" asked Sue.

"Yes, he -- he's going fast -- very fast!" panted Bunny, in a sort of jerky way, for the cart rattled over some bumps just then, and if Bunny had not been careful how he spoke he might have bitten his tongue between his teeth.

"Don't -- don't you li -- like it -- Wop -- Wopsie?" asked Sue, speaking in the same jerky way as had her brother.

Wopsie did not open her mouth. She just held tightly to the edge of the pony cart, and shook her head from side to side. That meant she did not like it. Sue and Bunny wondered why.

True, they were going a bit fast, but then they had often ridden almost as fast when Splash, their big dog, drew them in the express cart. And this was much nicer than an express cart, though of course Bunny and Sue liked Splash better than this pony. But if they had owned the pony they would have liked him very much, also, I think.

Now the pony swung around a corner of the drive, and he went so fast, and turned so quickly, that the cart was nearly upset.

Sue held tightly to the side of her seat, and called to her brother:

"Oh, Bunny! Don't make him go so fast! You'll spill me and Wopsie out!"

"I didn't make him go fast," Bunny answered. "I -- I guess he's in a hurry to get away from that dog."

"Make the dog go 'way," pleaded Sue.

Bunny looked back at the barking dog, who was still running after the pony cart.

"Go on away!" Bunny cried. "Let us alone -- go on away and find a bone to eat!"

But the dog either did not understand what Bunny said, or he would rather race after the pony cart than get himself a bone. At any rate he still kept running along, barking and growling, and the pony kept running.

The boy who had started out with the children, first walking along beside the pony, was now far behind. He was a small boy, with very short legs, and, as the pony's legs were quite long, of course the boy could not run fast enough to keep up. So he was now far behind, but he kept calling:

"Stop that pony! Oh, please someone stop that pony!"

Bunny and Sue heard the boy calling. So did Wopsie, but the colored girl said nothing. She just sat there, holding to the side of the seat and looking at Bunny and Sue.

"I wonder what that boy's hollering that way for?" asked Sue, as the pony swung around another corner, almost upsetting the cart again.

"I don't know," said Bunny. "Maybe he likes to holler. I do sometimes, when I'm out in the country. And this park is like the country, Sue."

"Yes, I guess it is," said the little girl. "But what's he saying, Bunny?"

They listened. Once more the boy, running along, now quite a long way behind the pony cart, could be heard crying:

"Stop him! Stop him! He's running away! Stop him!"

Bunny and Sue looked at one another. Then they looked at Wopsie. The colored girl opened her mouth, showing her red tongue and her white teeth.

"Oh! Oh!" she screamed. "De pony's runnin' away! Dat's what de boy says. I'se afeered, I is! Oh, let me out! Let me out!"

Wopsie, who sat near the back of the cart, where there was a little door, made of wicker-work, like a basket, started to jump out. But though Bunny Brown was only a little fellow, he knew that Wopsie might be hurt if she jumped from the cart, which the pony was pulling along so fast, now.

"Sit still, Wopsie!" Bunny cried. "Sit still!"

"But we's bein' runned away wif!" exclaimed Wopsie. "Didn't yo' all done heah dat boy say so? We's bein' runned away wif! I wants t' git out! I don't like bein' runned away wif!"

"It won't hurt you," said Sue. She did not seem at all afraid. "It won't hurt you, Wopsie," Sue went on. "Me and Bunny has been runned away with lots of times, with our dog Splash; hasn't we, Bunny?"

"Yes, we have, Sue. Sit still, Wopsie. I'll stop the pony."

Bunny began to pull back on the lines, and he called:

"Whoa! Whoa there! Stop now! Don't run away any more, pony boy!"

But the pony did not seem to want to stop. Perhaps he thought if he stopped, now, the barking dog would bite his heels. But the dog had given up the chase, and was not in sight. Neither was the running boy.

The boy had found that his short legs were not long enough to keep up with the longer legs of the pony. Besides, a pony has four legs, and everybody knows that four legs can go faster than two. So the boy stopped running.

"Can you stop the pony?" asked Sue, after Bunny had pulled on the lines a number of times, and had cried "Whoa!" very often. "Can you stop him?"

"I -- I guess so," answered the little boy. "But maybe you'd better help me, Sue. You pull on one line, and I'll pull on the other. That will stop him."

Bunny passed one of the pony's reins to his sister and held to the other. The children were sitting in front of the cart, Bunny on one side and Sue on the other. Both of them began to pull on the lines, but still the pony did not stop.

"Pull harder, Bunny! Pull harder!" cried Sue.

"I am pulling as hard as I can," he said. "You pull harder, Sue."

But still the pony did not want to stop. If anything, he was going faster than ever. Yes, he surely was going faster, for it was down hill now, and you know, as well as I do, that you can go faster down hill, than you can on the level, or up hill.

"Oh, I want to git out! I want to git out!" cried Wopsie. "I don't like bein' runned away wif! Oh, please good, kind, nice, sweet Mr. Policeman, stop de pony from runnin' away wif us!"

"Where's a policeman?" asked Sue, turning half way around to look at Wopsie. "Where's a policeman?"

"I -- I don't see none!" said the colored girl, "but I wish I did! He'd stop de pony from runnin' away. Maybe if we all yells fo' a policeman one'll come."

"Shall we Bunny?" asked Sue.

"Shall we what?" Bunny wanted to know. He had been so busy trying to get a better hold on his rein that he had not noticed what Sue and Wopsie were talking about.

"Shall we call a policeman?" asked Sue. "Wopsie says one can stop the pony from running away. And I don't guess we can stop him, Bunny. We'd better yell for a policeman. Maybe one is around somewhere, but I can't see any."

"All right, we'll call one," Bunny agreed. He, too, was beginning to think that the pony was never going to stop. "But let's try one more pull on the lines, Sue. Now, pull hard."

And then something happened.

Without waiting for Sue to get ready to pull on her line, Bunny gave a hard pull on his. And I guess you know what happens if you pull too much on one horse-line.

Suddenly the pony felt Bunny pulling on the right hand line, and the pony turned to that side. And he turned so quickly that the harness broke and the cart was upset. Over it went on its side, and Bunny Brown and his sister Sue, as well as Wopsie, were thrown out.

Right out of the cart they flew, and Bunny turned a somersault, head over heels, before he landed on a soft pile of grass that had been cut that day. Sue and Wopsie also landed on piles of grass, so they were not any more hurt than was Bunny.

The pony, as soon as the cart had turned over, looked back once, and then he stopped running, and began to nibble the green grass.

"Well, we aren't being runned away with now," Bunny finally said.

"No," answered Sue. "We've stopped all right. Wopsie, is you hurted?"

The colored girl put her hand up to her kinky head. Her hat had fallen off into her lap. Carefully she felt of her braids. Then she said:

"I guess I isn't hurted much. But I might 'a' bin! I don't want no mo' pony cart rides!"

Before the children and Wopsie could get up they heard a voice calling to them:

"Bress der hearts! Po' li'l lambs! Done got frowed out ob de cart, an' all busted t' pieces mebby. Well, ole Aunt Sallie'll take keer ob 'em! Po' li'l honey lambs!"

Glancing up, Bunny and Sue saw a motherly-looking colored woman coming across the grass toward them. She held out her fat arms to the children and said:

"Now don't cry, honey lambs! Ole Aunt Sallie will tuk keer ob yo' all!"



Chapter XXIV

Wopsie's Folks


The nice old colored woman, who called herself Aunt Sallie, bent first over Sue, helping the little girl stand up.

"Is yo' all hurted, honey?" asked Aunt Sallie, brushing the pieces of grass from Sue's dress.

"Oh, no, I'm not hurt at all, thank you," Sue replied. "It was a soft place to fall."

"An' yo', li'l boy; am yo' all hurted?" she asked Bunny.

"No, thank you, I'm all right. I used to be in a circus, so I know how to turn somersaults, you see."

"What's dat! A li'l boy like yo' in a circus?"

Aunt Sallie seemed very much surprised.

"Oh, it wasn't a real circus," explained Sue.

"No, it was only a make-believe one," Bunny said, as he began to brush the grass off his clothes. "We had one circus in grandpa's barn," he said, "and another in some tents. Say, Wopsie, is you hurted?" Bunny asked.

By this time the colored girl had found out there was nothing the matter with her. Not even one of her tight, black braids of kinky hair had come loose. She stood up, smoothed down her dress, and said:

"No'm, I'se not hurted."

"Dat's good," said Aunt Sallie. "It's lucky yo' all wasn't muxed up an' smashed, when dat pony cart upset. Now yo' all jest come ober t' my place an' I'll let yo' rest. I guess heah comes de boy what belongs t' de pony."

The short-legged boy came running across the field. He was very much out of breath, for he had run a good way.

"Any -- anybody hurt?" he asked.

"No," said Bunny, "we're all right, and your pony's all right too, I guess."

It seemed so, for the pony was eating grass as if he had had nothing to chew on in a long while. But then perhaps running made him hungry, as it does some boys and girls.

The boy, with the help of Aunt Sallie, turned the cart right side up, fixed the harness, and then got in to drive back to the place where the other ponies and donkeys were kept.

"Wait a minute!" cried Wopsie. "I done didn't pay yo' all fo' de chilluns' ride yet."

"Oh, never mind," said the boy. "I guess the man won't charge you anything for this ride, because the pony ran away with you. It wasn't a regular ride. I won't take your money."

"Oh, then we can save it for ice-cream cones!" cried Sue, for Wopsie had been given the money to pay for the children's rides in the pony cart.

"Ice-cream cones!" cried Bunny. "I guess you can't get any up here!"

"Oh, yes yo' kin, honey lamb!" exclaimed Aunt Sallie, as she called herself. "I keeps a li'l candy an' ice-cream stand right ober dere," and she pointed across the grassy lawn. "I was in my stand when I seed yo' all bein' runned away wif, so I come ober as soon as I could. I sells candy an' ice-cream cones, but I won't sell ice-cream much longer, 'cause it'll soon be winter. Den I'll sell hot coffee an' chocolate. But I got ice-cream now, ef yo' all wants to buy some."

"Yes, I guess we do," stated Bunny. "Come on, Sue and Wopsie. We'll have some fun anyhow, even if we did get runned away with."

"We's mighty lucky!" said Wopsie, as she watched the boy driving back in the pony cart. The little horse was going slowly now. "I guess we'll walk back," went on the colored girl. "It isn't so awful far."

Following Aunt Sallie, who was quite fat, the children and Wopsie walked across the green, grassy lawn, for it was still green though it was now late in the fall. Soon the green grass would be covered with snow.

Just as she had said, Aunt Sallie kept a little fruit, candy and ice-cream stand in the park. Soon the children and Wopsie were eating cones.

"Does yo' chilluns lib 'round yeah?" asked Aunt Sallie, as she stood back of her little counter, watching Bunny and Sue.

"We live at Aunt Lu's house -- that is we're paying her a visit," said Bunny. "We live a good way off, and we were on Grandpa Brown's farm all summer. We're going to stay here in New York over Christmas."

"Dat's jest fine!" exclaimed Aunt Sallie. "An' I suah hopes dat Santa Claus'll bring yo' all lots ob presents. Be yo' dere nuss maid?" Aunt Sallie asked of Wopsie.

"No, Wopsie's a lost girl," said Bunny.

"Lost? What yo' all mean?" asked Aunt Sallie. "She don't look laik she's lost."

"But I is," Wopsie said. "I'se losted all mah folks. Miss Baker, dat's de Aunt Lu dey speaks ob, she tuck me in. She's awful good t' me."

"We all like Wopsie," explained Sue. "She takes care of us."

"Wopsie!" exclaimed Aunt Sallie. "Dat suah am a funny name. Who gib yo' all dat name, chile?"

"Oh, dat's not mah real name," Wopsie explained. "Miss Lu jest calls me dat fo' short. Mah right name am Sallie Alexander Jefferson!"

The old colored woman jumped off the chair on which she had been sitting. She looked closely at Wopsie.

"Say dat ag'in, chile!" she cried. "Say dat ag'in!"

"Say what ag'in?" Wopsie asked.

"Yo' name! Say yo' name ag'in!"

"Sallie Alexander Jefferson. Dat's mah name."

To the surprise of Bunny Brown, and his sister Sue, Aunt Sallie threw her arms around Wopsie. Then the nice old colored woman cried:

"Bress de deah Lord! I'se done found yo'!"

She hugged and kissed Wopsie, who did not know what it all meant. She tried to get away from Aunt Sallie's arms, but the old colored woman held her tightly.

"Bress de deah Lord! Bress de deah Lord!" Aunt Sallie cried over and over again. "I'se done found yo'!"

Somehow or other Bunny understood.

"Is you Wopsie's aunt that we've been looking for?" he asked. "She lost her folks, you know, when she came up from down South. I heard Aunt Lu say so. Are you her aunt?"

"I suttinly believe I is, chile! I suttinly believe I is!" cried Aunt Sally. "Fo' a long time I'se bin 'spectin' de chile ob mah dead sister t' come t' me. Mah folks down Souf done wrote me dat dey was sendin' li'l Sallie on, but she neber come, an' I couldn't find her. But bress de deah Lord, now I has! I suttinly t'inks yo' suah am mah lost honey lamb! Her name was Sallie Jefferson. Jefferson was de name ob mah sister what died, an' she say, 'fore she died, dat she'd named her chile after me. So yo' all mus' be her."

"Maybe I is! Oh, maybe I is! An' maybe I'se found mah folks at last!" cried Wopsie, or Sallie, as we must now call her. There were tears of joy in her eyes, as well as in the eyes of Aunt Sallie.

"If you ask Aunt Lu maybe she could tell you if Wopsie is the one you're looking for," said Bunny.

"Dat's what I'll do, chile! Dat's what I'll do!" cried Aunt Sallie. "I'll shut up mah stand, an' go see yo' Aunt Lu."

And, a little later, they were all in Aunt Lu's house.

"Well, what has happened now?" asked Aunt Lu, as she saw the strange colored woman with Wopsie and the children.

"Oh, we was runned away with in the pony cart," explained Sue, "and we got spilled out, but we fell on some piles of grass and didn't get hurt a bit. And Aunt Sallie found us, and we bought ice-cream cones of her and -- "

"And -- and she's Wopsie's aunt, what we've been looking for," interrupted Bunny, fearing Sue would never tell the best part of the news. "This is Wopsie's aunt," and he waved his hand toward fat Aunt Sallie. "She's been looking for a lost girl, and her name is Sallie, and -- "

"Dat's it -- Sallie Jefferson," broke in the colored woman. "Mah name is Sallie Lucindy Johnson, an' I had a sister named Dinah Jefferson down Souf. So if dis girl's name am Sallie Jefferson den she may be mah sister's chile, an', if she am -- "

"Why, den I'se found mah folks! Dat's what I has!" cried Wopsie, unable to keep still any longer. "Oh, I do hope I'se found mah folks!"



Chapter XXV

A Happy Christmas


Aunt Lu and Mother Brown were very much surprised when Bunny Brown and his sister Sue came in with Aunt Sallie; and when they heard the story told by the nice, old colored woman, they were more surprised than before.

"Do you really think she can be Wopsie's aunt?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"It may be," answered Aunt Lu. "We can find out."

"Oh, I do hope I'se got some folks at last!" said Wopsie, over and over again. "I do hope I's gwine t' hab some folks like other people."

Aunt Lu asked Aunt Sallie many questions, and it did seem certain that the old colored woman was aunt to some little colored girl who had been sent up from down South, but who had become lost.

And if Aunt Sallie had lost a niece, and if Wopsie had lost an aunt, it might very well be that they belonged to one another.

"We can find out, if you write to your friends down South," said Aunt Lu to the old colored woman.

"An' dat's jest what I'll do," was the answer.

It took nearly two weeks for the letters to go and come, and all this while Wopsie was anxiously waiting. So was Aunt Sallie, for Bunny and Sue learned to call her that. She would come nearly every day to Aunt Lu's house, to learn if she had received any word about Wopsie.

And, every day, nearly, Bunny and Sue, with Wopsie, or Sallie, as they sometimes called her, would go to Central Park. They would walk up to Aunt Sallie's stand, and talk with her, sometimes buying sticks of candy.

For now it was almost too cold for ice-cream. Some days it was so cold and blowy that Bunny and Sue could not go out. The ponies and donkeys were no longer kept in the park for children to have rides. It was too cold for the little animals. They would be kept in the warm stables until summer came again.

Wopsie, or Sallie, still stayed at Aunt Lu's house, with Bunny and Sue. For Aunt Lu did not want to let the little colored girl go to live with Aunt Sallie, until it was sure she belonged to her. Aunt Sallie had made money at her little candy stand, which she had kept in the park for a number of years, and she was well able to take care of Sallie and herself.

"As soon as I hear from down South, that Aunt Sallie is your aunt, you shall go to her, Wopsie," Aunt Lu had said.

"Well, Miss Baker, I suttinly wants t' hab folks, like other chilluns," said the little colored girl, "but I suah does hate t' go 'way from yo' who has bin so good t' me."

"Well, you have been good, and have helped me very much, also," said Aunt Lu.

One day there was a flurry of snow flakes in the air. Bunny and Sue watched them from the windows.

"Oh, soon we can ride down hill!" cried Sue. "Won't you be glad, Bunny?"

"I sure will!" Bunny said. Then, coming close to Sue he whispered: "Say, maybe if we went up on the roof now, we could have a slide. Let's go. The roof is flat, and we can't fall off on account of the railing around it. Come on and have a slide."

"I will!" said Sue.

Putting on their warm, outdoor clothes, the children went up on the flat roof. There was plenty of snow up there, and soon they were having a fine slide. It was rather funny to be sliding up on the roof, instead of down on the ground, as they would have done at home, but, as I have told you, New York is a queer place, anyhow.

After a while Bunny and Sue grew tired of sliding. It was snowing harder now, and they were cold in the sharp wind.

"Oh, Bunny!" cried Sue, "I wonder if Santa Claus can get down this chimney? It's the only one there is for Aunt Lu's house, and it isn't very big. Do you think Santa Claus can climb down?"

"We'll look," Bunny said.

But the chimney was so high that Bunny and Sue could not look down inside. They were very much worried as to whether St. Nicholas could get into Aunt Lu's rooms to leave any Christmas presents.

"Let's go down and ask her how Santa Claus comes," said Sue.

"All right," agreed Bunny, and down they went.

But when they reached Aunt Lu's rooms, Bunny and Sue found so much going on, that, for a while, they forgot all about Santa Claus.

For Aunt Lu was reading a letter, and Wopsie was dancing up and down in the middle of the floor, crying out:

"Oh, I'se got folks! I'se got folks!"

"Is Aunt Sallie really your aunt?" asked Bunny.

"Yes'm! She is. She is! I'se got folks at last!" and up and down danced Wopsie, clapping her hands, the "pigtails" of kinky hair bobbing up and down on her head.

And so it proved. The letters from down South had just come, and they said that Sallie Lucindy Johnson, or "Aunt Sallie," as the children called her, was really the aunt to whom Wopsie, or Sallie Jefferson, had been sent. The card had been torn off her dress, and so Sallie's aunt's address was lost. But that meeting in the park, after the pony runaway, had made everything come out all right.

The letters which Aunt Lu had written before, and the messages she had sent, had not gone to the right place. For it was from Virginia, that Wopsie came, not North or South Carolina, as the little colored girl had said at first. You see she was so worried, over being lost, that she forgot. But Aunt Sallie knew it was from a little town in Virginia that her sister's child was to come, and, writing there, she learned the truth, and found out that Wopsie was the one she had been so long expecting. So everything came out all right.

"Oh, but I suah is glad I'se found yo' at last!" said the nice old colored woman, as she held her niece in her arms.

"I suppose you are going to take her away from us?" said Aunt Lu.

"Yaas'm. I'd like t' hab mah Sallie."

"Well, now she can go. But I want you both to come back for Christmas."

"We will!" promised Aunt Sallie and little Sallie.

The word Christmas made Bunny and Sue think of what they were going to ask their Aunt Lu.

"Where does Santa Claus come down?"

"Is that chimney on the roof big enough for him?" asked Sue. "And hasn't you got an open fireplace, Aunt Lu?"

"No, we haven't that. But I think Santa Claus will get down the chimney all right with your presents. If he doesn't come in that way, he'll find some other way to get in. Don't worry."

So Bunny Brown and his sister Sue waited patiently for Christmas to come. Several times, when it was not too cold, or when there was not too much snow, the children went up on the roof. Once they took up with them a box, so Bunny could stand on it. He thought perhaps he could look down the chimney that way.

But the box was not high enough, and Bunny slipped off and hurt his leg, so he and Sue gave it up.

Two weeks passed. It would soon be Christmas now. Bunny and Sue were taken through the New York stores by their mother and aunt, and the children saw the many wonderful things Santa Claus's workers had made for boys and girls -- dolls, sleds, skates, toy-airships, Teddy bears, Noah's arks, spinning tops, choo-choo cars, electric trains, dancing clowns -- little make-believe circuses, magic lanterns -- so many things that Bunny and Sue could not remember half of them.

The children had written their Christmas letters, and put them on the mantel one night.

In the morning the letters were gone, so, of course, Santa Claus must have taken them.

Then it was the night before Christmas. Oh, how happy Bunny and Sue felt! They hung up their stockings and went to bed. Their rooms were next to one another with an open door between.

"Bunny," whispered Sue, as Mother Brown went out, after turning low the light; "Bunny, is you asleep?"

"No, Sue. Are you?"

"Nope. I don't feel sleepy. But does you think Santa Claus will surely come down that little chimney, when Aunt Lu hasn't got a fireplace for him?"

"I -- I guess so, Sue."

"Come, you children must get quiet and go to sleep!" called Mother Brown. "It will be Christmas, and Santa Claus will be here all the quicker, if you go to sleep."

And at last Bunny Brown and his sister Sue did go to sleep. The sun was not up when they awoke, but it was Christmas morning.

"Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" cried Bunny and Sue as they ran to where they had hung their stockings.

They found many presents on the chairs, over the backs of which hung their stockings, which were filled with candy and nuts.

"Oh, Santa Claus came! Santa Claus came!" cried Sue.

"Yep! He found the chimney all right!" laughed Bunny.

And such a Merry Christmas as the children had! There were presents for Mother Brown, and Aunt Lu, and some for Mary the cook, and Jane, the housemaid, and later in the day, when Sallie and her aunt came, there were presents for them, also.

And when dinner time came, and the big turkey, all nice and brown, was taken from the oven, and put on the table, Mother Brown said:

"And now for the best present of all!"

She opened a door, and out stepped Daddy Brown!

"Merry Christmas, Bunny! Merry Christmas, Sue!" he cried, as he caught them up in his arms and hugged and kissed them.

And a very Merry Christmas it was. Mr. Brown had come to spend the holidays with his family in New York. And such fun as Bunny and Sue had telling him all their adventures since coming to Aunt Lu's city home. I couldn't begin to tell you half!

"I don't believe we'll ever have such a good time anywhere else," said Sue, as she hugged her new doll in her arms.

"Oh, maybe we will," cried Bunny, as he ran his toy locomotive around the room.

And whether the children did or not you may learn by reading the next book of this series, which will be named: "Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue at Camp Rest-a-While." In that I will tell you all that happened when the children went out in the woods, to live in a tent, near a beautiful lake.

"And so you two found Wopsie's aunt for her, did you?" asked Mr. Brown as he sat down, after dinner, with Bunny on one knee and Sue on the other.

"Well, I guess it was the runaway pony that did it," said Bunny, with a laugh. And I, myself, think the pony helped; don't you?

"Oh, Bunny!" whispered Sue that night, as she went to bed, hugging her new doll. "Hasn't this been a lovely Christmas?"

"The best ever," said Bunny, sleepily.

And so, for a little while we will say Merry Christmas, and good-bye, to Bunny Brown and his sister Sue.

<eob>

In The Yule-Log Glow Book I: Christmas Tales From 'Round The World

By

Harrison S. Morris



The Three Kings Of Cologne.

A Christmas Tale From An Old English Chronicle.

(Written by John of Hildesheim in the Fourteenth Century.)

Here followeth the manner and form of seeking and offering; and also of the burying and translations of the three Holy and Worshipful Kings of Cologne: Jaspar, Melchior, and Balthazar.


Now when the Children of Israel were gone out of Egypt and had won and made subject to them Jerusalem and all the land lying about, so that no man durst set against them in all that country for dread that they had of them; then was there a little hill called Vaws, which was also called the Hill of Victory, and on this hill the ward of them of Ind was ordained and kept by divers sentinels by night and by day against the Children of Israel, and afterward against the Romans; so that if any people at any time purposed with strong hand to enter into the country of the Kingdom of Ind, anon, sentinels of other hills about, through tokens, warned the keepers on the hill of Vaws. And by night they made a great fire and by day they made a great smoke, for that hill Vaws passeth the height of all other hills in all the East. Wherefore, when any such token was seen, then all manner of men made ready to defend themselves from the enemy that approached.

Now in the time when Balaam prophesied of the Star that should betoken the coming of Christ, all the great lords and all the other people of Ind and in the East desired greatly to see the Star of which he spake, and gave gifts to the keepers of the hill of Vaws, and moreover hired them with great rewards, that, if it so were, they saw by day or by night, far or near, any light or any star in the air other than was seen beforetime, anon they should show and send them word. And thus was it that for so long a time the fame of this Star was borne through all the lands of the East; until, of the name of the hill of Vaws, arose up a worshipful and a great kindred in Ind, which is called the progeny of Vaws even unto this day; and there is not a more mighty kindred in all the kingdoms of the East; for this worshipful kindred came first from the King's blood that was named Melchior, that offered gold to our Lord, as ye shall hereafter learn.

In the year of our Lord 1200, when the city of Acon, that in this country is called Akers, flourished and stood in virtue, joy, and prosperity, and was inhabited richly with worshipful princes, and lords, and divers orders of men of religion, and all manner of men of all nations and tongues, so that there was no city like unto it in nobility and might; then, because of its great name and of the marvels that were there, the greatest of birth that were of the progeny of Vaws came out of Ind unto Acon; and when they saw there all things more wonderful than in Ind; then, because of delight, they abode there and made a fair and strong castle for any king or lord. And they brought with them out of the East many rich and wonderful ornaments and jewels. And among all other jewels, they brought a diadem of gold arrayed with precious stones and pearls, and about its edge stood letters of Chaldaic, and a star made like after the Star that appeared to the Three Kings of the East when they sought God, with a sign of the cross, beside. And that diadem was Melchior's, the king of Nubia and of Araby, that offered gold to the Babe in the manger. And afterward the master of the Order of Templars received this same diadem of gold and many other precious jewels; but when that Order was destroyed the diadem and precious ornaments were lost, and have never been found unto this day. Wherefore there was great sorrow made in all the country for a long time after.

But these same princes of Vaws brought with them out of Ind books written in Hebrew and Chaldaic, concerning the life and deeds of these three blessed Kings, which books were afterward translated into the French tongue: and so, from these books, and from hearsay, and sight, and also from sermons and homilies out of divers other works, the story here written hath been brought together into one book.

And you shall understand that the old kindred of Vaws beareth always in its banner, unto this day, a star with a sign of the cross, made after the same manner as it appeared to the three blessed Kings.

Now it so happened that after Balaam had prophesied of this Star, the more it was sought for the more its fame increased through the land of Ind and Chaldee, and all the people desired to see it.

So they ordained twelve of the wisest and greatest clerks of astronomy that were in all that country about, and gave them great hire to keep watch upon this hill of Vaws for the Star that was prophesied of Balaam. And the cause that there were ordained twelve men was, that if one man died another should be put in his stead; and also that some should keep watch at one time and some another -- nevertheless the people looked not only after the Star, but after the Man who was betokened by the Star, the which Man should be Lord of all folk.

And they of Ind and Chaldee who came often into Jerusalem because of merchandise and also for disport -- the which, for the most part, be learned in astronomy -- said that in Ind were many stars in the firmament that might not be seen by night in Jerusalem; but, specially on this hill of Vaws in clear weather, were seen many and divers strange stars that at the foot of the hill were not seen. Yet this hill of Vaws hath no more breadth than a little chapel is made upon, the which the three worshipful kings did build of stone and timber. And there be about this hill many steps upon which men go up to the chapel on high, and also there grew many good trees and herbs and divers spices all about the hill -- for else men might not well go upon this hill because it is so high and so narrow. There is also a pillar of stone made above this chapel, of wondrous height, and in the head of the pillar standeth a great star, well made of gilt, and which turneth with the wind as a vane: and through the light of the sun by day, and of the moon by night, this star gives light a great way about the country. And many other marvels are spoken of this hill of Vaws, the which were long to tell.

Now when the time of grace was come, that God would have mercy on all mankind, in which time the Father of Heaven sent down his Son to take flesh and blood and to be born a man for salvation of all the world: in that time Octavianus, that was Emperor of Rome, sent out a commandment that all the people within his empire should be counted and taxed; and every man went forth from his dwelling-place into his native country. Then came Joseph up from Nazareth unto Bethlehem the city of David, because he was of the household and race of King David, and with him came Mary that was his wife, and also great with child.

And you shall understand that Bethlehem was never of much reputation, neither a place of great quantity. It hath a good site and good ground, for there be many caves and dens under the earth thereabout; and it is distant from Jerusalem but two little miles; and it is but a castle, but is called a city because King David was born there. And in that town was sometime a house which belonged to Isai, the father of David, where David was born and anointed into the kingdom of Israel by Samuel the prophet. And in this same dwelling was the Son of Heaven born of Mary.

And this same house was at the end of a street that was in that time called the Covered Street, because, to keep out the great heat and burning of the sun, this street was canopied above with black cloths and other things, -- for such is the use in that country always. And here was wont to be great bargaining, or a fair once a week of old clothes; and specially of trees or timber, by the little house which stood before a den under the earth, made and shaped like a little cellar, where Isai and others that dwelt there after him put certain necessaries that belonged to the household, against the heat of the sun. It is also the manner in all that country that there be certain houses, the which be called there alchan, that we call hostelries, and in these houses be mules, horses, asses, and camels always ready, that, if so that any merchant or any man that travelled by the way, be it far or near, need any beast for himself, or for his merchandise, then he goeth to such a house and there he may hire a horse, or what beast that he will, for a certain price. And when he hath such a beast then he goeth from that city to another, where to abide and rest him for a time. Then he dischargeth his beast of his burden, and so sendeth him to a house called there also alchan; and the master of the house giveth his beast meat, and, when he may, he sendeth it home to the same place that it came from.

And such a house was, before the birth of Christ, in the place where Christ was born; but, about the time of the Nativity, that house was all destroyed, insomuch that there was nothing left but broken walls on every side, and a little cave under earth, and a little unthrifty house before the cave: and there men sold bread on the same ground; for it is the usage in all that country that all the bread that is sold shall be brought unto a certain place.

Now when Octavianus had sent out a commandment as it is aforesaid, then went Joseph and Mary riding on an ass, late in the eventide, toward the city of Bethlehem, and because they came so late, and all places were occupied with pilgrims and other men, and also because they came in poor array and went about the city, none would receive them, and specially, men say, because that Mary, a young woman, sitting upon an ass, heavy and sorry, and full weary of the way, was near to the time of bearing of her child. Then Joseph led his wife into this shed that none took keep of, down into the little dark house, and there our Lord, Jesus Christ, the same night was born of the Virgin, without any disease or sorrow of her body, for salvation of all mankind.

And in that house, before the cave of old time, was left a manger of the length of a fathom, made in the wall; and to that same manger was an ox of a poor man tied, that none might harbor. And beside that ox Joseph tied his ass, and in that same manger Mary wrapped her blessed Son in cloths and laid Him on high before the ass and the ox, -- for there was none other place.

And shepherds were fast by in the same country keeping their sheep in the night, and an angel of Heaven came and stood beside them with a great light, wherefore they were in much dread. And the angel said to them, "Be not afraid, for I tell you a great joy that shall be to all people, for this day is born to us our Lord, Christ, in the city of David, and this shall be to you a token: Ye shall find a young child wrapped in cloths and put in a manger." And then suddenly there came a great multitude of angels of Heaven praising God, who said: "Joy be to God on high and peace in earth to men of good will."

Now the place where the angel appeared to the shepherds that night when Christ was born is but half a mile from Bethlehem, and in that same place David, when he was a child, fed sheep and kept them from the bear and the lion.

Some books say that the shepherds in that country, twice in the year, are wont to keep their sheep in the night, and, therein, times be when the day and the night are both of one length. And you shall understand that the land about Bethlehem is all mountainous for the most part, so that in some places a man shall not well know winter from summer, and in some places it is right cold, and some it is both winter and summer at one time, and sometimes on the mountains, in parts of the East, men shall find snow in the month of August, and that snow is gathered by them that dwell about, and put in caves, and afterward it is borne to the market, where the great lords of the country will buy it, and take it to their houses, and set it in a basin upon their board to make their drink cold.

In September and October, when the sun cometh a little low in that country, then seeds and all manner of herbs commonly begin to wax in the fields, as in this country herbs begin to grow in March and April; also in some parts of the East they reap corn in April and in March, but most in May, as in some places the ground is higher, in some places lower; but beside Bethlehem are many more places of good pasture and of flat ground than elsewhere: insomuch that at Christmas-tide barley beginneth to ear and to wax ripe; and then men send thither, from divers countries, their horses and mules, to make them fat: and that time we call among us Christmas, they call, in their language, the time of herbage. And forasmuch as when Christ was born, peace was in all the world, and betwixt Bethlehem and that place where the angel appeared to the shepherds was but half a mile and a little way more, and also there was no great cold thereabout, therefore the shepherds, all that winter night and day, now in one place, now in another, dwelled there with their sheep, and so they do yet to this day.

Now when Christ was born of the Virgin Mary for salvation of all mankind, then His Star, that was prophesied of Balaam and long awaited and looked for by the twelve astronomers on the hill of Vaws, at that same night and at that same hour, began to arise in the manner of a sun, bright shining; and so after, in the form of an eagle, it ascended above the hill of Vaws. And all that day in highest air it abode without moving, insomuch that when the sun was most hot and most high there was no difference in shining betwixt them.

But when the day of the Nativity was passed, the Star ascended up into the firmament, and it was nothing like to stars that be painted in divers places, for it had right many long streaks and beams, more burning and lighter than a brand of fire; and, as an eagle flying and beating the air with his wings, right so the streaks and beams of the Star stirred it about. And it had in itself the form and likeness of a young child, and above him a sign of the holy cross, and a voice was heard in the Star, saying: "This day is born to us the King of Jews that folk have awaited, and Lord is of them. Go and seek Him and do Him worship!"

Then all the people, both man and woman, of all the country about, when they saw this wonderful and marvellous Star and also heard the voice out of the Star, were greatly aghast and had wonder thereof; but yet they knew well that it was the Star that was prophesied by Balaam, and long time was desired of all the people in that country.

Now when the three worshipful Kings who in that time reigned in Ind, Chaldee, and Persia were informed, by the astronomers, of this Star, they were right glad that they had grace to see the Star in their days. Wherefore these three worshipful Kings, though each of them was far from the other, and none knew of the other's purpose, yet in the same hour the Star appeared to all three, and then they ordained and purposed them, with great and rich gifts and many rich and diverse ornaments that belong to a king's array, and also with mules and camels and horses charged with treasure, and with a great multitude of people, to go seek and worship the Lord and King of the Jews that was new born, as the voice of the Star had commanded. And furthermore they arrayed themselves the much more honestly and worshipfully, because they knew well that he was a worthier King than any of them was.

And you shall understand that there be three Indias, of which these three lords were kings; and all the lands for the most part are islands, and there are also there great waters and wildernesses full of wild and perilous beasts and horrible serpents, and there grow also reeds so high and so great that men make thereof houses and ships. And these isles are divided every one by itself far from the others, so that only with great travail shall a man pass from one kingdom to another.

Now, in the first Ind was the land of Nubia, and therein reigned King Melchior, in the time that Christ was born. Therein also is the land of Araby, in which is the hill Sinai: and a man may lightly sail by the Red Sea out of Egypt and Syria into Ind. In this land is found gold wonderfully red, like thin and small roots, and that gold is the best that is in the world. Herein is also a hill called Bena, where is found a precious stone, called smaragd.

In the second Ind was the kingdom of Godolia, of which Balthazar was king when Christ was born; and this Balthazar offered incense to the Babe; for in this land many more good spices grow than in all the countries of the East, and especially incense, more than in all places of the world; and it droppeth down out of certain trees in the manner of gum.

In the third Ind was the kingdom of Thaars. Of that kingdom was Jaspar king at the birth of Christ. And Jaspar offered myrrh to the young Child, and in this land is the isle of Egrisoulla, where groweth myrrh more plentifully than in any place of the world, and it waxeth like ears of corn that are burnt with the weather, and right thick; and when it is ripe it is so soft that it cleaveth to men's clothes as they go by the way.

Now when these three worshipful Kings were passed forth out of their kingdoms, the Star evenly went before each King and his people, and when they stood still and rested the Star stood still, and when they went forward again the Star always went before them in virtue and strength, and gave light all the way. And, as it is written before, in the time that Christ was born there was peace in all the world, wherefore in all the cities and towns which they went through there was no gate shut neither by night nor by day; and all men of the cities and towns that these worthy Kings went through in the night were wonderfully aghast and passingly marvelled thereof, for they saw kings and vast multitudes go by in great haste; but they knew not what they were, nor whence they came, nor whither they should go. On the morrow the way was greatly befouled with horses' hoofs, whereof they were in much doubt what it might mean, and great altercation was among them for a long time.

Furthermore, these Kings rode forth over hills, waters, valleys, plains, and other divers and perilous places without hindrance or disease, for all the way seemed to them plain and even, and they never took shelter by night nor by day; nor ever rested; nor did their horses or other beasts ever eat or drink till they had come to Bethlehem; and all this time seemed to them but a day.

And thus, through the mercy of God and the leading of the Star, they came unto Jerusalem and Bethlehem the thirteenth day after Christ was born, at the uprising of the sun, whereof is no doubt: for they found Mary and her son in the same place where the Child was born, and laid in the manger.

But when the three blessed Kings, with their host and company were almost come to Jerusalem, saving but two miles, then a great and dark cloud held all the earth, and in that dark cloud they lost the Star. And Melchior with his people was come fast by Jerusalem beside the hill of Calvary, where Christ was afterward crucified; and there the King abode in a cloud of fog and in darkness.

At that time the hill of Calvary was a rock of twelve degrees high, where thieves and other men for divers trespasses were put to death; and there was beside this hill a place where three highways met together. But because of the darkness of the cloud, and also because they knew not the way, they abode there, and went no further at that time.

And next came Balthazar, and he abode under the same cloud, beside the Mount of Olives in a little town that is called Galilee.

Then, when the two Kings were come to these places, the cloud began to ascend and wax clear, yet the Star appeared not. But when they saw that they were near to the city of Jerusalem, knowing not each other, they took their way thither with all their folk; and when they came where the three ways met, then also appeared King Jaspar with all his host. And so these three glorious Kings, each with his host and burdens and beasts, met together in the highway beside the Hill of Calvary. And, notwithstanding that none of them ever before had seen the other, nor knew him, nor had heard of his coming, yet, at their meeting, each one with reverence and joy kissed the other. And they were of diverse language, yet all, seeming, used the same tongue.

So, afterward, when they had spoken together and each had told his purpose and the cause of his journey, and the cause of all was learned to be the same, then they were much more glad and more fervent. And so they rode forth, and suddenly, at the uprising of the sun, they came into the city of Jerusalem. And when they knew that this was the city which the Chaldeans of old time had besieged and destroyed, they were right glad, expecting to have found the King born in that city. But Herod and all his people were greatly disturbed at their sudden coming, for their company and beasts of burden were of so great a number that the city might not receive them, but for the most part they lay without the gates all about, whereof Isaias prophesied: "The strength of folk cometh to thee -- that is to say, to the City of Jerusalem -- great plenty of camels shall do thee service, and dromedaries of Madyan and Effa shall come to thee. All men shall come from Saba, bringing gold and incense and showing praise to God."

So, these three worshipful Kings, when they were come into the city, asked of the people concerning the Child that was born; and, when Herod heard this, he was troubled and all Jerusalem with him, and he gathered together all his princes and priests and asked them where Christ should be born, and they said: "In Bethlehem of Judea." Then Herod privily summoned to him these three Kings, and learned of them the time that the Star appeared, and so sent them forth unto Bethlehem, saying: "Go and inquire busily of this Child, and when you have found Him, come and tell me, that I may go and do Him worship."

Now when these three Kings were informed of the birth of Christ and of the place where He was born, and so were passed out of Jerusalem, then the Star appeared to them again as it did erst, and went before them till they came to Bethlehem. And fast by that place were the shepherds to whom the angel appeared with great light, showing them the birth of Christ. And the three Kings spake with them, and when the shepherds saw the Star they run together and told how the angel had appeared to them, and furthermore all that the angel had spoken to them. And the Kings were wondrous glad, and with good cheer heard and took consideration of the shepherds' words; and so from witness, and from the words of the shepherds and from the voice of the angel that was heard out of the Star, they had no doubt of the thing. Then anon, when they knew that they were come to Bethlehem, they got down from their horses and changed all their array, and clothed themselves in the best and richest that they had, as kings should be clothed -- and always the Star went forth before them.

Now the nearer the Kings came to the place where Christ was born the brighter shined the Star, and they entered Bethlehem the sixth hour of the day. And then they rode through the covered street till they came before that little house. And there the Star stood still, and then descended and shone with so great a light that the little house and the cave within were full of radiance, till anon the Star again went upward into the air, and stood still always above the same place, yet the light ever remained in the house where Christ and Mary were. So as it is said in the Gospel: "They went into the house and found the Child, and fell down and worshipped Him, and offered to Him gifts of gold, myrrh, and incense."

Of this example came afterward a usage, that in all the countries of the East no man should go into the presence of the Sultan, but he brought gold or silver or somewhat else in his hands; and, also, ere he spoke to the Sultan he should kiss the ground, and this is a custom which is used in all the countries of the East to this day. But the Franciscan friars, when they approached the Sultan, offered to him only pears or apples, for they might not touch gold nor silver; and these offerings were received by the Sultan with all reverence and meekness.

Now on the day that the three Kings sought Christ and worshipped Him, He was a little child of thirteen days old, and He was somewhat fat, and lay wrapped in poor clothes in the hay of the manger up to His arms. And Mary, His Mother, as it is written in divers books, was, in person, fleshy and somewhat brown. In the presence of the three Kings she was covered with a poor white mantle, which she held close before her with her left hand. Her head was concealed altogether, save her face, with a linen cloth; and she sat upon the manger and with her right hand held up the young Child's head. And the Kings worshipped Him and kissed His hand devoutly and laid their gifts beside His head.

But what was done with these gifts, ye shall learn hereafter.

Now Melchior, that offered gold to the Holy Child, was the least in stature and person of the three Kings. Balthazar, that offered incense, was of a medium stature; and Jaspar, that offered myrrh, was most in person; whereof is no doubt, for the prophet saith: "Before Him shall fall down Ethiops, and His enemies shall lick the earth. They shall come to Thee that betrayed Thee, and they shall worship the steps of Thy feet." And having regard to the stature of men of that time these Kings were right little of person, insomuch that all manner of people marvelled at them. And this showed well that they were come from far out of the East, for the nearer toward the uprising of the sun that men be born, the less they be of stature and be feebler and more tender.

And you shall understand that these three Kings brought out of their lands many gifts and rich ornaments which King Alexander left in Ind, in Chaldee, and in Persia; and all the ornaments which Queen Saba found in Solomon's temple, and divers vessels that were of the king's house and the Temple of God in Jerusalem, which, in the time of its destruction, were borne into their countries by the Persians and Chaldeans, and many other jewels, both gold and silver, and precious stones, brought they with them to offer to Christ. But when they found our Lord laid on high in the manger and in poor cloths, and the Star that gave so great light in all the place, that it seemed as though they stood in a furnace of fire, then these Kings were so sore afraid that, of all the rich jewels and ornaments they brought with them, they chose nothing, when their treasury was opened, but what came first to their hands, for Melchior took a round apple of gold, as much as a man might hold in his hand, and thirty gilt pennies, and these he offered to our Lord. Balthazar took out of his treasury incense; and Jaspar took out myrrh, as it came first, and that he offered, with weeping and tears.

And the Kings were so aghast and so devout and fervent in their oblations, that to all the words that Mary said they gave but little consideration, save only that to every King as he offered his gifts she bowed down her head meekly, and said, "Deo gracias:" that is to say, "I thank God."

When these three Kings had thus performed their way and will, and done all things that they came for, then, as mankind asketh and would, they and all their men and beasts began to eat, and drink, and sleep, and betook them to rest and sport all that day in Bethlehem. For, as is said before, they had neither eaten nor drunk during thirteen days. And then they meekly told to all men in that city how wonderfully the Star had brought them thither from the furthest part of the world.

Now, as the Evangelist saith: A command came to these Kings in their sleep that they should not return again to Herod, and so, by another way, they went home to their kingdoms. But the Star that went before them, appeared no more. And so these three Kings, that suddenly met together at the Mount of Calvary, rode home together with great joy and honor, and rested by the way as men should do.

And they rode through the provinces that Holofernes of old time had traversed with all his hosts, and the people supposed that Holofernes had come again, for as they journeyed into any town they were meekly and worshipfully received, and evermore they told what they had seen, done, and heard, so that their name and praise were never after forgot. But the way that before had taken only thirteen days, through leading of the Star, they found now to take two years, which was ordained, that all men should know what difference is between God's working and man's.

Now, when Herod and the scribes heard that the Kings were gone home again, and came not to him as he had bade them, then, of much envy and malice, he pursued them a great way; and always he found the people bless them, and praise them, and tell of their nobility. Wherefore Herod burnt and destroyed all the land that was under his power where the Kings had ridden, and especially Tharsis and Cilicia, for he charged them that they had suffered the three Kings privily to pass across the sea in their ships. And Herod's envy was great when he heard how marvellously the Kings had come out of their lands in thirteen days through leading of the Star, and how, afterward, they went home again, without the Star, through guides and interpreters, -- yet no man could tell, for wonder, how night and day they passed by; and for this reason the paynims, who had no knowledge of Holy Writ, nor of the birth of Christ, called these three Kings Magos; that is to say, Wise Men of the East.

Now, when the Kings were come with great travail to the Hill of Vaws, they made there, as is aforesaid, a fair chapel in worship of the Child they had sought. Also they made a covenant to meet together at the same place once in the year; and there they ordained their burial. Then all the princes and lords and worshipful knights of their kingdoms, hearing of the return of these three Kings, anon rode forth to them with great, solemnity and met them at the place aforesaid, and with meekness and humility received them. And when they heard how wonderfully God had wrought for their Kings, they held them in more reverence, love, and dread forever after.

So, when the Kings had done what they would, they took leave of each other, and each one, with his people, rode home to his own land with great joy.

And when they were come into their own realms, they preached to all the people what they had seen and done on their journey; and they made in their temples a star after the likeness of that which appeared to them, wherefore many paynims left their errors and worshipped the Holy Child.

And thus these three worshipful Kings dwelt in their kingdoms in honest and devout conversation until the coming of St. Thomas, the apostle.

Now, after the three Kings had gone forth from Bethlehem, there began to wax, all about, a great fame for Mary and her Child, and for the Kings of the East. Wherefore, Mary, in dread of persecution, fled out of the little house where Christ was born, and went to another dark cave and there abode; and divers men and women loved her and ministered to her all manner of necessaries. But when she went out of the little house, Mary forgot and left behind her her smock and the clothes in which Christ was wrapped, folded together and laid in the manger; and there they were, whole and fresh, in the same place to the time when St. Helen, the mother of Emperor Constantine, came thither, long after.

Anon so great was grown Mary's fame that she durst not abide longer there for dread of Herod and the Jews, and an angel appeared to Joseph, saying: "Arise, and take the Child and His mother and flee into Egypt, and tarry there till I summon thee, for it is to come that Herod shall seek the Child to slay Him." Then Joseph arose and took the Child and His mother and went into Egypt in the night, and there he remained until Herod died. And Mary and her Son dwelt in Egypt seven years.

And it is told that by the road which Mary journeyed thither and came back again, grew roses, which are called the Roses of Jericho, and they grow in no other place. The shepherds of that country, in following their sheep, gather these roses in their season, and sell them to pilgrims, and thus they be borne into divers lands. And the place where Mary dwelt is now a garden where groweth balm, and to every bush a Christian man, among the Sultan's prisoners, is assigned to protect it and keep it clean; for when a paynim keepeth them, anon the bushes wax dry and grow no more. And this balm hath many virtues the which were long to tell; but all men in the East believe truly that the place bears such a virtue of growing balm because Mary dwelt there seven years, and washed and bathed her Son in its wells of water.

And as to the gifts which the three Kings gave to Christ: the thirty gilt pennies of Melchior were made of old by Thara, father of Abraham, and Abraham bare them with him when he went on pilgrimage out of the land of Chaldee into Ebron, which was then called Arabia, and there he bought with them a burial-place for himself, his wife, and his children, Isaac and Jacob. In exchange for the same thirty pieces Joseph was sold by his brethren to merchants of Egypt. Afterward, when Jacob died, they were sent to the land of Sheba to buy divers spices and ornaments for his sepulture, and so they were put into the king's treasury of that land. Then by process of time, in Solomon's reign, the Queen of Sheba offered these thirty gilt pennies, with many rich jewels, in the Temple at Jerusalem; but in the time of Roboam, King Solomon's son, when Jerusalem was destroyed and the Temple despoiled, they were carried to the King of Arabia, and were put into his treasury with other spoils from the Temple.

And Melchior offered these same thirty pieces to Christ, because they were of the finest gold, and the best that he had. But when Mary went into Egypt she lost all the gifts of the three Kings by the way, bound all in one cloth together. And it happened there was a shepherd who had so great an infirmity that no leech might heal him, and all that he had he paid to the leeches to be whole, -- yet it might not be. But, on a time, as he went into the fields with his sheep, he found these thirty gilt pennies, with incense and myrrh, bound all in a cloth together, and he kept them privily to himself, until, hearing tell of a holy prophet that healed all men of their infirmities by a word, he came to Christ and prayed Him for grace and help; and, being healed, he offered the gold, and incense, and myrrh to Him with good devotion. And when Christ saw the thirty gilt pennies and precious herbs He knew them well, and bade the shepherd go into the Temple and offer them upon the altar.

Now, when the priest saw such oblations laid upon the altar he marvelled much, and took all three things and put them in the common treasury. And afterward, when Judas Iscariot came into the Temple to make covenant with the Princes of the Law to betray his master, they gave him for his pay the same thirty pieces of gold, and for them Judas sold his Master. And after Christ was crucified, then Judas repented, and went to the Temple and cast down to the Princes of the Law the thirty pieces. And with fifteen of these gilt pennies the Jews bought a field of burial for pilgrims; and the other fifteen they gave to the knights who kept the sepulchre of Christ.

And the reason these thirty gilt pennies were called silver in the Gospel, notwithstanding they were fine gold, is, that it is the common usage in that country so to call them, as men in this country call gold from beyond the sea scutys, motouns or florins; moreover in the East the same print is made in gold and silver and copper, and the print on the thirty pieces is this: on one side is a king's head crowned, and on the other are written letters in Chaldaic, which men now cannot read. And many marvels are told of these pieces of gold which were long to tell.

Now when Our Lord was ascended into heaven, then he sent St. Thomas, his apostle, into Ind, to preach there God's word. And as St. Thomas went about in the temples he found a star in every one, painted after the manner of the Star that appeared to the three Kings when Christ was born, in which Star was a sign of the Cross and a Child above. And when St. Thomas saw this he asked of the bishops what it was, and they told him that such a Star of old time appeared on the Hill of Vaws in token of a Child that was born who should be king of the Jews, as was heard spoken out of the same Star.

And when St. Thomas had preached and taught the people the understanding of this Star and of the Cross and the Child, then he went to the kingdoms of the three Kings, and he found them whole of body and of a great age. And St. Thomas christened these three Kings and all their people, and the Kings began anon to preach with the Apostle, and when they had converted the people to the law of Christ he ordained them to be Archbishops. And after this St. Thomas was slain, and in all that country where he was martyred both men and women have visages shaped like hounds, yet they be not hairy -- and they are so unto this day.

Now under the Hill of Vaws St. Thomas and these three Kings had made a rich city and called it Sewill, and this city is the best and richest city in all the country of Ind to this day; and therein is the habitation of Prester John that is called lord of Ind, and there dwelleth also the Patriarch of Ind who is called Thomas, in worship of St. Thomas and for an everlasting memorial. And when all things were disposed by these three Kings they went to the city of Sewill, and there they lived twelve years.

And a little before the feast of Christ's nativity, when these years were drawn to an end, there appeared a wonderful star above this city and the Kings knew that their time was nigh when they should pass out of this world. Then of one assent they ordained a fair and large tomb for their burial in the church they had made in the city; and in the feast of Christmas they did, solemnly, God's service.

And in the feast of the Circumcision, Melchior, King of Araby, laid him down before all his people and without any disease yielded up his spirit, in the year of his age one hundred and sixteen. Then in the feast of Epiphany, five days thereafter, Balthazar, King of Godolie and Saba, died in the year of his age one hundred and twelve. And then Jaspar the third king, the sixth day after was taken into everlasting joy, and they were all buried in the same tomb that they had ordained; and the Star that appeared over the city before their death, abode always till their bodies were translated unto Cologne, as they of Ind tell.

Now after much time had passed, Queen Helen, the mother of the glorious Emperor Constantine, began to think greatly of the bodies of these three Kings, and she arrayed her with certain people and went into the land of Ind. And she had much praise among the people because of the finding of Mary's smock and the cloths that Christ was wound in in his childhood; and seeing that she was worshipped of all people, the Patriarch Thomas and Prester John, took counsel of other lords and princes and gave her the bodies of King Melchior and King Balthazar. But the Nestorines had borne the body of the third king, King Jaspar, into the isle of Egrisoulla. And these Nestorines were the worst heretics of the world. For the most part they were black Ethiops, who painted Christ and His Mother Mary and the three Kings in their churches all in black, and the Devil all white, in despite of all other Christian men. But because Queen Helen wished not that the three Kings should be parted, she made many prayers and gave great gifts to the chief lords of the isle of Egrisoulla, and thus anon did she get the body of King Jaspar.

And you shall understand that after she had found the bodies of all these three Kings, Queen Helen put them into one chest and arrayed it with great riches, and she brought them unto Constantinople with joy and reverence, and laid them in a church that is called St. Sophia; and this church King Constantine did make -- and he alone, with a little child, set up all the pillars of marble.

Now after the death of this worshipful King Constantine and Queen Helen aforesaid, there began a new persecution of heresy against the Christian faith, and of death against them that would maintain the law of Christ. The Greeks forsook the Church and chose a Patriarch for themselves, whom they yet obey until this day.

Now in this persecution the bodies and the relics of the three holy Kings were put at no reverence, but utterly set at naught. For the Saracens and Turks at this time won with strong battle the lands of Greece and Armenia, and destroyed a great part of these lands.

Then came an Emperor of Rome who was called Mauricius, and through the help of them of Milan he recovered all these lands again, and, as is said among men in that country, through counsel of this Emperor the bodies of the three Kings were carried unto Milan, and they were there laid with all solemnity and worship in a fair church which is called after St. Eustorgio, because he had asked the bodies from the Emperor, and being granted them had sent them unto Milan.

Then afterward by process of time, it happed that the city of Milan began to rebel against the Emperor, who was called Frederick I., and this Emperor sent to the Archbishop of Cologne, who was called Rainald, for help. Then this Archbishop, through help of divers lords of the land of Milan, took the city of Milan and destroyed a great part thereof. And the chief men of the city took the bodies of the three Kings and hid them privily in the earth.

Now among all others there was in Milan a lord named Asso, and the Emperor hated him more than all the rest of its people. So it happed that in the destruction of the city the Archbishop won Asso's palace through strong hand, and lived therein a great while, for Asso was taken and put into prison.

Then, anon, Asso sent privily by his keepers to the Archbishop of Cologne and prayed him that he would come and speak with him, and it was granted that Asso should go to the Archbishop. And when he was come to him, he prayed him that, if he would get him grace of the Emperor and his love and the restoration of his lordship, he would give him the bodies of the three Kings.

When the Archbishop heard this, he went to the Emperor and prayed for Lord Asso, and got him grace and love. And when this was done, Asso brought, secretly, the three bodies of the Kings to the Archbishop of Cologne.

Then the Archbishop sent the bodies forth, by private means, a great way out of the city of Milan, whereupon he went to the Emperor anew and prayed him that he would grant him these three bodies, and the Emperor did so with good will. Then the Archbishop openly, with great solemnity and procession, brought the three holy Kings unto Cologne, and there put them in the fair church of St. Peter, worshipfully; and all the people of the country, with all the reverence they might, received these holy relics; and there they are kept and beholden of all manner of nations unto this day.

*    *    *    *    *

Thus endeth the translation of these Three Worshipful Kings: Melchior, Balthazar, and Jaspar.



A French Yeoman's Legend.

"He laughed fit to make the plates rattle, his little brown eyes twinkling all the while."

Erckmann-Chatrian.



The Three Christmas Masses.


I.

"Two truffled turkeys, Garrigou?"

"Yes, reverend Father, two magnificent turkeys stuffed with truffles. There's no mistake, for I helped to stuff them myself. The flesh almost cracked as they roasted, it was so tight -- so --  -- "

"Holy Virgin! and I, who love truffles as --  -- Hurry; give me my surplice, Garrigou. And what else besides the turkeys; what else did you see in the kitchen?"

"Oh! all sorts of good things. Since noon we've done nothing but pluck pheasants, pewits, wood-hens, and heath-cocks. Feathers are scattered thick. Then from the pond they've brought eels and golden carp and trout, and --  -- "

"What size are the trout, Garrigou?"

"Oh, as big as that! reverend Father. Enormous!"

"Heavens, I seem to see them! Have you put the wine in the flasks?"

"Yes, reverend Father, I've put the wine in the flasks. But what's a mouthful or two as you go to midnight Mass! You should see the dining-hall in the château, full of decanters that sparkle with wine of every color. And the silver dishes, above all the ornamented ones; the flowers; the candlesticks! I never saw anything to equal it. Monsieur the Marquis has invited all the nobility of the neighborhood. You will be at least forty at table, without counting either the bailiff or the notary. Ah! it will make you very happy to be there, reverend Father. Why, only to smell the delicious turkeys -- the odor of truffles pursues me even yet. Muh!"

"Come, come, Garrigou, you must guard against the sin of greediness, and especially on the night of the Nativity. Quickly, now, light the candles and sound the first bell for Mass; midnight is very near, and we must not be late."

This conversation was held on Christmas night, in the year of grace sixteen hundred and sixteen, between the reverend Dom Balaguère, formerly prior of Barnabites, now chaplain in the service of the Sires de Trinquelague, and his clerk Garrigou; or at least what he supposed was his clerk Garrigou, because you will learn that the devil had that night taken on the round face and wavering traits of the young sacristan, the better to tempt the reverend Father to commit the dreadful sin of gluttony. Now, while the supposed Garrigou (hum! hum!) rung, with all his might, the bells of the seignorial chapel, the reverend Father put on his chasuble in the little sacristy of the château; and, his mind already becoming troubled by the gastronomic descriptions he had heard, he repeated to himself:

"Roasted turkeys; golden carp; trout as large as that!"

Outside, the night wind blew, scattering the music of the bells, and one by one lights began to appear in the shadows about the flanks of Mont Ventoux, upon the summit of which rose the ancient towers of Trinquelague. These lights were carried by the farmers on their way to attend midnight Mass at the château. They climbed the paths in groups of five or six, the father leading, lantern in hand, the women enveloped in their big brown mantles, where their infants nestled for shelter. In spite of the hour and the cold all these honest people marched cheerfully on, sustained by the thought that when they came out from the Mass they would find, as they did each year, tables spread for them below in the kitchens. Now and again on the rough ascent, the coach of some seigneur, preceded by torch-bearing porters, reflected in its glasses the cold moonlight; or, maybe, a mule trotted along shaking his bells, and in the light of the lanterns covered with frost, the farmers recognized their bailiff and saluted him as he passed:

"Good-evening, good-evening, Master Arnoton."

"Good-evening, good-evening, my children."

The night was clear, the stars were polished with cold, the wind stung, and a fine sleet, which glistened on the clothes without wetting them, kept faithfully the tradition of Christmases white with snow. Raised there aloft, the château appeared like the goal of all things, with its enormous mass of towers and gables, the belfry of its chapel mounting into the blue-black sky, and a crowd of small lights that winked, went and came, twinkled at all the windows, and seemed, on the sombre background of the building, like sparks running through the cinders of burnt paper. Once past the drawbridge and the postern, it was necessary, in order to gain the chapel, to traverse the first courtyard, full of coaches, of valets, of sedan-chairs, and bright with the flare of torches and the fires of the kitchens. There was the click of the turnspits, the crash of stewpans, the noises of glass and silver preparing for the dinner. From below, a warm vapor, which smelt of roasting meat and the strong herbs of curious sauces, whispered to the farmers, to the chaplain, to the bailiff -- to all the world:

"What a revel we are going to have after Mass!"


II.

Drelindin din! Drelindin din! Midnight Mass is about to begin. In the chapel of the château, a miniature cathedral with arches intercrossed and a wainscot of oak mounting as high as the walls, all the hangings have been arranged, all the candles lit.

And what a host of people! And what toilettes! First, seated in the sculptured stall which surrounds the choir, behold the Sire de Trinquelague in a suit of salmon-colored taffeta; and next to him all the invited nobles. Facing these, on a prie-dieu trimmed with velvet, is the old dowager Marquise in her robe of fire-colored brocade, and the young Dame de Trinquelague, surmounted by a huge head-dress of lace, made in the latest fashion of the French court. Further down, dressed in black, with vast pointed perukes and shaven faces, are the bailiff, Thomas Arnoton, and the notary, Master Ambroy, two grave objects among the flowing silks and figured damasks. Then come the fat majordomos, the pages, the grooms, the attendants; dame Barbe, all her keys suspended at her side on a ring of thin silver. At the bottom of the hall, on the benches, are the Servants, the yeomen with their families; and lastly, beyond, all about the doors as they open and shut discretely, are the scullions, who steal in, between two sauces, to get a little of the Mass, carrying an odor of the revelry into the church, all in its gay attire and warm with so many burning candles.

Is it a glimpse of their little white caps that distracts the celebrant of the Mass? Or, it may be the clangor made by Garrigou's bells, that pulsating sound which shakes the altar with an infernal vibration and seems to say all the time:

"Hurry up, hurry up. We'll soon be done; we'll soon be at table!"

The fact is, that each time it sounds -- that peal of the devil -- the chaplain forgets his Mass and thinks of nothing but the coming revel. He pictures to himself the uproar of the kitchens; the furnace heated like a blacksmith's forge; the vapor of opening trenchers, and in that vapor two magnificent turkeys, buttered, tender, bursting with truffles.

Or, perhaps he saw pass the files of little pages bearing dishes enveloped in tempting steam, and, with them, entered the grand saloon already prepared for the feast. O deliciousness! behold the immense table all set and sparkling; the peacocks in their plumes; the pheasants with their open wings of reddish-brown; the ruby-colored flagons; the pyramids of fruit peeping from green branches; and those marvellous fish of which Garrigou told (ah! well, yes, Garrigou!) held aloft on a bed of fennel, the mother-of-pearl scales as bright as when they came from the water, with a bouquet of odorous herbs in their monster-like nostrils. So distinct is the vision of these marvels, that it seems to Dom Balaguère as if all the wonderful dishes are served before him on the embroideries of the altar-cloth; and two or three times, in place of Dominus vobiscum, he is surprised to find himself repeating the Benedicite. Saving these slight mistakes, the holy man does his office very conscientiously, without skipping a line, without omitting a genuflexion; and all goes well enough as far as the end of the first Mass; because, you know, on Christmas night the same celebrant must repeat three consecutive Masses.

"One!" said the chaplain, with a sigh of relief; then, without losing a minute, he made a sign to his clerk -- or the person he believed to be his clerk, and --  -- 

Drelindin din! Drelindin din!

The second Mass begins, and with it begins also the sin of Dom Balaguère.

"Hurry, hurry, let's get done," cries the thin voice of Garrigou's bell, and this time the unlucky priest, abandoning himself to the demon of gluttony, rushes through the missal, devouring its pages with all the avidity of an overcharged appetite. Frantically he bows; arises; makes the signs of the cross, goes through the genuflexions, abbreviates all his gestures, the sooner to be finished. Scarcely does he extend his arms to the Gospel, or strike his breast where it is required. Between the clerk and him it is a race which shall jabber the faster. Verse and response hurry each other, tumble over each other. The words, hardly pronounced, because it takes too much time to open the mouth, become incomprehensible murmurs.

Oremus ps -- ps -- ps --  Meâ culpâ -- pâ -- pâ -- .

Like hard-working vintagers pressing grapes in a vat, both wade through the Latin of the Mass, splashing it on all sides.

"Dom -- scum!" says Balaguère.

"Stutuo!" responds Garrigou, and all the while the damnable chime sounds in their ears, like those little bells put on the post-horses to make them gallop more swiftly. Believe me, under such conditions a low Mass is vastly expedited!

"Two!" said the chaplain, all out of breath; then without taking time to breathe, red, perspiring, he tumbled down the stairs of the altar.

Drelindin din! Drelindin din! The third Mass begins.

Only a step or so and then the dining-hall! but, alas, the nearer the revel approaches, the more the unfortunate Balaguère is seized with the very folly of impatience and greediness. His vision accentuates it; the golden carp, the roast turkeys are there. He may touch them -- he may -- Oh, Holy Virgin! the dishes steam; the wines send forth sweet odors; and shaking out its reckless song, the bell cries to him:

"Hurry up, hurry up; still faster, still faster!"

But how can he go any faster? He scarcely moves his lips, he pronounces fully not a single word. He tries to cheat the good God altogether of His Mass, and that is what brings his ruin. By temptation upon temptation, he begins to jump one verse, then two. Then the epistle is too long -- he does not finish it; skims the Gospel, passes by the creed without even entering, skips the pater, salutes from afar the preface, and by bounds and jumps precipitates himself into eternal damnation, always following the infamous Garrigou (vade retro, Satanas), who seconds him with marvellous skill; tucks up his chasuble, turns the leaves two by two, disarranges the music-desk, reverses the flagons, and unceasingly rings the bell more and more vigorously, more and more quickly.

You should have seen what a figure all the assistants cut. Obliged to follow, like mimics, a Mass of which they did not understand a word, some rose when others kneeled, or seated themselves when others stood, and all the actors in this singular office mixed themselves on the benches in numberless contrary attitudes.

The star of Christmas, on its journey through the heavens yonder by the little manger, paled with astonishment at the confusion.

"The Abbe's in a dreadful hurry: I can't follow him at all," said the aged dowager, shaking her head-dress with bewilderment. Master Arnoton, his great steel spectacles on his nose, searched in his prayer-book where the deuce the words could be. But, after all, that gallant host, which itself was thinking only of the feast, was far from being vexed because the Mass rode post; and when Balaguère, with beaming countenance, turned toward the assembly crying with all his might, Ite missa est, with a single voice they returned, Deo gratias, so joyously, so fervently, that one might have thought them already at table responding to the first toast of the night.


III.

Five minutes later the crowd of seigneurs was seated in the grand dining-hall, the chaplain in the midst of them. The château, illuminated from top to bottom, echoed with songs, cries, laughter, uproar, and the venerable Dom Balaguère planted his fork in the wing of a wood-hen, drowning the remorse of his sin under floods of wine of the Pope and the sweet juices of the meats.

So much did he eat and drink, that the poor holy man died in the night of a terrible attack of sickness, without having even time to repent. Then near the morning he arrived in heaven with all the savor of the feast still about him and I leave you to imagine how he was received:

"Retire from my sight, evil Christian!" said the Sovereign Judge, "thy fault is dark enough to efface a whole life of virtue. Ah, thou hast robbed me of a Mass to-night. Thou shalt pay me back three hundred in its place, and thou shalt not enter into Paradise unless thou shalt have celebrated in thy proper chapel these three hundred Christmas Masses in the presence of all those who have sinned by thy fault and with thee."

This, then, is the true legend of Dom Balaguère as they tell it in the land of olives. To-day the château of Trinquelague is no more, but the chapel still stands erect on the summit of Mont Ventoux, in a grove of green oaks. The wind beats its disjointed portal; the grass creeps across its threshold; the birds have built in the angles of the altar and in the embrasures of the high windows, whence the colored panes have long ago vanished. But it appears that every year at Christmas, a supernatural light runs about these ruins, and that, in going to Mass or feast, the peasants see the chapel illuminated by invisible candles which burn brightly even through the wind and snow.

You may laugh if you will, but a vine-dresser of the neighborhood named Garrigue, without doubt a descendant of Garrigou, has assured me that one Christmas night, finding himself a little so-so-ish, he became lost on the mountain beside Trinquelague, and behold what he saw! At eleven o'clock, nothing. All was silent, dark, lifeless. Suddenly, toward midnight, a chime sounded up above from a clock, an old, old chime which seemed six leagues away. Pretty soon, on the ascending road, Garrigue saw lights trembling in the uncertain shadows. Under the porch of the chapel somebody walked, somebody whispered:

"Good-evening, Master Arnoton."

"Good-evening, good-evening, my children."

When the whole company was entered, my vine-dresser, who was exceedingly brave, approached stealthily, and peeping through the broken door saw a strange spectacle. All those who had passed him were ranged about the choir, in the ruined nave, as if the ancient benches still existed. Beautiful dames in brocade with coifs of lace; seigneurs bedizzened from top to toe; peasants in flowered jackets like those of our grandfathers, -- everything with an ancient air, faded, dusty, worn-out. Now and then the night-birds, habitual dwellers in the chapel, awakened by all these lights, winged about the candles, whose flames mounted straight and vague as if they burnt behind gauze. And what amused Garrigue most was a certain personage with great steel spectacles, who shook at each instant his high black peruke, on which one of the birds had alighted and entangled itself, silently beating its wings.

At the farthest end, a little old man of boyish size, on his knees in the midst of the choir, pulled desperately at the chimeless and silent bell; while a priest attired in ancient gold, went and came before the altar reciting orisons of which one heard not a single word. Surely, that was Dom Balaguère in the act of saying his third low Mass.



A Love-Passage from a Wandering Cossack.


"Dressed in his everlasting blue frock, he sat near the fire playing cards."

Turgenieff.



A Russian Christmas Party.


Count Rostow's affairs were going from bad to worse. He was of a warm, generous nature, with unlimited faith in his servants, and hence was blind to the mismanagement and dishonesty which had sapped his fortune. The possessor of a handsome establishment at the Russian capital, Moscow, the owner of rich provincial estates, and the inheritor of a noble name and wealth, he was nevertheless on the verge of ruin. He had given up his appointment as Maréchal de la Noblesse, which he had gone to his seat of Otradnoe to assume, because it entailed too many expenses; and yet there was no improvement in the state of his finances.

Nicolas and Natacha, his son and daughter, often found their father and mother in anxious consultation, talking in low tones of the sale of their Moscow house or of their property in the neighborhood. Having thus retired into private life, the count now gave neither fêtes nor entertainments. Life at Otradnoe was much less gay than in past years; still, the house and domain were as full of servants as ever, and twenty persons or more sat down to dinner daily. These were dependants, friends, and intimates, who were regarded almost as part of the family, or at any rate seemed unable to tear themselves away from it: among them a musician named Dimmler and his wife, Ioghel the dancing-master and his family, and old Mlle. Bélow, former governess of Natacha and Sonia, the count's niece and adopted child, and now the tutor of Pétia, his younger son; besides others who found it simpler to live at the count's expense than at their own. Thus, though there were no more festivities, life was carried on almost as expensively as of old, and neither the master nor the mistress ever imagined any change possible. Nicolas, again, had added to the hunting establishment; there were still fifty horses in the stables, still fifteen drivers; handsome presents were given on all birthdays and fête days, which invariably wound up as of old with a grand dinner to all the neighborhood; the count still played whist or boston, invariably letting his cards be seen by his friends, who were always ready to make up his table, and relieve him without hesitation of the few hundred roubles which constituted their principal income. The old man marched on blindfold through the tangle of his pecuniary difficulties, trying to conceal them, and only succeeding in augmenting them; having neither the courage nor the patience to untie the knots one by one.

The loving heart by his side foresaw their children's ruin, but she could not accuse her husband, who was, alas! too old for amendment; she could only seek some remedy for the disaster. From her woman's point of view there was but one: Nicolas's marriage, namely, with some rich heiress. She clung desperately to this last chance of salvation; but if her son should refuse the wife she should propose to him, every hope of reinstating their fortune would vanish. The young lady whom she had in view was the daughter of people of the highest respectability, whom the Rostows had known from her infancy: Julie Karaguine, who, by the death of her second brother, had suddenly come into great wealth.

The countess herself wrote to Mme. Karaguine to ask her whether she could regard the match with favor, and received a most flattering answer. Indeed, Mme. Karaguine invited Nicolas to her house at Moscow, to give her daughter an opportunity of deciding for herself.

Nicolas had often heard his mother say, with tears in her eyes, that her dearest wish was to see him married. The fulfilment of this wish would sweeten her remaining days, she would say, adding covert hints as to a charming girl who would exactly suit him. One day she took the opportunity of speaking plainly to him of Julie's charms and merits, and urged him to spend a short time in Moscow before Christmas. Nicolas, who had no difficulty in guessing what she was aiming at, persuaded her to be explicit on the matter, and she owned frankly that her hope was to see their sinking fortunes restored by his marriage with her dear Julie!

"Then, mother, if I loved a penniless girl, you would desire me to sacrifice my feelings and my honor -- to marry solely for money?"

"Nay, nay; you have misunderstood me," she said, not knowing how to excuse her mercenary hopes. "I wish only for your happiness!" And then, conscious that this was not her sole aim, and that she was not perfectly honest, she burst into tears.

"Do not cry, mamma; you have only to say that you really and truly desire it, and you know I would give my life to see you happy; that I would sacrifice everything, even my feelings."

But this was not his mother's notion. She asked no sacrifice, she would have none; she would sooner have sacrificed herself, if it had been possible.

"Say no more about it; you do not understand," she said, drying away her tears.

"How could she think of such a marriage?" thought Nicolas. "Does she think that because Sonia is poor I do not love her? And yet I should be a thousand times happier with her than with a doll like Julie."

He stayed in the country, and his mother did not revert to the subject. Still, as she saw the growing intimacy between Nicolas and Sonia, she could not help worrying Sonia about every little thing, and speaking to her with colder formality. Sometimes she reproached herself for these continual pin-pricks of annoyance, and was quite vexed with the poor girl for submitting to them with such wonderful humility and sweetness, for taking every opportunity of showing her devoted gratitude, and for loving Nicolas with a faithful and disinterested affection which commanded her admiration.

Just about this time a letter came from Prince André, dated from Rome, whither he had gone to pass the year of probation demanded by his father as a condition to giving consent to his son's marriage with the Countess Natacha. It was the fourth the Prince had written since his departure. He ought long since to have been on his way home, he said, but the heat of the summer had caused the wound he had received at Austerlitz to reopen, and this compelled him to postpone his return till early in January.

Natacha, though she was so much in love that her very passion for Prince André had made her day-dreams happy, had hitherto been open to all the bright influences of her young life; but now, after nearly four months of parting, she fell into a state of extreme melancholy, and gave way to it completely. She bewailed her hard fate, she bewailed the time that was slipping away and lost to her, while her heart ached with the dull craving to love and be loved. Nicolas, too, had nearly spent his leave from his regiment, and the anticipation of his departure added gloom to the saddened household.

Christmas came; but, excepting the pompous high Mass and the other religious ceremonies, the endless string of neighbors and servants with the regular compliments of the season, and the new gowns which made their first appearance on the occasion, nothing more than usual happened on that day, or more extraordinary than twenty degrees of frost, with brilliant sunshine, a still atmosphere, and at night a glorious starry sky.

After dinner, on the third day of Christmas-tide, when every one had settled into his own corner once more, ennui reigned supreme throughout the house. Nicolas, who had been paying a round of visits in the neighborhood, was fast asleep in the drawing-room. The old count had followed his example in his room. Sonia, seated at a table in the sitting-room, was copying a drawing. The countess was playing out a "patience," and Nastacia Ivanovna, the old buffoon, with his peevish face, sitting in a window with two old women, did not say a word.

Natacha came into the room, and, after leaning over Sonia for a minute or two to examine her work, went over to her mother and stood still in front of her.

The countess looked up. "Why are you wandering about like a soul in torment? What do you want?" she said.

"Want! I want him!" replied Natacha, shortly, and her eyes glowed. "Now, here -- at once!"

Her mother gazed at her anxiously.

"Do not look at me like that; you will make me cry."

"Sit down here."

"Mamma, I want him, I want him! Why must I die of weariness?" Her voice broke and tears started from her eyes. She hastily quitted the drawing-room and went to the housekeeper's room, where an old servant was scolding one of the girls who had just come in breathless from out-of-doors.

"There is a time for all things," growled the old woman. "You have had time enough for play."

"Oh, leave her in peace, Kondratievna," said Natacha. "Run away, Mavroucha -- go."

Pursuing her wandering, Natacha went into the hall; an old man-servant was playing cards with two of the boys. Her entrance stopped their game and they rose. "And what am I to say to these?" thought she.

"Nikita, would you please go -- what on earth can I ask for? -- go and find me a cock; and you, Micha, a handful of corn."

"A handful of corn?" said Micha, laughing.

"Go, go at once," said the old man.

"And you, Fédor, can you give me a piece of chalk?"

Then she went on to the servants' hall and ordered the samovar to be got ready, though it was not yet tea-time; she wanted to try her power over Foka, the old butler, the most morose and disobliging of all the servants. He could not believe his ears, and asked her if she really meant it. "What next will our young lady want?" muttered Foka, affecting to be very cross.

No one gave so many orders as Natacha, no one sent them on so many errands at once. As soon as a servant came in sight she seemed to invent some want or message; she could not help it. It seemed as though she wanted to try her power over them; to see whether, some fine day, one or another would not rebel against her tyranny; but, on the contrary, they always flew to obey her more readily than any one else.

"And now what shall I do, where can I go?" thought she, as she slowly went along the corridor, where she presently met the buffoon.

"Nastacia Ivanovna," said she, "if I ever have children, what will they be?"

"You! Fleas and grasshoppers, you may depend upon it!"

Natacha went on. "Good God! have mercy, have mercy!" she said to herself. "Wherever I go it is always, always the same. I am so weary; what shall I do?"

Skipping lightly from step to step, she went to the upper story and dropped in on the Ioghels. Two governesses were sitting chatting with M. and Mme. Ioghel; dessert, consisting of dried fruit, was on the table, and they were eagerly discussing the cost of living at Moscow and Odessa. Natacha took a seat for a moment, listened with pensive attention, and then jumped up again. "The island of Madagascar!" she murmured, "Ma-da-gas-car!" and she separated the syllables. Then she left the room without answering Mme. Schoss, who was utterly mystified by her strange exclamation.

She next met Pétia and a companion, both very full of some fireworks which were to be let off that evening. "Pétia!" she exclaimed, "carry me down-stairs!" And she sprang upon his back, throwing her arms round his neck; and, laughing and galloping, they thus scrambled along to the head of the stairs.

"Thank you, that will do. Madagascar!" she repeated; and, jumping down, she ran down the flight.

After thus inspecting her dominions, testing her power, and convincing herself that her subjects were docile, and that there was no novelty to be got out of them, Natacha settled herself in the darkest corner of the music-room with her guitar, striking the bass strings, and trying to make an accompaniment to an air from an opera that she and Prince André had once heard together at St. Petersburg. The uncertain chords which her unpractised fingers sketched out would have struck the least experienced ear as wanting in harmony and musical accuracy, while to her excited imagination they brought a whole train of memories. Leaning against the wall and half hidden by a cabinet, with her eyes fixed on a thread of light that came under the door from the rooms beyond, she listened in ecstasy and dreamed of the past.

Sonia crossed the room with a glass in her hand. Natacha glanced round at her and again fixed her eyes on the streak of light. She had the strange feeling of having once before gone through the same experience -- sat in the same place, surrounded by the same details, and watching Sonia pass carrying a tumbler. "Yes, it was exactly the same," she thought.

"Sonia, what is this tune?" she said, playing a few notes.

"What, are you there?" said Sonia, startled. "I do not know," she said, coming closer to listen, "unless it is from 'La Tempête';" but she spoke doubtfully.

"It was exactly so," thought Natacha. "She started as she came forward, smiling so gently; and I thought then, as I think now, that there is something in her which is quite lacking in me. No," she said aloud, "you are quite out; it is the chorus from the 'Porteur d'Eau' -- listen," and she hummed the air. "Where are you going?"

"For some fresh water to finish my drawing."

"You are always busy and I never. Where is Nicolas?"

"Asleep, I think."

"Go and wake him, Sonia. Tell him to come and sing."

Sonia went, and Natacha relapsed into dreaming and wondering how it had all happened. Not being able to solve the puzzle, she drifted into reminiscence once more. She could see him -- him -- and feel his impassioned eyes fixed on her face. "Oh, make haste back! I am so afraid he will not come yet! Besides, it is all very well, but I am growing old; I shall be quite different from what I am now! Who knows? Perhaps he will come to-day! Perhaps he is here already! Here in the drawing-room. Perhaps he came yesterday and I have forgotten."

She rose, laid down the guitar, and went into the next room. All the household party were seated round the tea-table, -- the professors, the governesses, the guests; the servants were waiting on one and another -- but there was no Prince André.

"Ah, here she is," said her father. "Come and sit down here." But Natacha stopped by her mother without heeding his bidding.

"Oh, mamma, bring him to me, give him to me soon, very soon," she murmured, swallowing down a sob. Then she sat down and listened to the others. "Good God! always the same people! always the same thing! Papa holds his cup as he always does, and blows his tea to cool it as he did yesterday, and as he will to-morrow."

She felt a sort of dull rebellion against them all; she hated them for always being the same.

After tea Sonia, Natacha, and Nicolas huddled together in their favorite, snug corner of the drawing-room; that was where they talked freely to each other.

"Do you ever feel," Natacha asked her brother, "as if there was nothing left to look forward to; as if you had had all your share of happiness, and were not so much weary as utterly dull?"

"Of course I have. Very often I have seen my friends and fellow-officers in the highest spirits and been just as jolly myself, and suddenly have been struck so dull and dismal, have so hated life, that I have wondered whether we were not all to die at once. I remember one day, for instance, when I was with the regiment; the band was playing, and I had such a fit of melancholy that I never even thought of going to the promenade."

"How well I understand that! I recollect once," Natacha went on, "once when I was a little girl, I was punished for having eaten some plums, I think. I had not done it, and you were all dancing, and I was left alone in the school-room. How I cried! cried because I was so sorry for myself, and so vexed with you all for making me so unhappy."

"I remember; and I went to comfort you and did not know how; we were funny children then; I had a toy with bells that jingled, and I made you a present of it."

"Do you remember," said Natacha, "long before that, when we were no bigger than my hand, my uncle called us into his room, where it was quite dark, and suddenly we saw --  -- "

"A negro!" interrupted Nicolas, smiling at her recollection. "To be sure. I can see him now; and to this day I wonder whether it was a dream or a reality, or mere fancy invented afterwards."

"He had white teeth and stared at us with his black eyes."

"Do you remember him, Sonia?"

"Yes, yes -- but very dimly."

"But papa and mamma have always declared that no negro ever came to the house. And the eggs; do you remember the eggs we used to roll up at Easter; and one day how two little grinning old women came up through the floor and began to spin round the table?"

"Of course. And how papa used to put on his fur coat and fire off his gun from the balcony. And don t you remember --  -- ?" And so they went on recalling, one after the other, not the bitter memories of old age, but the bright pictures of early childhood, which float and fade on a distant horizon of poetic vagueness, midway between reality and dreams. Sonia remembered being frightened once at the sight of Nicolas in his braided jacket, and her nurse promising her that she should some day have a frock trimmed from top to bottom.

"And they told me you had been found in the garden under a cabbage," said Natacha. "I dared not say it was not true, but it puzzled me tremendously."

A door opened, and a woman put in her head, exclaiming, "Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, they have fetched the cock!"

"I do not want it now; send it away again, Polia." said Natacha.

Dimmler, who had meanwhile come into the room, went up to the harp, which stood in a corner, and in taking off the cover made the strings ring discordantly.

"Edward Karlovitch, play my favorite nocturne -- Field's," cried the countess, from the adjoining room.

Dimmler struck a chord. "How quiet you young people are," he said, addressing them.

"Yes, we are studying philosophy," said Natacha, and they went on talking of their dreams.

Dimmler had no sooner begun his nocturne than Natacha, crossing the room on tiptoe, seized the wax-light that was burning on the table and carried it into the next room; then she stole back to her seat, it was now quite dark in the larger room, especially in their corner, but the silvery moonbeams came in at the wide windows and lay in broad sheets on the floor.

"Do you know," whispered Natacha, while Dimmler, after playing the nocturne, let his fingers wander over the strings, uncertain what to play next, "when I go on remembering one thing beyond another, I go back so far, so far, that at last I remember things that happened before I was born, and --  -- "

"That is metempsychosis," interrupted Sonia, with a reminiscence of her early lessons. "The Egyptians believed that our souls had once inhabited the bodies of animals, and would return to animals again after our death."

"I do not believe that," said Natacha, still in a low voice, though the music had ceased. "But I am quite sure that we were angels once, somewhere there beyond, or, perhaps, even here; and that is the reason we remember a previous existence."

"May I join the party?" asked Dimmler, coming towards them.

"If we were once angels, how is it that we have fallen lower?"

"Lower? Who says that it is lower? Who knows what I was?" Natacha retorted with full conviction. "Since the soul is immortal, and I am to live forever in the future, I must have existed in the past, so I have eternity behind me, too."

"Yes; but it is very difficult to conceive of that eternity," said Dimmler, whose ironical smile had died away.

"Why?" asked Natacha. "After to-day comes to-morrow, and then the day after, and so on forever; yesterday has been, to-morrow will be --  -- "

"Natacha, now it is your turn; sing me something," said her mother. "What are you doing in that corner like a party of conspirators?"

"I am not at all in the humor, mamma," said she; nevertheless she rose. Nicolas sat down to the piano; and standing, as usual, in the middle of the room, where the voice sounded best, she sang her mother's favorite ballad.

Though she had said she was not in the humor, it was long since Natacha had sung so well as she did that evening, and long before she sang so well again. Her father, who was talking over business with Mitenka in his room, hurriedly gave him some final instructions as soon as he heard the first note, as a schoolboy scrambles through his tasks to get to his play; but as the steward did not go, he sat in silence, listening, while Mitenka, too, standing in his presence, listened with evident satisfaction. Nicolas did not take his eyes off his sister's face, and only breathed when she took breath. Sonia was under the spell of that exquisite voice and thinking of the gulf of difference that lay between her and her friend, full conscious that she could never exercise such fascination. The old countess had paused in her "patience," -- a sad, fond smile played on her lips, her eyes were full of tears, and she shook her head, remembering her own youth, looking forward to her daughter's future and reflecting on her strange prospects of marriage.

Dimmler, sitting by her side, listened with rapture, his eyes half closed.

"She really has a marvellous gift!" he exclaimed. "She has nothing to learn, -- such power, such sweetness, such roundness!"

"And how much I fear for her happiness!" replied the countess, who in her mother's heart could feel the flame that must some day be fatal to her child's peace.

Natacha was still singing when Pétia dashed noisily into the room to announce, in triumphant tones, that a party of mummers had come.

"Idiot!" exclaimed Natacha, stopping short, and, dropping into a chair, she began to sob so violently that it was some time before she could recover herself. "It is nothing, mamma, really nothing at all," she declared, trying to smile. "Only Pétia frightened me; nothing more." And her tears flowed afresh.

All the servants had dressed up, some as bears, Turks, tavern-keepers, or fine ladies; others as mongrel monsters. Bringing with them the chill of the night outside, they did not at first venture any farther than the hall; by degrees, however, they took courage; pushing each other forward for self-protection, they all soon came into the music-room. Once there, their shyness thawed; they became expansively merry, and singing, dancing, and sports were soon the order of the day. The countess, after looking at them and identifying them all, went back into the sitting-room, leaving her husband, whose jovial face encouraged them to enjoy themselves.

The young people had all vanished; but half an hour later an old marquise with patches appeared on the scene -- none other than Nicolas; Pétia as a Turk; a clown -- Dimmler; a hussar -- Natacha; and a Circassian -- Sonia. Both the girls had blackened their eyebrows and given themselves mustaches with burned cork.

After being received with well-feigned surprise, and recognized more or less quickly, the children, who were very proud of their costumes, unanimously declared that they must go and display them elsewhere. Nicolas, who was dying to take them all for a long drive en troïka, proposed that, as the roads were in splendid order, they should go, a party of ten, to the Little Uncle's.

"You will disturb the old man, and that will be all," said the countess. "Why, he has not even room for you all to get into the house! If you must go out, you had better go to the Mélukows'."

Mme. Mélukow was a widow living in the neighborhood; her house, full of children of all ages, with tutors and governesses, was distant only four versts from Otradnoe.

"A capital idea, my dear," cried the count, enchanted. "I will dress up in costume and go, too. I will wake them up, I warrant you!"

But this did not at all meet his wife's views. Perfect madness! For him to go out with his gouty feet in such cold weather was sheer folly! The count gave way, and Mme. Schoss volunteered to chaperon the girls. Sonia's was by far the most successful disguise; her fierce eyebrows and mustache were wonderfully becoming, her pretty features gained expression, and she wore the dress of a man with unexpected swagger and smartness. Something in her inmost soul told her that this evening would seal her fate.

Sonia

In a few minutes four sleighs with three horses abreast to each, their harness jingling with bells, drew up in a line before the steps, the runners creaking and crunching over the frozen snow. Natacha was the foremost, and the first to tune her spirits to the pitch of this carnival freak. This mirth, in fact, proved highly infectious, and reached its height of tumult and excitement when the party went down the steps and packed themselves into the sleighs, laughing and shouting to each other at the top of their voices. Two of the sleighs were drawn by light cart-horses, to the third the count's carriage horses were harnessed, and one of these was reputed a famous trotter from Orlow's stable; the fourth sleigh, with its rough-coated, black shaft-horse, was Nicolas's private property. In his marquise costume, over which he had thrown his hussar's cloak, fastened with a belt round the waist, he stood gathering up the reins. The moon was shining brightly, reflected in the plating of the harness and in the horses' anxious eyes as they turned their heads in uneasy amazement at the noisy group that clustered under the dark porch. Natacha, Sonia, and Mme. Schoss, with two women servants, got into Nicolas's sleigh; Dimmler and his wife, with Pétia, into the count's; the rest of the mummers packed into the other sleighs.

"Lead the way, Zakhare!" cried Nicolas, to his father's coachman, promising himself the pleasure of outstripping him presently; the count's sleigh swayed and strained, the runners, which the frost had already glued to the ground, creaked, the bells rang out, the horses closed up for a pull, and off they went over the glittering, hard snow, flinging it up right and left like spray of powdered sugar. Nicolas started next, and the others followed along the narrow way, with no less jingling and creaking. While they drove under the wall of the park the shadows of the tall, skeleton trees lay on the road, checkering the broad moonlight; but as soon as they had left it behind them, the wide and spotless plain spread on all sides, its whiteness broken by myriads of flashing sparks and spangles of reflected light. Suddenly a rut caused the foremost sleigh to jolt violently, and then the others in succession; they fell away a little, their intrusive clatter breaking the supreme and solemn silence of the night.

"A hare's tracks!" exclaimed Natacha, and her voice pierced the frozen air like an arrow.

"How light it is, Nicolas," said Sonia. Nicolas turned round to look at the pretty face with its black mustache, under the sable hood, looking at once so far away and so close in the moonshine. "It is not Sonia at all," he said, smiling.

"Why, what is the matter?"

"Nothing," said he, returning to his former position.

When they got out on the high-road, beaten and ploughed by horses' hoofs and polished with the tracks of sleighs, his steeds began to pull and go at a great pace. The near horse, turning away his head, was galloping rather wildly, while the horse in the shafts pricked his ears and still seemed to doubt whether the moment for a dash had come. Zakhare's sleigh, lost in the distance, was no more than a black spot on the white snow, and as he drew farther away the ringing of the bells was fainter and fainter; only the shouts and songs of the maskers rang through the calm, clear night.

"On you go, my beauties!" cried Nicolas, shaking the reins and raising his whip. The sleigh seemed to leap forward, but the sharp air that cut their faces and the flying pace of the two outer horses alone gave them any idea of the speed they were making. Nicolas glanced back at the other two drivers; they were shouting and urging their shaft-horses with cries and cracking of whips, so as not to be quite left behind; Nicolas's middle horse, swinging steadily along under the shaft-bow, kept up his regular pace, quite ready to go twice as fast the moment he should be called upon.

They soon overtook the first troïka, and after going down a slope they came upon a wide cross-road running by the side of a meadow.

"Where are we, I wonder," thought Nicolas; "this must be the field and slope by the river. No -- I do not know where we are! This is all new and unfamiliar to me! God only knows where we are! But no matter!" And smacking his whip with a will, he went straight ahead. Zakhare held in his beasts for an instant, and turned his face, all fringed with frost, to look at Nicolas, who came flying onward.

"Steady there, sir!" cried the coachman, and leaning forward, with a click of his tongue he urged his horses in their turn to their utmost speed. For a few minutes the sleighs ran equal, but before long, in spite of all Zakhare could do, Nicolas gained on him and at last flew past him like a lightning flash; a cloud of fine snow, kicked up by the horses, came showering down on the rival sleigh; the women squeaked, and the two teams had a struggle for the precedence, their shadows crossing and mingling on the snow.

Then Nicolas, moderating his speed, looked about him; before, behind, and on each side of him stretched the fairy scene; a plain strewn with stars and flooded with light.

"To the left, Zakhare says. Why to the left?" thought he. "We were going to the Mélukows'. But we are going where fate directs or as Heaven may guide us. It is all very strange and most delightful, is it not?" he said, turning to the others.

"Oh! look at his eyelashes and beard; they are quite white!" exclaimed one of the sweet young men, with pencilled mustache and arched eyebrows.

"That I believe is Natacha?" said Nicolas. "And that little Circassian -- who is he? I do not know him, but I like his looks uncommonly! Are you not frozen?" Their answer was a shout of laughter.

Dimmler was talking himself hoarse, and he must be saying very funny things, for the party in his sleigh were in fits of laughing.

"Better and better," said Nicolas to himself; "now we are in an enchanted forest -- the black shadows lie across a flooring of diamonds and mix with the sparkling of gems. That might be a fairy palace, out there, built of large blocks of marble and jewelled tiles? Did I not hear the howl of wild beasts in the distance? Supposing it were only Mélukovka that I am coming to after all! On my word, it would be no less miraculous to have reached port after steering so completely at random!"

It was, in fact, Mélukovka, for he could see the house servants coming out on the balcony with lights, and then down to meet them, only too glad of this unexpected diversion.

"Who is there?" a voice asked within.

"The mummers from Count Rostow's; they are his teams," replied the servants.

*    *    *    *    *

Pélaguéïa Danilovna Mélukow, a stout and commanding personality, in spectacles and a flowing dressing-gown, was sitting in her drawing-room surrounded by her children, whom she was doing her best to amuse by modelling heads in wax and tracing the shadows they cast on the wall, when steps and voices were heard in the ante-room. Hussars, witches, clowns, and bears were rubbing their faces, which were scorched by the cold and covered with rime, or shaking the snow off their clothes. As soon as they had cast off their furs they rushed into the large drawing-room, which was hastily lighted up. Dimmler, the clown, and Nicolas, the marquise, performed a dance, while the others stood close along the wall, the children shouting and jumping about them with glee.

"It is impossible to know who is who -- can that really be Natacha? Look at her; does not she remind you of some one? Edward, before Karlovitch, how fine you are! and how beautifully you dance! Oh! and that splendid Circassian -- why, it is Sonia! What a kind and delightful surprise; we were so desperately dull. Ha, ha! what a beautiful hussar! A real hussar, or a real monkey of a boy -- which is he, I wonder? I cannot look at you without laughing." They all shouted and laughed and talked at once, at the top of their voices.

Natacha, to whom the Mélukows were devoted, soon vanished with them to their own room, where corks and various articles of men's clothing were brought to them, and clutched by bare arms through a half-open door. Ten minutes later all the young people of the house rejoined the company, equally unrecognizable. Pélaguéïa Danilovna, going and coming among them all, with her spectacles on her nose and a quiet smile, had seats arranged and a supper laid out for the visitors, masters and servants alike. She looked straight in the face of each in turn, recognizing no one of the motley crew -- neither the Rostows, nor Dimmler, nor even her own children, nor any of the clothes they figured in.

"That one, who is she?" she asked the governess, stopping a Kazan Tartar, who was, in fact, her own daughter. "One of the Rostows, is it not? And you, gallant hussar, what regiment do you belong to?" she went on, addressing Natacha. "Give some pastila to this Turkish lady," she cried to the butler; "it is not forbidden by her religion, I believe."

At the sight of some of the reckless dancing which the mummers performed under the shelter of their disguise, Pélaguéïa Danilovna could not help hiding her face in her handkerchief, while her huge person shook with uncontrollable laughter -- the laugh of a kindly matron, frankly jovial and gay.

When they had danced all the national dances, ending with the Horovody, she placed every one, both masters and servants, in a large circle, holding a cord with a ring and a rouble, and for a while they played games. An hour after, when the finery was the worse for wear and heat and laughter had removed much of the charcoal, Pélaguéïa Danilovna could recognize them, compliment the girls on the success of their disguise, and thank the whole party for the amusement they had given her. Supper was served for the company in the drawing-room, and for the servants in the large dining-room.

"You should try your fortune in the bathroom over there; that is enough to frighten you!" said an old maid who lived with the Mélukows.

"Why?" said the eldest girl.

"Oh! you would never dare to do it; you must be very brave."

"Well, I will go," said Sonia.

"Tell us what happened to that young girl, you know," said the youngest Mélukow.

"Once a young girl went to the bath, taking with her a cock and two plates with knives and forks, which is what you must do; and she waited. Suddenly she heard horses' bells -- some one was coming; he stopped, came up-stairs, and she saw an officer walk into the room; a real live officer -- at least so he seemed -- who sat down opposite to her where the second cover was laid."

"Oh! how horrible!" exclaimed Natacha, wide-eyed. "And he spoke to her -- really spoke?"

"Yes, just as if he had really been a man. He begged and prayed her to listen to him, and all she had to do was to refuse him and hold out till the cock crowed; but she was too much frightened. She covered her face with her hands, and he clasped her in his arms; luckily some girls who were on the watch rushed in when she screamed."

"Why do you terrify them with such nonsense?" said Pélaguéïa Danilovna.

"But, mamma, you know you wanted to try your fortune too."

"And if you try your fortune in a barn, what do you do?" asked Sonia.

"That is quite simple. You must go to the barn -- now, for instance -- and listen. If you hear thrashing, it is for ill-luck; if you hear grain dropping, that is good."

"Tell us, mother, what happened to you in the barn."

"It is so long ago," said the mother, with a smile, "that I have quite forgotten; besides, not one of you is brave enough to try it."

"Yes, I will go," said Sonia. "Let me go."

"Go by all means if you are not afraid."

"May I, Madame Schoss?" said Sonia to the governess.

Now, whether playing games or sitting quietly and chatting, Nicolas had not left Sonia's side the whole evening; he felt as if he had seen her for the first time, and only just now appreciated all her merits. Bright, bewitchingly pretty in her quaint costume, and excited as she very rarely was, she had completely fascinated him.

"What a simpleton I must have been!" thought he, responding in thought to those sparkling eyes and that triumphant smile which had revealed to him a little dimple at the tip of her mustache that he had never observed before.

"I am afraid of nothing," she declared. She rose, asked her way, precisely, to the barn, and every detail as to what she was to expect, waiting there in total silence; then she threw a fur cloak over her shoulders, glanced at Nicolas, and went on.

She went along the corridor and down the back-stairs; while Nicolas, saying that the heat of the room was too much for him, slipped out by the front entrance. It was as cold as ever, and the moon seemed to be shining even more brightly than before. The snow at her feet was strewn with stars, while their sisters overhead twinkled in the deep gloom of the sky, and she soon looked away from them, back to the gleaming earth in its radiant mantle of ermine.

Nicolas hurried across the hall, turned the corner of the house, and went past the side door where Sonia was to come out. Half-way to the barn stacks of wood, in the full moonlight, threw their shadows on the path, and beyond, an alley of lime-trees traced a tangled pattern on the snow with the fine crossed lines of their leafless twigs. The beams of the house and its snow-laden roof looked as if they had been hewn out of a block of opal, with iridescent lights where the facets caught the silvery moonlight. Suddenly a bough fell crashing off a tree in the garden; then all was still again. Sonia's heart beat high with gladness; as if she were drinking in not common air, but some life-giving elixir of eternal youth and joy.

"Straight on, if you please, miss, and on no account look behind you."

"I am not afraid," said Sonia, her little shoes tapping the stone steps and then crunching the carpet of snow as she ran to meet Nicolas, who was within a couple of yards of her. And yet not the Nicolas of every-day life. What had transfigured him so completely? Was it his woman's costume with frizzed-out hair, or was it that radiant smile which he so rarely wore, and which at this moment illumined his face?

"But Sonia is quite unlike herself, and yet she is herself," thought Nicolas on his side, looking down at the sweet little face in the moonlight. He slipped his arms under the fur cloak that wrapped her, and drew her to him, and he kissed her lips, which still tasted of the burned cork that had blackened her mustache.

"Nicolas -- Sonia," they whispered; and Sonia put her little hands round his face. Then, hand in hand, they ran to the barn and back, and each went in by the different doors they had come out of.

Natacha, who had noted everything, managed so that she, Mme. Schoss, and Dimmler should return in one sleigh, while the maids went with Nicolas and Sonia in another. Nicolas was in no hurry to get home; he could not help looking at Sonia and trying to find under her disguise the true Sonia -- his Sonia, from whom nothing now could ever part him. The magical effects of moonlight, the remembrance of that kiss on her sweet lips, the dizzy flight of the snow-clad ground under the horses' hoofs, the black sky, studded with diamonds, that bent over their heads, the icy air that seemed to give vigor to his lungs -- all was enough to make him fancy that they were transported to a land of magic.

"Sonia, are you not cold?"

"No; and you?"

Nicolas pulled up, and giving the reins to a man to drive, he ran back to the sleigh in which Natacha was sitting.

"Listen," he said, in a whisper and in French; "I have made up my mind to tell Sonia."

"And you have spoken to her?" exclaimed Natacha, radiant with joy.

"Oh, Natacha, how queer that mustache makes you look! Are you glad?"

"Glad! I am delighted. I did not say anything, you know, but I have been so vexed with you. She is a jewel, a heart of gold. I -- I am often naughty, and I have no right to have all the happiness to myself now. Go, go back to her."

"No. Wait one minute. Mercy, how funny you look!" he repeated, examining her closely and discovering in her face, too, an unwonted tenderness and emotion that struck him deeply. "Natacha, is there not some magic at the bottom of it all, heh?"

"You have acted very wisely. Go."

"If I had ever seen Natacha look as she does at this moment I should have asked her advice and have obeyed her, whatever she had bid me do; and all would have gone well. So you are glad?" he said, aloud. "I have done right?"

"Yes, yes, of course you have! I was quite angry with mamma the other day about you two. Mamma would have it that Sonia was running after you. I will not allow any one to say -- no, nor even to think -- any evil of her, for she is sweetness and truth itself."

"So much the better." Nicolas jumped down and in a few long strides overtook his own sleigh, where the little Circassian received him with a smile from under the fur hood; and the Circassian was Sonia, and Sonia beyond a doubt would be his beloved little wife!

When they got home the two girls went into the countess's room and gave her an account of their expedition; then they went to bed. Without stopping to wipe off their mustaches they stood chattering as they undressed; they had so much to say of their happiness, their future prospects, the friendship between their husbands:

"But, oh! when will it all be? I am so afraid it will never come to pass," said Natacha, as she went toward a table on which two looking-glasses stood.

"Sit down," said Sonia, "and look in the glass; perhaps you will see something about it." Natacha lighted two pairs of candles and seated herself. "I certainly see a pair of mustaches," she said, laughing.

"You should not laugh," said the maid, very gravely.

Natacha settled herself to gaze without blinking into the mirror; she put on a solemn face and sat in silence for some time, wondering what she should see. Would a coffin rise before her, or would Prince André presently stand revealed against the confused background in the shining glass? Her eyes were weary and could hardly distinguish even the flickering light of the candles. But with the best will in the world she could see nothing; not a spot to suggest the image either of a coffin or of a human form. She rose.

"Why do other people see things and I never see anything at all? Take my place, Sonia; you must look for yourself and for me, too. I am so frightened; if I could but know!"

Sonia sat down and fixed her eyes on the mirror.

"Sofia Alexandrovna will be sure to see something," whispered Douniacha; "but you always are laughing at such things." Sonia heard the remark and Natacha's whispered reply: "Yes, she is sure to see something; she did last year." Three minutes they waited in total silence. "She is sure to see something," Natacha repeated, trembling.

Sonia started back, covered her face with one hand, and cried out:

"Natacha!"

"You saw something? What did you see?" And Natacha rushed forward to hold up the glass.

But Sonia had seen nothing; her eyes were getting dim, and she was on the point of giving it up when Natacha's exclamation had stopped her; she did not want to disappoint them; but there is nothing so tiring as sitting motionless. She did not know why she had called out and hidden her face.

"Did you see him?" asked Natacha.

"Yes; stop a minute. I saw him," said Sonia, not quite sure whether "him" was to mean Nicolas or Prince André. "Why not make them believe that I saw something?" she thought. "A great many people have done so before, and no one can prove the contrary. Yes, I saw him," she repeated.

"How? standing up or lying down?"

"I saw him -- at first there was nothing; then suddenly I saw him lying down."

"André, lying down? Then he is ill!" And Natacha gazed horror-stricken at her companion.

"Not at all; he seemed quite cheerful, on the contrary," said she, beginning to believe in her own inventions.

"And then -- Sonia, what then?"

"Then I saw only confusion -- red and blue."

"And when will he come back, Sonia? When shall I see him again? O God! I am afraid for him -- afraid of everything."

And, without listening to Sonia's attempts at comfort, Natacha slipped into bed, and, long after the lights were out, she lay motionless but awake, her eyes fixed on the moonshine that came dimly through the frost-embroidered windows.



A Wayfarer's Fancy.


"A felicitous combination of the German, the Sclave, and the Semite, with grand features, brown hair floating in artistic fashion, and brown eyes in spectacles."

George Eliot.



Two Christmases.


I.

It was the time of the great war. Germany was desolated. Towns and villages were destroyed by flames. Order and law had given way to savage power; and from the walls of many a ruined house of God the wooden image of the Saviour looked down with a face of anguish on the horrors of the degenerate times.

The terrified citizens of towns that were still untouched by war, hid themselves within their narrow walls, awaiting, in tremulous fear, the day on which their homes must also fall a prey to plundering soldiers. If any one were obliged to go beyond the boundaries, he would glance anxiously at the bushes on either side of the road; and when night came on, he would be forced to look with horror and sorrow at the reddened horizon, where a little village or lonely hamlet was burning to ashes.

But who is it cowers there in the ditch by the highway? A dried-up little man with deathly-pale countenance, and clad in a black coat! Flee, Wanderer! let him not gaze at you with his piercing gray eyes! Beware! for that old man is the Plague-man!

The heart of the Wanderer sinks within him. Horrified he rushes away, and thanks heaven when, in the gray of the morning, he sees again the towers of his native town. Enraptured by the sight of home he believes these towers with the dear, well-known faces can protect him; but the old cripple has been quicker than he. Before break of day he has knocked at the town-gate, and the gate-keeper, on opening it, has scarcely looked into his gray eyes before he sank down as though some one had felled him with an axe.

Then the gray old man begins his terrible work. Like a bat he slips into all dwellings; no gate and no bolt is an obstacle to him. Right up into the lofts he climbs and opens the most secret chamber. That threshold he passes is doomed to the Black-death.

*    *    *    *    *

It had happened thus to a little town in Franconia, where but a few houses remained untouched by the terrible plague. In this town there lived a poor, honest couple with their child, a boy of nearly three years. Their cottage lay on a small hill, and was divided from the road by a little garden. People ascribed it to this that the awful spirit for a long time had left their home untouched. But at last he seemed to have found his way to even this out-of-the-way place.

A few days before Christmas the boy fell sick, and on Christmas morning he lay motionless in bed, so that the poor parents thought the plague had taken their child from them. The father wanted to bury the body at once, but the mother showed him the rosy cheeks of the dead child, and said that a death that looked so like sleep could do them no harm. Thereupon she went into the little garden and cut box-tree leaves from under the snow, and made a wreath for the dead darling. She placed the wreath on his curly head and moved his bed into the middle of the room, where she set candles burning around it, just as we do in quieter times for a dear departed one. Then she went into the wood, cut down a small Christmas-tree and placed it, all decorated with lights, nuts, and bright tinsel, next to the coffin, in order that the dead child might also have his Christmas pleasure.

This was the only Christmas-tree that the poor stricken town lit up! People passing along the road looked with secret jealousy at the illuminated window, wondering how they could still rejoice in such bitter times. But no gladsome sounds from the window reached the street, where flake after flake was whirling down from the gray heavens, covering everything in its white cloak. And unceasingly, as flake after flake sank down to earth, so in the little chamber the tears of the poor woman rolled down her cheeks till the lights of the Christmas-tree burned low, the fire in the stove died away, and sleep closed the streaming eyes of the mother. Then all was quiet, very quiet, in the little chamber.

*    *    *    *    *

But at the gates of Heaven it was very noisy that evening. Countless hosts were crowding up the broad stairway, young and old, rich and poor: a mixed and motley crowd. There the patrician elbowed the tailor who had made his coat; the general the lowest sutler; and a ragged beggar was even next to a king, who drew his purple closer around him in order not to be contaminated. All were pushing towards the great, light gate, and many a one, who on earth had only beaten and jostled others, received here in the crowd his own first jostling. At the gate stood a beautiful, tall angel, who sprinkled each one with water out of a golden vessel. The touch of this water obliterated at once all remembrance of the past.

St. Peter, who considered the noise and bustle too much of a good thing, was of the opinion that mankind had none of the bother of dying, all the work falling on him; and he was accordingly grumbling to himself. Suddenly he saw a little fellow, clad only in a shirt, standing before him, shivering all over, and regarding him with innocent, childish eyes, as if asking whether he might enter. St. Peter, unwilling that such little folks should cause delay in business, said, roughly, "In with you!" The little frightened fellow rushed, thereupon, so quickly through the gate that the angel did not have time to sprinkle him with the waters of oblivion.

Now, as children of two years have but short memories and very harmless pasts, the angel smilingly let him slip by. Once inside, little Hans was seized by a host of flying angels and whirled away to Paradise, which was more beautiful than the fairest garden on earth. Rare plants with big, magnificently colored blossoms filled the air with spicy odor. Here dwelt the tiny children who had left earth before they knew anything of it. Here they could dream on forever; and their breath swept softly over every bud. Large butterflies with silken wings were bathing in the clear ether, and floating entranced from bud to bud. The heavens glittered and lightened as though composed of millions of diamonds; yet the sun did not blind the eye, nor the warmth rise to summer heat. Eternal spring had banished from these regions battle and death, tempest and decay, and far away below in misty distance lay all the sorrows of tormented creation. Amongst the flowers wandered blissful forms, absorbed in the beauty of surrounding harmony.

The boy curiously observed all this splendor, peered into the dewy buds of the flowers, examined the wings of his heavenly playmates, and was not a little rejoiced on observing that two wings had also grown on him, with which he could fly like a bird. "If neighbor Liesel could only see me!" thought Hans, and he felt quite proud at the thought. For, notwithstanding all the splendor about him, the picture of his parents' home presented itself constantly to his little mind. He had an excellent memory of the much despised earth, which soon with magnetic power drew all his thoughts towards it. At the sight of the wonderful flowers of Paradise, such as the earth never produces, he could think of nothing but the violets, and crocuses, and tulips which curled up in spring-time out of the black earth of his father's garden. The golden fruits on the trees reminded him of the gilded ones of the Christmas-tree, and seemed to him even brighter; and although the Paradise of heaven, with its eternal clearness, was a thousand times more beautiful than the changing air below, yet the little heart felt a dim yearning for the beloved earth, the griefs of which he had not yet learned to measure; and, amidst all this angelic beauty, he only felt an uncontrollable longing for the plain, human countenance of his mother. Then there came an end to his enjoyment. He began to cry, and, finally, to roar lustily. The other little angels gathered astonished around him, staring at the strange playmate who had dewdrops in his eyes and made such awful faces. Such a thing did not generally occur in heaven, where all were good and quiet. But just then St. James came along and, on seeing the crying angel, he spoke pleasantly to him, and finally took him up in his arms in order to comfort him. But a great surprise lay in store for the Saint; for it would have been easier for him to convert a thousand heathens than to quiet the little unruly fellow, who commenced kicking and wriggling, and made such a terrible outcry that the angels fluttered away in consternation. There stood the Saint with the child in his arms, and did not know what to do! At last he concluded to show the strange being to the Lord Himself, and went with the little one before His throne. Then the Lord Almighty smiled, and all the angels around His throne smiled, when they saw St. James, who certainly did not seem very well adapted for nursing children, and in whose arms little Hans, regardless of all surroundings, continued to roar unmercifully. But the merciful Lord opined that the greatest squallers often turned out the best men, and He ordered an angel to carry the little one back to dear earth.

And this was done. With mighty strokes of his pinions the heavenly messenger floated back to earth, which came nearer and nearer with its mountains, lakes, and rivers, and with the old, lifeworn town, and from out the town rose up the gabled roof of the parents' home with a cap of snow upon it.

The boy in the coffin opened his eyes, and with a cry of joy his mother pressed him to her heart. Among the boughs of the Christmas-tree there was a soft rustling and whispering.

Methinks the tree remembered that winter is only a deep sleep, and was dreaming of spring.


II.

The years of misery and war were over. In the streets of the old town, where only a few years ago the roll of the drum resounded, and where the plague, in deathly silence, had spread its black wings, there, the stork on the town-hall heard, to his great satisfaction, merry shouts of children, -- the ringing laugh of peace. A group of boys chased each other noisily over the market-place, playing at war. War! which had desolated so many of their homes. Oh! the fresh, merry laughter of childhood! how like unto ivy it climbeth over all ruins and findeth at last the sunshine!

But there was one not amongst the noisy group, and that one was Hans. His parents perceived with anxiety that the little noisy child had grown into a silent, shy boy, who avoided the games of his comrades and dreamingly went his own way. For hours he sat in the garden on the bench near his mother's flowers, and gazed dreamingly at the busy bees and butterflies, or lay in the woods near by and stared up through the branches of the beech-trees at the blue sky.

"What are you thinking of?" his mother would ask at times; then he would start up like one awakened from sleep, the thread of whose dreams are broken by awaking. "He is ill," the mother would think, anxiously. But folks would shake their heads suspiciously when, on speaking to the boy, they received no other answer than a shy, questioning look. "There is something wanting," said some, with an unmistakable gesture. "He is a fool," murmured others.

Thus a boy fares who has peeped too early into Paradise. The children of his own age made fun of him, and poor Hans would have been quite forsaken if Liesel from next door had not taken his part. She was quite the opposite to him, -- merry and high-spirited. Whilst he sat dreaming, she was romping about, singing and laughing. But the children kept together, and the parents thought they might some day be a pair. The boy's reserved nature vexed the father, and, being of the opinion that man's hand cannot learn too early to handle and knead the tough clay of existence, he apprenticed him to a potter, in the hope that time would change the character of his son. He was mistaken, however; the boy grew up a fine, handsome youth, but in character he remained the boy of former days. If he looked up from his work it was not in order to gaze, like other journeymen, after a young girl who maybe was tripping past; but to stare up at the sky, which shone so blue between the houses, or to follow with his eyes the great white clouds away, -- who knows whither? In his free time he did not go like others to the market-place, but would mount the ramparts at the back of his parents' house and gaze into the valley below, where the river was bearing its silvery wavelets into the far distance. What might not be in the far distance? Far, far away yonder must be the place where the dream of his childhood was realized! How astonished, then, was his father, when one fine sunny spring morning his son stood before him, with knapsack and staff, in order to bid him farewell before setting out on his travels. Who would ever have thought he would want to travel! The father rejoiced in the belief that the son would seek work according to the custom of journeymen workmen, and gave him his blessing, and much good advice besides. But he hardly even heard the words and advice of his father; there was a singing in his ears and a mist before his eyes, so that he felt like one intoxicated. Yes, he was a fool! Nor did he see the tears his mother and Liesel were shedding at his departure: he only thought of that far-off land, of the dream of his childhood. What mattered to him their tears! He wanted only to travel to find his Eden. And he travelled. With each rising sun he arose and thought, "To-day you will find what you seek;" and when he laid himself down tired at night, he thought, "To-morrow I shall reach my goal;" and, happy in this thought, he would fall asleep. No mountain was too steep for him, no path too stony, no forest too dense; he thought of his Eden, and minded not the thorns that tore his flesh. Yes, he was a fool!

Far behind him, forgotten, lay his home in the dim distance!

No living creature could tell him where his Paradise lay! The birds of the forest went on with their song; the deer gazed at him astonished; the brooks babbled on monotonously and sought the way to the ocean. People he asked only laughed, and they looked back at the strange lad, shaking their heads.

Quickly the time flew by; the spring faded, summer and autumn passed, and still he wandered on. His path, that once lay before him green and fair, was now covered with snow. He, however, heeded it not, and journeyed on. It must come at last, the long-sought goal! At last he reached a mighty snow-covered mountain range, so mighty that he said to himself, "Beyond this it must surely lie," and in glad hope passed forward. A whole day he ascended over snow and ice: his feet were sore and bruised, and he was shivering from the cold, and yet no hut was to be seen that might offer him shelter. The sun went down in crimson behind the ice-armored mountains, leaving behind a bitter coldness, so great that the stars in the heavens shivered with frost.

Then it occurred to tired Hans that it was Christmas, and for the first time on his journey he thought for a long while of home, where the Christmas-tree was now lighting up the warm room, and the dear ones were assembling around it. But what mattered the Christmas-tree to him; he was seeking Paradise!

Suddenly he saw on the roadside an old man. He was sitting on his bundle, and leaning his head on his hands. He must have been very old, for his face was furrowed like the bark of an oak, and his snowy beard hung nearly to the ground.

Then tired Hans rejoiced, greeted him, and asked how far it might be to the nearest habitation of man.

"To-day you can no longer reach it," replied the old man. "Whither are you journeying?"

"I seek Paradise," answered Hans: "nearly a year have I wandered over the earth, and yet have not found it."

Thereupon the old man arose, laid his hands upon Hans's shoulder, and said, "Turn back and go home! I have wandered for more than a thousand years on earth, and sought Paradise, and have not found it. Know, then, I am Ahasuerus, doomed to everlasting wandering as a penance. Wherever I go I am persecuted; where I knock the gate is locked; and nowhere have I a home. Stones are my bed, and my bundle is my pillow. Go, poor fool! return to the place of your birth. There, some day, they will dig a grave for you, wherein you may sleep peacefully. Go back to your home, where a Christmas-tree is lit up for you, and where you are loved, and leave to me all wandering and seeking: to me, the poor, old, accursed man!"

Then Hans was very sad: he threw down his bundle, sat down in the snow, and wept bitterly. However, he was so tired from the long journey that he soon forgot all his misery, and fell into a deep slumber. The old man spread his cloak over him to protect him from the cold, and then listened to the deep-drawn breathing of precious sleep, that drowns all cares. The youth lying there could sleep, and die, and forget! but he himself must keep awake, and live, and wander!

Upon the face of Hans a smile was playing; he was dreaming! Did he see the long-sought Paradise? He saw in his dream a house with snow-covered gable and little windows; a small house, closely encircled by other houses, a garden in front. In a room inside sat his parents round a cheerful fire. The spinning-wheel whizzed, and the cat purred in comfort in front of the fire. Softly there fell, now and again, a needle from the Christmas-tree. A resinous, pine-tree odor filled the room. From the next house a clear, maiden's voice was singing the old, old Christmas carol, -- 

"A rose has bloomed From a tender root, Our fathers have sung: Out of Jesse it came."

And the crackling of the fire, the whizzing of the spinning-wheel, and the maiden's song seemed to the dreamer fairer than a thousand Edens. An indescribable homesickness overcame him.

When he awoke, the east was radiant with the blush of morning. He sprang up and seized his staff. Scales seemed to fall from his eyes. "Home, home!" a thousand voices seemed to echo within him.

But up the mountains, outlined by the red of the morn, he saw the old man wandering on his comfortless path.



A Yarn Spun by a Yankee.


"A white-haired, thin-visaged, weather-worn old gentleman in a blue, Quaker-cut coat."

Hawthorne.



A Tale Of A Turkey.


I.

The shutters of a little spur of warehouses which breaks out into mountainous stores and open valleys of streets around the corner, but which itself overlooks no fairer view than a narrow, muddy alley of a thoroughfare scarcely broad enough to admit two drays abreast, and, by actual measurement, -- taken with persistent diligence by the adjacent office boys, -- just two running-jumps from gutter to gutter; the shutters of this, in its own eyes, important little trade centre, were up, and a great clattering they had made in getting up on a clear, tingling night before Christmas, eighteen hundred and -- no matter what.

The porters had come out in their faded greatcoats, bandaged right and left in woolly mufflers, and more than usually clumsy in padded gloves, and had been bitten and tossed about by the wind with such unbecoming violence that even a porter felt it necessary to hurry and bustle. Taking the shutters by assault from the foe's embraces, they had thumped, and banged, and hammered, and scolded them into place, and, in undignified haste, had betaken themselves, steaming warm breath through their fingers, into their proper and respective places by the counting-house fire.

The magic -- so it seemed in its effects -- tolling of a deep-toned bell in the neighborhood would not allow them to doze long in their warm nooks, but, like the jealous monster in the fairy-tale, kept its captives always going, going, going, for its sixth stroke had not died away before they began to appear again, this time with the addition of fur hats and little dinner-baskets, and with no perceptible noses -- unless the existence of watery eyes above their mufflers argued the missing features to be in their proper places below -- and with an accelerated gait -- also an act of enchantment.

William, of No. 6, bawled as loud as his worsted gag would permit across the street (so termed by a figure of rhetoric) to James, of No. 7:

"Hello, Jim! Cold as blazes, ain't it?"

James, of No. 7, assenting, Thomas, of No. 4, would like to know "How blazes can be cold, now?"

William, of No. 6, would say "as thunder," if that would suit him any better; and as it appeared to do so they, with half a dozen others, breasted the wind and trudged out into the blustery streets beyond.

The merchants, too, had locked their doors, and tried their knobs, and looked up at the faces of their stores as if to say, "Merry Christmas to you, and I wish you a pleasant day to-morrow!" but in reality to see that all was fast, and perchance to indulge in a comfortable survey of their snug little properties -- and the complacent tread with which they followed the porters gives color to the suspicion -- and draw from it momentum for the enjoyment of the morrow's holiday.

The shutters, then, were up -- stop, not all up! One, as you may see by the shaft of gas-light that has just fallen across the pavement near the top of the court, is still down.

The little square window through which the light eddies on the bricks is supported on either side by a heavy door, and all three, the two doors and the window, are in turn crowned and anointed on the head, as it were, by a very bold sign containing very brazen -- in every sense of the word -- letters which announced pompously, like some servants of similar metallic qualities, the name of their master.

Emanuel Griffin -- the tongue uncontrollably adds Esquire -- was the name, and there, if you had looked through the window, in a deep funnel of a room, at a desk near the fire, head behind the open leaves of a ledger, and feet beneath the warm recesses of the stove, sat its possessor.

Outside the railing which formed a barrier between Emanuel Griffin, Esq., and the business world, and encompassed with a less elaborate railing, sat, on a high stool in a cold corner, the little, blackish-green (perhaps the color gas-light imparts to faded black) clerk of Emanuel Griffin, Esq. Whether David Dubbs, such was he called, derived the power of writing from his mouth; or whether the gentle excitation of moving his lips over toothless gums assisted thought; or whether, as some said, he chewed tobacco, a position which nobody ever held long, as nobody ever proved him to have expectorated during his whole life; his mouth -- always closed -- moved up and down, up and down, with the motion of his pen. Hair he had none, that is, none to speak of; there were some few isolated white locks behind his ears and at the back of his head, but he made no pretensions to have any, and openly acknowledged himself bald -- and very candid of him it was to do so.

Chroniclers have told us how, after fierce battles that have raged from dawn till nightfall, the moon has come calmly up from the horizon and shone peacefully and serenely over the field of strife and death. So arose a beneficent smile ever and anon over the wrinkled and careworn face of the old clerk; but still he wrote on, Faithful Dave! and if pleasant thoughts swept through him they avoided the business that occupied his hands and did not interrupt it.

They had long sat in quietness, only broken by the noise of turning leaves and crackling coals, -- but, in truth, if David Dubbs's eye, in its course to and from the clock, had not, like the world, worked silently on its axis, there must have been continual creaking -- when a noise like the name of David emanated from the ledger, and following it -- for it was near-sighted -- the head of Emanuel Griffin, Esq., lifted itself to an erect posture and repeated in a less muffled tone, "David!"

"Yes, sir," answered the old clerk, in a weak little voice, and climbing down to the floor from his perch.

"You may lock up, David. Ten thousand and odd. Ten thousand's a good year, David; a very good year. Very -- good -- indeed! But go and lock up," and then Mr. Griffin took a glance at the clock. "Half-past six! Why it's surprising how time does fly, and Christmas Eve, too. Well, well! But hurry up with the shutters, David, and we shan't be long --  -- "

Before Mr. Griffin had fully delivered himself of these remarks the little person of David Dubbs was out in the cold, was in and out among the screws on the door, had put up the shutters, and simultaneously with the last word stood in the half-opened door and, all unseen by his employer, waved his hand to some one at the corner of the court. He then walked as quickly as his little, bent legs -- parabolic were they in outline, but, as this is not a geometric treatise, it is of no particular consequence -- would permit him up the long aisle in the centre of the room, and sent off timid little echoes of his steps to ramble away among the bales of crockery -- for it was crockery that Emanuel Griffin, Esq., dealt in -- and rattle among the piles of plates.

Having reached again his little cage of an office, he took down from its accustomed peg an old, threadbare coat, and, with much exertion and outstretching of arms, finally got it on, turned up the collar, tied about his ears a not very robust scarf, and laid thereon, as the copestone of his apparel, a dingy high hat that had undergone, in point of nap, as many reverses as its wearer in point of fortune. Thus attired, he tipped his hat to his employer, all ready, like himself, to depart, and started out.

Before he reached the door, a cry from Mr. Griffin arrested him, and he came hastily back; for, although it would have required a thumbscrew to have made him confess it, yet he had all day long looked forward to the time of parting, when he half expected Emanuel Griffin, Esq., contrary to his custom though it was, would offer him some little gift out of the increased profits of a business he had done no little to advance. But no such design had Mr. Griffin conceived, or if he had it was very soon suppressed as entirely unworthy of a man of purely business habits, and all he had to say was, -- 

"I know, David, there is something I was to have told you to do. Mrs. Griffin impressed it on me this morning, but," -- here he stood thinking for a moment, -- "no matter," he resumed. "I guess it was nothing very important, so good-by, David, and a -- good-by!" He was going to say "and a merry Christmas;" but for a man of purely business habits to unbend so far and become cheerful -- why, it's subversive of all business discipline, and so he thought to himself.

David, doubly disappointed, turned and passed out, and his old eyes must have been extremely sensitive to the wind, for they ran with something very like tears that he wiped away with his glove as he muttered, -- 

"So, no Christmas, after all. Poor girls! Poor girls!" Mr. Griffin was not long behind his faithful old clerk. He extinguished the lights with great care, and then, with the key in his hand, felt his way to the door, banged it after him, and locked it with the satisfaction of a miser over a casket of treasures. His journey home led him to the opposite end of the court from that which David had passed through, and he therefore did not overtake him.

And if he had, would this hard, business-encrusted heart have been less cold than the bitter winds that assailed it? Would the sight which made David Dubbs forget the fierceness of night have penetrated the chilly place where it rested and warmed it in pitying activity? Would the tender impulses, which the unsifted morals of barter extinguish, as they extinguish much of the nobility in man, have enkindled anew and brightened this misery? Not if dollars would have done it; nay, not if even a word would have done it, would Emanuel Griffin have relaxed from the demeanor which purely business habits imposed upon him. He felt it due to his position in business society to maintain rigidly its maxims, the chief of which, "Do unto others as they would do unto you, if they could," he practised to the letter.


II.

Poor David Dubbs! Oh, the long time it seemed since boon companions had smitten him on the back and cried, "Bravo, Dave Dubbs! Bravo, old fellow!" to his little songs, or encouraged him by such exclamations as "Dave Dubbs can't be beat at a ballad!" Oh, the long, long time ago! But to proceed. As David Dubbs met the ambushed winds that leaped upon him at the corner of the court, he also met the person to whom he had waved his hand from the store-door. If you had looked for the stature of a man you would have been doubly mistaken, -- first in sex, next in size. It was neither a man nor a woman. There, in a blustery doorway, shaking with cold, but ever on the alert, crouched a little girl. She wore a knitted hood, and out of it fell overflowing curls; but her poor, attenuated little body was ill-assorted with plenty of any kind, and the wealth of curls mocked the poverty of her clothes. A patched shawl affected to protect her poor little shoulders, and a calico dress flapped coldly about her legs. As David turned the corner she arose, and, for all her stiffness and shivering, exclaimed, cheerily, "A merry Christmas, father!" and reached to kiss him.

He took her in his arms -- she was very, very slight -- and lifted her to his lips, and then, throwing one side of his own scanty coat about her and holding it there with an affectionate hug, he said, "Come, come, little daughter, it's too bleak for a little body like you to be out. It's cruel, cruel, but I dared not tell him it was so late. What does he know or care for my poor little faithful, Loving Scout?"

"Your Scout couldn't miss Christmas Eve, father, if it was ever so cold."

"And does she ever miss? No, no, she's a dutiful Scout, winter and summer, rain and shine, morning and night, and what should I ever do without her!"

So, talking and fighting the wind by turns, they walked on, the bent and shuffling old man and his Little Scout, as he had named her and as they all affectionately called her, through dark streets where, ever and anon, a car or belated dray shivered by, as if the cold had touched even its insensibility, and made the tracks resound and the paving blocks rattle in the clear air; through deep cisterns of streets, between lofty stone banks -- as stern almost as their governing boards, for, although boards are chiefly wooden, a supplication will quickly petrify them; through rows of illuminated stores like walls of Arabian Night visions, with traceries of frost on their windows richer in design than the gems within them; through clustering crowds that entered or left continually the swinging doors of saloons and hotels; past waiting carriages; past swearing men; past laughing ladies, and past beggars, wearier, and colder, and lonelier than themselves. So they travelled, scarcely heeding what they saw in their speed until, on the margin of all the din, by a turn through a dark street, they reached a darker alley, and, passing down it, at last stopped before their own homely door.

The building had once been a warehouse, -- David liked it the better for that, he said. "Why, all my life has been spent in trade, and, you see, I've sort a become attached to anything that smacks of it, though I've little reason to feel so, the Lord knows!" he would exclaim to his friends. Up above, over a long door in the top story -- you can scarcely make it out in the uncertain light -- jutted a weather-beaten crane, with a long disused pulley dangling at its point, cracked, and rusted, and abandoned, and no less cracked and abandoned, shot out from the second floor a moss-covered platform that had been intended for the reception of bales of stuffs that had never arrived. The mortar had, here and there, been wrenched from between the bricks by savage weather and age, and the doors, too, had shrunk before their united malignity. How such a house had drifted to such a locality is unaccountable, unless -- as is often the case -- some navigator of real estate had thought he descried a port, where was only a shoal that left his venture high and dry among newer and costlier craft.

However, the nearest approach it had made in the last twenty years or so -- so David said -- to fulfilling its commercial place in the world was in opening its doors to a gentleman in the carpentering line. This gentleman, Mr. Jacob Tripple by name, occupied the ground floor, and all around it were scattered evidences, in the shape of window-frames, and wooden-horses, and props, and old lumber, of a thriving business. He, with all his men, had departed long ago and left the place dark, and still, and cold.

It had lain in this stupor of silence for more than an hour, waiting against hope to be resuscitated by any stray echoes that should drop in from the neighboring hubbub and waken it up, when it caught among its bleak angles the cheery voice of David's Little Scout, and revived -- as some old men do under the charm of gentle words -- to a more respectable opinion of itself. So immediately it seemed refreshed, that if it were possible for such a decrepit -- not to say inanimate -- old structure as that even metaphorically to prick up its ears, it metaphorically did as the sound of Dolly's -- her proper name -- cheery welcome home echoed round it.

"Here we are once more, father," she cried, breaking away from him to have the door open when he plodded up to it. "Once more, and a welcome home, and a merry Christmas to you!"

"Always on duty, Little Scout! Always on duty!" he called after her. (The wind was keen and drew water to his eyes again, and again he brushed it away.) "Always on duty," he went on repeating, with a doleful effort at cheerfulness.

She was up-stairs by that time, and, opening the door above, had called in, "Here's father!" then ran back to meet him, which she did at the door below.

What these unusual proceedings meant, David Dubbs might have guessed or might have known traditionally, they being of an annual nature, but whether he did or not, or whether his ignorance was also traditional, he gave no sign, and walked feebly up-stairs, guided by the Little Scout, just as if it were not Christmas Eve at all.

What the proceedings did mean was that a steaming pot of coffee at the given signal was lifted from its warm corner and tilted into a cup that held a conspicuous place at the head of a little white spread table. On its right hand sat, in the position of an honored and seldom present guest, a juicy-complexioned, but not corpulent beefsteak; opposite to it, inviting death by explosion, rested a bowl full of steaming potatoes in their native jackets, and the centre was fully occupied by a huge loaf with a large family of slices.

Around this collation -- aroused by the signal, for they had been idly waiting before -- moved two pairs of hands with loving attention. The cloth was resmoothed, the knives and forks straightened, a brace of mealy potatoes was emptied on the two plates that awaited them, and at last a ruddy slice of beefsteak was deposited beside and oozed through them its savoriness. This last climax was reached just as the door opened, and the two pairs of hands speedily transferred themselves to the duty -- no very arduous one -- of helping David and Dolly out of their wraps.

And then, with many caresses and kisses and cries of "Take this side, father, where the coals are bright!" or "Put your feet here and get them good and warm, poor Little Scout!" then, when thick flying questions and travellings to the one end of the room for things that were not wanted, and excursions to the other end of the room for things that were wanted; when the chairs were drawn up; when the grateful old man and his little daughter, with those tender hands over their mouths to stifle the gratitude they struggled to utter, were duly seated at the table, and when the kettle was singing its approval in the corner, then, only, -- when all these preliminaries were gone through with, -- did the possessors of the hands that devised them seat themselves on a low wooden settee opposite the table and enjoy the zest and delight they had ministered to.

Good nature and tender hearts, pale faces and cheerful eyes, honest red hands and neatly bound-up hair have never been faithfully reproduced in a state of print and paper, much less in imagination, and, indeed, how can anything so buxom and comely, even if the plainest in dress, be expected to be? It is, therefore, needless to say that the twin daughters of David, namely, Molly and Polly Dubbs, being all that is here set down, should have been seen in all their kindliness to be truly known, and no other form of introduction would do them full justice.

Molly was the counterpart of Polly in all respects save height. She was a very little taller than Polly, and a fortunate thing it had been for all concerned that she was so. Else, consider the vexation of the measles and other diseases essential to youth. Why, in their quandary which to begin on, they almost missed the twins altogether as it was. Consider the complexity of young lovers who should pour into the ears of Polly passionate adjectives intended solely to captivate the heart of Molly; and, most important of all, consider the conflict of choice which would have disquieted the soul of Mr. Jacob Tripple and at last driven him to the alternatives of suicide or bigamy.

But all these dangers had been averted by the provisions of Nature, and the twins, who had supped, for economic reasons, earlier in the evening, sat beaming on while David and little Dolly heartily devoured the supper.

David, looking up now for the first time, in the interval of a mouthful swallowed and a mouthful threatened, espied a bowery wreath of holly that hung around a picture of General Washington in the act of crossing a dark, green river Delaware in a court dress of red and breeches of yellow, surrounded on all sides by ice and officers in rainbow uniforms, and, as this was the only adornment of a rather bare room, it is no wonder it caught his eye.

"Why, who's been a-brightening up the gen'ral so Christmas-like?" he exclaimed.

"We did, father! Leastwise it was Polly's present," said Molly.

"And who may be a-sending presents to Polly now?" asked David, with a twinkle in his eye that had seen better days but none kindlier. "It wasn't young Cuffy over at the baker's, nor Jake Tripple, now, was it?"

He looked at Polly for an answer, whereat she stretched her arm along the back of the settee and let fall her hand on Molly's shoulder with a punch which was intended as punishment for the giggles her sister struggled to confine in her mouth with both hands; but which, in spite of her, bubbled over and attacked David, and then, with a blush, Polly muttered, -- 

"It wasn't young Cuffy at all, and I hate his loafy, little face, and I hate --  -- "

"Not Jacob Tripple! No, no, not good Jake Tripple?" said David, reprovingly.

"I didn't say that, father!" she exclaimed. "He's your good old friend, and how could I hate him? He came in just before leaving for the day, and asked for you -- what, made him think you were home I can't tell, for it was long before your time -- and asked for you, and left the wreath for -- for -- me."

The hem of her long checkered apron then needed close scrutiny and folding for some unknown purpose, and this duty diverted her thoughts from the subject, but she turned to Dolly, who enjoyed this banter in her own quiet little way, which seldom rippled into a loud laugh, for her own quiet little face was too pale and too pinched to invite such freebooters. "Come, come, Little Scout," she said. "Is she warm now, and were the rations good, and did she meet Kriss Kingle on his cold journey (with a caress of her pale little cheeks) with heaps of warm dresses, and heaps of pretty dolls, and heaps of sweetmeats too big to carry himself, so he asked her to carry some home to help him! Did she? (with another caress.) And would our Little Scout be sorry if he didn't come himself to look after them and --  -- "

"Ah, that reminds me!" said David, quite audibly for him, and rising from the table with knife and fork still in hand.

"What reminds you, father?" asked the twins, in chorus.

"Why, coming home!" said David, not very intelligibly.

"What coming home?" again from the chorus, in expectant attitude.

"Why, Tom, I told you!" which he hadn't done at all, but as by this time he was deep in the cupboard, where his overcoat hung, and as his voice was a little more muffled than usual, it was useless to argue the point, so the chorus loudly exclaimed, -- 

"Tom?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" from David, faintly and rather testily, as he had groped through his old coat, and had successively dropped the knife and fork, reeking with gravy, into the inside and outside pockets.

"To be sure! Tom coming home and I clean forgot it, what with the cold and the surprises," he said again, emerging with the knife and fork in one hand and a letter in the other. "Here it is. He'll be home to-morrow, he says, God willin', and eat our turkey with us. Poor Tom, poor boy! He's been away so long he's forgot Griffin and hard times, or he wouldn't say that!"

"Tom! Be home! and to-morrow?" -- interruption of chorus as it reaches for the letter, opens and reads it aloud -- Dolly being lifted in the sturdy arms of Molly to look over.

David, meanwhile, overcome by the toothsomeness of beefsteak, falls to again, while the others dance a sort of fandango, and turn up the rag carpet, and rattle the dishes on the dresser, and lift Dolly high in the air to the improvised tune of "Tom's coming home! Tom's coming home! Tom's coming home to-morrow!"

"It's another mouth to feed, but it's hard to wish the poor boy back to Californy again," huskily said David; then he exclaimed, as the noise increased, "Hey dey! Why, you'll spill the coffee next, and cave in the walls, too, in a minute, and then there'll be no home for Tom to come to!"

This was good humoredly added as the final swing was given to the dance, which brought the twins holding Dolly aloft in their arms laughing and panting on the settee.

"But tell us, father, is he coming home for good? He don't say so in the letter," asked Dolly, and all leaned forward to hear his answer.

"Coming home for good?" mused David. "Yes, he's coming home for good, I hope; but I'm fearful he'll find little beside the good in his sisters' hearts."

"Poor Tom," said Dolly, with far-away eyes, "he's had a weary life of it in the mines, I guess, poor fellow."

"Yes, yes," said David, "and that's what makes it harder that we can't greet him with a good Christmas to-morrow. Well, well, it'll be a delight to see my poor boy again, hard times or no hard times, and we'll be as cheerful as we can be and are now, thanks to my good girls," and here he arose from the table, and, seating himself at the fire, opened a morning paper that he had found in the waste-basket in Mr. Griffin's counting-house (and very worthless it must have been to be found there!) in which, through the kind offices of a massive old pair of spectacles, he was soon absorbed.

And now, while the Little Scout -- in fulfilment of her established character -- plays the spy on sundry crumbs that slink from notice under the table, and while the twins, too busy to talk, wash the dishes and dispose them in a glistening row along the dresser, and, while David opens the paper and plods up and down it, column by column, like a ploughman furrow by furrow up and down a field, and with almost as much toil; and while the ancient clock on the shelf over the stove and under the motley General Washington ticks loud enough to be heard above the clinking dishes and simmering kettle; and while the table, divested of its cloth and exhibiting a stained and blistered old back, is glad enough to avoid attention by being stowed away in the corner; while the pleasant spirits of domesticity that come only at the call of good men, and good wives, and good sons, and good daughters, but resist the imperious beckonings of the wealthiest hands, and wing on over their roofs to lowlier, and scantier, and purer habitations -- while the pleasant spirits of domesticity and kindliness throng invisibly into the room, and David Dubbs reads stray scraps from his paper to his daughters, grouped near the fire at his feet, we must softly withdraw and leave them to the care of coming Christmas dreams.


III.

Christmas morning had opened brightly with David Dubbs. The sun, preceded down the court by hustling winds that knocked at every citizen's door and demanded admittance for their oncoming master, had left at each house a gift of golden cheerfulness. The sky above was so blithe and blue that it smiled down at even so insignificant a crack as David Dubbs's court must have appeared to it; and the cold was a jolly and snappish cold.

The twins and David's Little Scout were as merry as the Christmas chimes they lingered and listened to, and not the daintiest dinner that Mr. Cuffy (and that gentleman held the subject somewhat in mind, too, on Polly's account) could have delivered at their door would have added one jot of happiness to their abundance. David's poor old back bent under the stress of poverty that would permit him no indulgences for them -- all the more dear on that day; but, used to loving self-denial, they never missed what they so little desired, and so far were they from giving it a thought, that if David had spoken out what he so wilfully turned over and over in his mind, that would have given them far more pain and anxiety. Mr. Tripple was early in his shop, presumptively to attend to some forgotten duties, but, as he did not pay very active attention to anything but carefully tying up a square box in white paper, and as he did pay very active attention to what went on up-stairs, at the same time exhibiting no hurry to get home to dinner, David, who had, towards noon, gone around the corner with Polly to make some little purchases of groceries before the stores closed, dropped in on his way back and invited Mr. Tripple up-stairs. Mr. Tripple at first firmly refused, and said, "Very much obliged, Dave, but couldn't think of it. Indeed not. They'd 'spect me at home, ye know, Dave." Whereupon Miss Polly added her entreaties, and said he needn't expect anything very much, but if he would walk up they would be very happy to have him. Mr. Tripple would have walked up -- and, indeed, wanted very much to walk up -- at first, but his extreme awkwardness, aggravated by holiday clothes of a tight cut and by a paper collar bent above his coat like a scimetar, and almost as sharp and glistening as that weapon, impelled him to do violence to his wishes in order to appear calm -- under her eyes -- and to deceive them politely as to his real desire. But now, lured on by the siren voice of Polly, he consented to go up "a little while" (which meant all the afternoon), and taking the white box under his arm he locked the shop-door and followed them up the creaking stairs.

Arrived in the room and relieved of hat and coat, Mr. Tripple bowed mysteriously to Dolly, and, intrusting her with the box, whispered, -- "Go and hand that to sister Polly, little un." Polly, receiving it from her, exclaimed in surprise, -- 

"For me, Mr. Tripple?"

"Yes, miss," he replied, growing red and smiling broadly, "a little something for Christmas, that's all."

Polly opened the box and extracted a pasteboard plane with some artificial shavings pasted upon it, which, when lifted apart, discovered a heap of sweetmeats. Dolly and Molly, looking on, exclaimed, "Why, Mr. Tripple, what a surprise!" and Polly blushingly added, "So very unexpected!"

Mr. Tripple grew redder and nervously crossed his legs, saying, "I thought 'twould be kind a appropriate to the trade, you know, and so I just fetched it up, and --  -- "

Then Polly, seeing his embarrassment, called on David and the rest to come and help themselves, and there was good humor and laughing until the twins darted away to got dinner, which was soon prepared, for there was little enough to get, and all invited to sit up to the table.

All were duly in their places, and David had, in accordance with Christmas custom, offered grace. Mr. Tripple and the girls were slowly raising their bowed heads, when a loud knock announced a visitor, and hastened the raising of heads to an unseemly hurry.

"Tom!" all exclaimed.

Molly hurried down-stairs, and the rest rushed to the stair-landing, where, in a moment, they received, not Tom, but a large, square basket that emitted a very fragrant smell of roasted fowl, in the arms of the returning Molly. Once in the room, the lid was off in a twinkling, and out came a sizable plate, enveloped in dainty, clean napkins, which, being removed in layers, exhibited, in all its brown deliciousness, a huge turkey, just done to a turn.

The party gathered around in pleased wonder, and as Molly threw the napkins into the basket a card fell on the floor. She picked it up and, astonished, read, "Emanuel Griffin."

"What!" said David, snatching it and reading it aloud to himself, "Emanuel Griffin. So it is, and no mistake!" and then he burst out, "Hurrah! hurrah for Griffin! I knew he couldn't forget us this year!" His poor old face was almost young again, and his voice, -- why, it could actually be heard as he ran on: "Why, there never was such a year for the china trade, Tripple, and how could he forget me? Jacob Tripple, your hand! A kiss, Little Scout! Why, your old father's 'most young again, and his good girls shall dine like other good girls, after all! How very thoughtful of Griffin to send it in the nick of time, too. Come, sit up again before it gets cold, and I wish we had something as hot to drink Griffin's health in. Why, I believe I could sing a song again if we had something hot. I do, indeed!"

So he ran on in his childish delight at the thought of being remembered, and at the far more grateful thought that his beloved daughters were to share the gift with him.

When he had ceased, all turned to Molly and asked in one breath who had left it. When the clamor slackened, she replied, "Why, young Cuffy from the baker's, and all he said was, 'David Dubbs, -- to be sent -- card inside,' and then kissing his hand, and crying 'Love to her,' meaning I don't know who," with a smirk at Polly, "he jumped aboard his wagon and flew away down the court."

Never was a turkey enjoyed so much, and never had a turkey better deserved it.

Mr. Tripple grew bland and talkative under its juicy influence. He even winked at Polly occasionally, and one time actually chucked her under the chin. She sat next to him, remarking that if he had his way she should live forever on turkey and sugar-plums. David ventured to say that that course of diet would be pretty indigestive, whereupon Mr. Tripple fondly suggested, as he gazed into her eyes, "How would love do for a substitute, then?" implying that "his way" would supply that abstract edible in equally large doses.

David dryly added "Starvation," and thereupon Polly covered her face with her hands, but left open a laughing eye at Molly, and Mr. Tripple looked boldly around the board as a man who had said a very bright thing indeed, after which survey he broke out into a not very comfortable laugh. All the rest laughed, too, then, and such good humor prevailed that nothing seemed amiss, and Mr. Tripple's inexperience was kindly overlooked.

But now the turkey was fast becoming skeletonized, and the good company was fast becoming the reverse. The jollity was increasing and the serious intentions of Mr. Tripple were impending and ready to fall into open profession on the slightest encouragement. The Little Scout's pinched and pale face -- sweet and uncomplaining, even through hunger and want -- smiled gently and less sadly as it leaned in Molly's arms, and, looking up, she said, -- 

"Poor father! How quiet you were last night when we were walking home. I knew you were thinking about to-day and the poor dinner. How kind it was of good Mr. Griffin. I'd like to thank him myself, father!"

"And so you shall, Little Scout," said David, gayly, bending over and kissing her with boyish contempt of aged bones; "and so you shall, and I make no doubt he'll be glad to see you, too, Deary."

The clock in a neighboring steeple, simultaneously with its ancient kinsman on the shelf, and followed by incoming echoes of a score of others, struck one; but the company little heeded that, and the conviviality was far from diminishing when another summons rattled the street door, and again all exclaimed "There's Tom!" and crowded to the landing as before.

Polly this time tripped down and came back in a moment with only a letter, saying, -- 

"A young man, father, with this letter for Mr. Griffin. It's addressed to his store, but he said it was important, and, knowing you lived here, he depended on you to deliver it at once."

"Has he gone?" said David, grasping it.

"Yes, father," replied Polly, "right off."

Here was a pitiable state of affairs indeed. David Dubbs, aroused from the joyful celebration of his Christmas dinner and from the midst of this cosey party and sent off across the river to his master's house with a miserable letter and by a miserable young man (and if delivering letters when every other well-intentioned man is eating his turkey isn't miserable, why what is it?). Sent off on a graceless errand for nothing, perhaps. But his kind employer, who had done so much for his comfort and joy that very day, must not suffer by his neglect, and off he must post; that was imperative. Mr. Tripple offered his services when David had started down-stairs, and when there was no chance of his turning back, but David said, "No, no, Tripple; you just stay and keep the girls company till I get back, and that'll be enough for you to attend to. Good-by, girls. Good-by, Little Scout; if it wasn't so cold, she should go too." And off he trudged, as patient, and cheerful, and proud of his master's attention and of his mission, too, now he had fully set out, as many a younger and better dressed man would have been.


IV.

When Emanuel Griffin, Esq., leaving the dark little street wherein stood his warehouse and wherein very much of his life and very little of his money was spent -- which latter fact had, however, no merely local application but was of a general nature -- when, to resume, Emanuel Griffin, Esq., buttoning up his overcoat and, leaving the dark little street, turned the next corner among the mountainous stores and looked vexedly around for a car to bear him to his home across the river, and rattled his keys in his pocket, and nearly hummed a tune in his impatience, suddenly, as the car appeared like a new planet, and with the easy-going motions of a planet in its ascent had nearly reached him -- suddenly a thought of something forgotten flashed through his mind, and the violence of its reaction turned him completely around and sent him in a precipitous hurry in the opposite direction, namely, in that which David Dubbs and his little daughter had pursued but a short time before.

"Pshaw!" he muttered, and looked as if he would like to add something a great deal stronger. "That's what I forgot to tell David; but Mrs. G. 'll never forget it, nor forgive it, either, if I don't attend to it before I get home." So he turned up his collar, and rubbed his ears, and hurried on to keep warm.

His destination proved to be a fancy bakery in the neighborhood of David Dubbs's house. The pavement in front of it at that hour and season, owing to holiday orders, was sending up warm steam from the oven beneath, and a fragrant and appetizing smell of hot bread and browning cakes pervaded the street. It was a large establishment of the kind, and besides its legitimate line of bread-baking, took charge of the cooking and preparing of dinners for ladies of limited domestic conveniences in fashionable life. Heedless of the delicious scents which had attracted several men with greedy eyes to linger at the window and devour in fancy -- a process which left them hungrier than ever -- the heaps of loaves and cakes on the counter within; heedless of the supplicating looks the men turned on him, and of the confidential attempts of one or two at a begging whisper (but his hurry was in nowise chargeable with that inattention); heedless of everything but finishing his errand and getting home, Mr. Griffin pushed through the crowd in the store, and, reaching the counter, beckoned to a light-haired, light-eyed, and red-cheeked youth, in a blue tie and black waistcoat that, through constant friction with loaves and flour-barrels, had become of a light pepper-and-salt pattern, and hurriedly said, -- 

"I want a turkey, Cuffy, of about fifteen or twenty pounds, cooked and sent to my house by one o'clock to-morrow."

"Can't do it, Mr. Griffin," said the young man, who knew him and had bowed as he came up.

"Can't do what?" exclaimed Mr. Griffin, with surprise and dismay.

"Can't send it out," returned the young man, firmly.

"Oh!" said Mr. Griffin, relieved; "I thought you meant that you couldn't prepare it!"

"No, sir," commenced the young man. "You see, sir, Mr. Griffin, it's so late in the day that all our teams is ordered fur to-morrow at that time, and so is our boys, but --  -- "

"Well, I'll soon fix that, Cuffy," said Mr. Griffin, opening his coat and taking out a card. "There, just pin that on the turkey when it is ready, and carry it over here to Dubbs's -- David Dubbs is my clerk. He will understand the card, and bring the turkey out to my house. I shouldn't be so particular about it if Mrs. Griffin had not impressed it on me this morning. I almost forgot it, too."

Then asking the price, and answering, -- 

"That is very high, Cuffy;" to which that young man replied, -- 

"I know it is, sir, Mr. Griffin, but then, you see, the demand is werry great, sir."

Mr. Griffin paid the bill and hurried out, took a car at the next corner, and, after a long, cold ride, got home to allay the anxiety of Mrs. Griffin by assuring her that the turkey was ordered, and would be sent home promptly to-morrow by David Dubbs.

Christmas morning was, among the Griffin household, which consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Griffin and a superannuated servant, a very busy morning indeed, for the reason that Mrs. Griffin had, according to annual custom, invited more guests to dine than she could conveniently provide for. Their house was a cottage in the suburbs, pretty enough in summer and no thanks to its mistress or the superannuated servant either, but to the unaided impulse of nature, which climbed, in the form of bowery vines, wherever a vine could find clinging room; but now, in the midst of winter, bright though the day was, the skeletons of so much green gayety looked bare, and inhospitable, and cold. The house was approached by a long path that started at the iron gate and led up to the porch. It was far from a large house, and looked inconvenient, and famished for paint, and it was no less inconvenient than it looked, a fact, indeed, which necessitated the purchase of a cooked turkey, for the oven was small, and the stove in the crazy little kitchen needed all the surface it could afford for the vegetables, oysters, and other viands which then only, throughout the year, it blazed and glowed under.

The morning wore on and twelve o'clock arrived. The big table in the little dining-room was duly dressed and adorned with Mrs. Griffin's miscellaneous silver; and after a heated debate between that lady and the Superannuated, it was decided that when the company were all in the parlor the dining-room door should be left open, and at the bottom of the table, which now projected against the door, an additional chair for Mr. Griffin should be inserted. Mrs. Griffin said of course the company must squeeze in, but they understood all that, and were glad enough to get in by any means, to which Superannuated readily assented.

One o'clock, and now the company were all arrived. Mrs. Griffin was duly excused by Mr. Griffin, who received them, on the plea of domestic duties. They were mostly in the parlor, which contained, beside them, a set of red velvet furniture and a shining piano, on legs which emulated the unsteadiness of Superannuated's own, and which, in huskiness of voice, also resembled that person; a portrait of Mr. Griffin in rigid broadcloth, and a companion portrait of Mrs. Griffin in low neck and volumes of lace; and last, a very pimply-looking carpet, which seemed to suffer from a severe rash.

Mr. Griffin had occupied the space between the folding-doors as the company arrived and suavely -- as suavely, by the way, as his wincing at the cost of it all would admit of -- received, introduced, and seated them. The first arrival was a single gentleman, whom he saluted as Fred. He was short, and bald, and spasmodic, -- so much so that his pantaloons were never straight, and his collar, through much moistening of its raspy edges, was soiled. After him, a lady and gentleman drove up to the gate in a carriage, and, alighting, the lady swept up the path, in a double sense, while her husband upbraided the driver for the muddy condition of the carriage, and then, loudly, "At ten, William!" To which William as loudly replied, "Can't do it, sir. Got another order; but I'll send you another man."

The gentleman answered more quietly, with a careful look at the house, where Mr. Griffin awaited him on the porch, -- 

"Very well, driver;" and also swept in, and was introduced to Fred as Mr. Abbert.

Now came a pair who walked, and were addressed and handed around by the host as "My dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Dripps;" and then the volume of new-comers became quite abundant; so much so that a number of gentlemen with no apparent use for their hands were forced to lean about the hall and sit on the stairs, which they did up to the very top one. When the company had simmered down a good deal, and only a few very bold gentlemen ventured to launch remarks into the unanswering silence, and when everybody was wondering what everybody else was going to do next, and all were, as they reported the next day, "enjoying themselves immensely," there was a stir above stairs, a rustling of dresses, and then the gentlemen on the stairs, like a row of falling bricks, were driven down before the gracious smiles and bows of the transformed hostess.

Tripping down after them and falling at last into the extended arms of her husband -- rather unsteady under the weight -- while the stiffly polite gentlemen formed a compact crowd out to the door. Mrs. Griffin was led, with no little difficulty, through the seated guests, bestowing bows, and smiles, and "Glad to see you, my dear Mr. Dripps," and "How well you're looking, my dear Mrs. Abbert," and "Welcome, gentlemen," (whereat a murmur ran through the crowd and all shook their heads and tried to turn round and bow, but utterly failed,) and "Oh! here's my old Fred," and sundry other bewitching remarks that led the crowd of gentlemen to murmur again something like "Charming, be Gad!" and grow uneasy.

But now the bell was rung by Superannuated, who had duly inserted the chair, and Mr. Abbert, receiving the hostess from the arm of her husband and in turn delivering his smiling wife to Mr. Griffin, led off the throng to dinner.

When they arrived at the protruding table, by a preconcerted arrangement Mrs. Griffin handed Mr. Abbert to the one side and squeezed herself through the other -- an action which was imitated by the rest of the company, who were finally seated close up to the door -- all but Mr. Griffin, who was to occupy the extra chair, and, as he was already inside, and there was no other means of exit, he was obliged to pass through the kitchen and around the house. He soon appeared again through the front door and the dinner began.

Mrs. Griffin, who had long before left Superannuated to finish while she perfected her toilet, now rang the bell and, on her appearance, whispered in her ear. Superannuated whispered in her mistress's ear. Mrs. Griffin thereupon uttered a little cry and looked at Mr. Griffin. Mr. Griffin, in consternation, cried, "My dear!" and attempted to squeeze between the chairs, but failed. Then he looked wildly about him, and at last ran through the front door. He soon reappeared at the side of his fainting wife, who revived enough to say, -- 

"I shall never, never forgive you! Oh, the humiliation! the agony!" then fainted again.

"What is it?" "What's the matter?" "She's fainted!" and confused screams of the ladies came from all sides. Mrs. Dripps passed along her salts bottle. Mrs. Abbert held Mrs. Griffin's head, and Fred applied water. Under the strong influence of these restoratives she soon revived, and whispered to her husband something which caused him also to start and look despairingly at her.

She then said to him, loud enough for all to hear, "You must tell them it was your fault. Oh, the humiliation!" Here she burst out again, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and Mrs. Abbert soothingly said, "Oh, never mind him, my dear. I wouldn't mind him!" This was growing invidious, and all the gentlemen at the bottom of the table were looking scornfully at him.

He therefore said, in a loud voice, -- 

"The turkey has not arrived, -- that is all."

"That is all," whimpered Mrs. Griffin, mockingly. "That is all, he says; and isn't it enough, sir, to have all your domestic failings exposed to the world?"

Mrs. Griffin alluded to cooking facilities, and grew very bitter, while "the world" simpered and exchanged looks.

Mr. Griffin then, in desperation, explained the whole matter, -- how he had left the card for David Dubbs, and paid for the turkey, and come unsuspectingly home. "As," he added, "I have done year after year, for --  -- "

Here Mrs. Griffin checked him with symptoms of another faint, and he stopped short.

Mr. Abbert then said it was all that rascally clerk, and he ought to be discharged at once.

"I know 'em," he added violently and with deeply implied wisdom, which, by the way, was the only species of wisdom he ever attained to. "I know 'em, Griffin!"

Mr. Fred was of a similar opinion, and even more violent in his denunciation of David, as he had set his heart on turkey, and the appetite died painfully within him.

All the ladies and gentlemen were of various opinions, but all concentrated their rage on the poor, innocent little clerk, and panted for his clerkly death. In the midst of all this commotion the door-bell rang, and intensified it twofold, for nobody could get through to the door but by going around the house. This Superannuated finally did, and brought back with her the identical little clerk, -- the poor, agitated, and bowing little clerk who had unconsciously aroused all the indignation and tumult, whom sundry gentlemen at the lower end of the table had threatened with severe punishment if they ever caught sight of him, and who, now catching sight of him, were more than usually silent.

Mr. Griffin looked threateningly at him as, hat in hand, he walked up to him, presented a letter, and, in his faint voice, said, -- 

"A letter for you, sir, left for me to deliver."

He took it, and David continued tremulously to say, -- 

"And how can I thank you, sir, and madam," turning to Mrs. Griffin, "for the bounteous gift --  -- "

"Gift?" exclaimed both in a breath; "what gift? Where is the turkey you brought? What gift? What gift?"

"Why, a splendid turkey, with your card kindly --  -- "

This was received by the company with a volley of cries and calls, by a relapse on the part of Mrs. Griffin, and by the descent of Mr. Griffin's hand upon David's coat-collar, and finally by poor, frightened David's ejectment from the kitchen-door, harshly reproached by his employer as a thief and vagabond, and warned never to show his face in his store again.

"Be off, now!" he cried after him, "you ungrateful, deceitful old villain!" and then he slammed the door, and joined the hungry guests, to whom he declaimed at some length on the thanklessness of the lower classes.

Mrs. Griffin was quickly re-restored, this time to a state of injured perfection, and after the united apologies of herself and husband, and more abuse of poor, luckless David Dubbs, the company concluded with pretty bad grace to make the most of what had been prepared in the way of vegetables and side dishes, long ago cold. Mr. Griffin was mad, insulted, and hungry, and the contents of the letter he had received seemed to add very little warmth to the food, but a great deal to his anger, for he tore it up into very small pieces, as if it were David himself he was torturing, and, with a look the company did not consider very sociable, scattered it on the floor.


V.

The sky, as if presaging David Dubbs's misfortune, had grown overcast, and flung down spiteful little sallies of snow as he crossed the river on his way to Mr. Griffin's. The creaking of the bridge's huge timbers and the splitting ice below it made him shiver and pull his threadbare coat close about him and sacrifice his old hands to the wind to save his freezing ears. The same scarf bound them as the night before, but an icy gale like that which swept from the open river would have frozen through arctic furs. Notwithstanding all this, his spirits were lighter than usual. The scene he had left at home floated on before his eyes, and transfused itself with the black, sketchy trees against the sky and blent with the ragged barbs of smoke that depended from cottage chimneys. The wind had been boisterous enough, and would have torn it away on a cantering jaunt not many minutes ago, but, surcharged as it was now with blinding snow, it had its own liberty to look after, and paid little heed to anything else.

The snow came on thicker and thicker, and had begun to whiten the streets by the time David reached Mr. Griffin's house, and now, as he stood shocked and bewildered in the garden again, it lay deep and dreadfully silent as far as the eye could reach. Had he heard truly? Had he, for the first time in a long, and honest, and reputable life, been called a thief? And by the man whom his heart had overflowed in gratitude to but a moment before! David Dubbs a thief! And what of? What had he stolen? Oh, it was cruel to his poor old heart! "And the girls so merry, even now," he thought. How; how could he go to them with these bitter tidings? To be deprived of even the poor means his pen had faithfully and honestly earned for them; to toil so long, so wearily for the meed of a thief, for the name of a thief! and he wept in his utter woe.

His hat was still on his head, his coat was undone, his scarf had fallen back on his shoulders; his poor old eyes were wide apart again, now, and the wind tugged at his scanty hair, and the snow, no whiter than itself, sifted through it and drifted into the folds of his clothes. But, stunned, and tortured, and despairing though he was, the old clerk staggered on insensibly homeward. Back through the dreary trees; back through the drifted streets; back to the bridge, where he stopped by some fatal impulse and leaned near a bleak abutment that overlooked the river -- gazing, gazing, gazing in a blank stare at the driving channel below. The thought, the lurking purpose was shadowed dimly on his distraught mind. The cold, rolling river once passed, the seething cakes of ice once passed, and it would soon be over, soon be over. Life had been a worthless gift to him. His youth had been falsely colored by the visions of childhood; his age had been falsely colored by the ambitions of youth. Nothing he had looked to in the distance ever had grown into reality. Why should he survive his good name! And he clutched the stones and raised himself up and quivered at the top of the stone wall.

But now his hand relaxed, and his face, clouded and suffering before, fell into a calmer look of attention, almost a smile broke over it, and he gazed out against the sky as if transfixed.

It was the vision that had, like the pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night, preceded and gladdened him on his way; the scene of his happy, unsuspecting girls; of the pale Little Scout -- whose simple touch would then have instantly revived and soothed him, whose tender love was his comfort, his sanctuary from pursuing evils; the scene of his old home, far cosier, far more beloved, far more cheerful for all its homeliness, for all its poverty, than the more pretentious one of Emanuel Griffin; the scene of lowly pleasures it had cherished; of the bitter trials it had assuaged; and, finally, of the bright, laughing group he had left there, oh! so little prepared, so little conscious of the blight he would bring among them. This vision, these thoughts had flowed in upon his already disturbed mind, and had driven quite away all consciousness of where he was or how long he had stood in the bitter cold, when a policeman -- overcoated, and furred, and frozen-bearded, -- came by, and, suspecting things to be not altogether right, caught David by the sleeve, and adjusted his scarf and hat, saying, -- 

"No loafing on the bridge, old man. Move on; move on, now!" at which David started, looked all around him, and then moved on as commanded. His back, always bent, and his gait, always decrepit and shuffling, were now pitiably so, and he had a long, long journey before him; but, thanks be to Him whose omnipotent care protects and watches over the poor in spirit, he had escaped a far longer one. On and on he went, not cold now, not thinking, not in haste; passing thick-coated travellers who ran, and clapped their hands, and swung their arms for warmth; passing gay companies in cabs that rolled over the snow as softly as footsteps on velvet. But he heeded nothing of all this, and staggered onward to his own poor home.

A light was streaming out from the windows of the old warehouse, crossing the snow piled on the platform above and slanting on the heaps beneath. It was an inviting glimmer, a herald from within to all cold travellers without of the blessedness of home, and, as David approached the corner of the court, his eye was greeted cheerily by its "Welcome home!" and, indeed, it was the first thing he had distinctly seen since leaving the house of Mr. Griffin. But his heart failed him. How could he face his dear girls again and tell them of the destitution of to-morrow? Of the worse than poverty? Thus he thought, and lingered, and slunk away by turns, but the ray of home-born light allured him, impassively, into its midst, and as he stood over against the house, a poor, weak, old man, rambling in his mind, and heroically deciding rather to leave them in peace to-night, one more night, and return to them to-morrow, a window was thrown up, and Jacob Tripple, putting forth his head, looked up and down the court, and then directly in front of him, where David stood immovable in the light.

"Why, there he is, now!" he cried. "What's gone amiss, David? What's kept you so long? Here he is! Here he is!" he exclaimed again and again, and, drawing in his head in much less time than the words could be said, Jacob Tripple, followed by the girls, was down-stairs, was -- still followed by the girls -- out in the snow, and had forcibly carried David up with them.

They laid him on the settee, moaning and crying aloud against Emanuel Griffin, and repeating again and again that they were "Beggars, beggars, beggars!" and exclaiming, "My poor Little Scout! My poor girls! My poor --  -- "

"They shall not suffer, father!" said a new voice, the sound of which raised him up with wide-opened eyes and palsied hands at his head, and a long stare at the speaker -- "It's Tom, father. Don't you know me?" repeated the voice.

Know him! How should he know him? tall, and brawny, and whiskered, with pleasant blue eyes, and ruddy cheeks, and good nature streaming from his whole face! Him who, so many years ago, -- a beardless youth -- had run off to California after gold bubbles, and whom little good had been heard of when anything at all was heard of him. Know him? Of course he did not; but, as he sat down beside him on the settee and shook his old hand, David put his arms about his neck, and hung his head upon his bosom, and saw, in imagination, the thriftless boy of long ago whom he loved for all his waywardness.

Tom's strong arms soon bore him to his old seat near the fire, and, for the first time, David's wandering eye noticed the bower of green holly and red-berried mistletoe that decked the room. General Washington was loaded with it. The old clock, actually striking in a cheerier voice the hour of nine, had its full share. The dresser hid in festoons of it. Even David's chair had its sprig. But what was that on the floor? An opened trunk, like a cloven pomegranate, displaying within rich trinkets that many a lady might covet?

"Wha -- what's it all mean, girls? Tell me, Little Scout," said David, catching her hand. "What happened to me? I thought I came home -- home to tell you Griffin threw me out in the snow, and called me a thief, and how all of them scowled and cried out at me, and I thought --  -- " then, looking at the tall man, he cried again, -- 

"Tom, is it so? Is it so, my dear boy?"

"Yes, father," said Tom, slowly, to calm him, "it is, happily, all so."

Then his little daughter, who had stood by his side through it all, kissed him, and said, -- 

"Come, father, look at the pretty presents Tom has brought us and you. See here's a beautiful new coat hanging on your peg for you, and Molly and Polly are as gay as any ladies," and she led him, tottering and feeble, to the loaded table -- no longer ashamed of its defaced back beneath the pile of gifts it bore.

Then Mr. Tripple, hand in hand with the unresisting Polly, and Molly, and Tom, an unbroken circuit of cheery faces that electrified David Dubbs into a wrinkled smile in spite of lingering grief, clustered around the table and exclaimed aloud with admiration at the gifts Tom had brought.

But David, still overshadowed by the events of the afternoon, said, in a quivering voice, -- 

"But to-morrow, children, to-morrow! I am discharged by Griffin; we shall starve to-morrow!"

"Not while I'm about," laughed Tom. "Come, come, be calm, and I'll tell you all about it."

And he did tell of the long years of hope and distress, of despair when unconsciously within reach of fortune; of its final realization and of its golden yield. "So here I am, father, and your old hand shall write no more for Emanuel Griffin."

Then said Dolly, "You don't speak, father; you are surely not sorry?"

Sorry! He was stifled with gratitude; he was transforming into his old self. The familiar tenderness of her voice opened the floodgates of his heart, and he burst into a louder "Hurrah" than over Griffin's turkey, and kissed them all around, Mr. Tripple included, and, indeed, the day had been so successfully employed on the part of that gentleman that his early entrance into the family was far from problematical -- so of course David did perfectly right.

Polly here broke in, "And, father, it was Tom who brought the note, and Tom who planned the surprise for you. What did it say, Tom? you can tell us now."

He laughed quietly, and then said, as if he were reading impressively from the open sheet to Mr. Griffin himself, and making him writhe under his coolness, -- 

"Emanuel Griffin,

"Sir: The connection of my father, David Dubbs, Esq., with your counting-house, will cease from this day forth.

"Sir, your obedient servant, "Thomas Dubbs."



Told by an English Tourist.


"He seemed to be a kind of connecting link between the old times and the new, and to be, withal, a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments."

Irving.



A Still Christmas.


It was Christmas eve in the year of our Lord 1653. The snow, which had fallen fitfully throughout the day, shrouded in white the sloping roofs and narrow London streets, and lay in little, sparkling heaps on every jutting cornice or narrow window-ledge where it could find a resting-place. But in the west the setting sun shone clearly, firing the steeples into sudden glory and gilding every tiny pane of glass that faced its dying splendor. The thoroughfares were strangely silent and deserted. The roving groups that had been wont at this season to fill them with boisterous merriment, the noise, the bustle, the good cheer of Christmas -- all were lacking. No maskers roamed from street to street, jingling their bells, beating their mighty drums, and bidding the delighted crowd to make way for the Lord of Misrule. No shouts of "Noel! Noel!" rang through the frosty air. No children gathered round their neighbors' doors, singing quaint carols and forgotten glees, and bearing off rich guerdon in the shape of apples, nuts, and substantial Christmas buns. In place of the old-time gayety a dreary silence reigned through the deserted highways, and down the narrow footwalk, with even step and half-shut eyes, tramped the Puritan herald, ringing his bell and proclaiming ever and anon in measured tones, "No Christmas! No Christmas!"

In sober and sad-hued garments was the herald arrayed, with leathern boots that defied the snow and a copious mantle enveloping his sturdy frame. Now and then he stopped to warn a couple of belated idlers that they would do well to separate and go quietly to their homes. Now and then a little child peeped at him timorously from a doorway, and, overawed by his sombre aspect and heavy frown, retreated rapidly to hide its fears in the safe shelter of its mother's gown. Men shook their heads as he went by, and muttered something that was not always complimentary to his presence; and women shrugged their shoulders and sighed, and thought, perchance, of other Christmases in the past, with Yule-logs burning on the hearth and stray kisses snatched beneath the mistletoe. From a latticed window a girl's face peered at him with such a light of laughing malice in the brown eyes that the Puritan, catching sight of their wicked gleam, paused a moment, as though to reprove the maiden for her forwardness, or to inquire what mischief was afoot under this humble roof. But the night was growing chill, and he had still far to go. It might not be worth while to waste words of counsel on one so evidently godless; and, with a heavier scowl than usual, he tramped on, swinging his bell with lusty force. "No Christmas! No Christmas!" echoed through the darkening streets, and, as he passed, the girl contracted her features into a grimace that would have done credit to the wide-mouthed gargoyle of a Gothic cathedral.

"Cicely, Cicely!" cried a voice, at this juncture, from within, "close the shutters, do, and come and help me."

Cicely, who had been inclined to stare out a little longer, shot the heavy oaken bolt into its socket, and, opening a door leading to the inner room, disclosed a scene whose ruddy cheerfulness shone all the brighter in contrast to the dreary streets outside. A mighty bunch of fagots blazed and crackled on the hearth, and above the carved chimney-place hung branches of holly, their scarlet, berries glowing deeply in the firelight. In one corner, half-veiled by a tapestry curtain, a waxen Bambino nestled in its little manger, while before it burned a small copper lamp. Wreaths of holly and ivy bedecked the doors, and, standing tip-toed on a tall wooden chair, a young girl was even now striving to fasten these securely with the aid of a very old and wrinkled woman, who seemed more competent to admire than to assist the undertaking.

"Some bigger berries, pray, Catherine," she said, impatiently; "and, Cicely, if you feel you have loitered enough, hand me those two long ivy branches. They should droop gracefully -- so! And now stand off a little way and tell me how it looks."

The younger sister obeyed, and, stationing herself in the middle of the room, surveyed the whole effect with much approval. Annis, her fair face flushed with the exertion, balanced herself on her lofty perch and gazed complacently upon her handiwork; while even Mistress Vane, who had been seated quietly on a deep chair by the fireplace, roused herself as from a reverie, and looked half-wistfully around the cheerful room. "What bell was that I heard just now?" she asked.

"The herald's, proclaiming a still Christmas," answered Cicely, promptly; "and he watched me as sourly as though he knew that we were plotting treason."

"Cecil, Cecil!" remonstrated her mother, in alarm. "Surely you did nothing imprudent."

"I?" returned Cicely, apparently oblivious as to what she had done. "I cast up the whites of my eyes, as though repeating psalms for mine own inward sustainment; and seeing me so piously disposed, he was fain to pass on to the correction of greater sinners."

"That were well-nigh impossible," said her sister, laughing; but Mistress Vane only looked anxious and disturbed. The sense of insecurity to which Annis was indifferent, and which Cicely at fourteen found absolutely amusing, weighed heavily on the older woman, who had a better understanding of the danger, and who had suffered cruelly in the past. Husband and son had fallen for a lost cause, confiscation had devoured the larger portion of her once fair inheritance; and now, with her two young daughters, she found herself beset by perils, harassed by stringent laws, and at the mercy of any ill-wind fate might blow her. Cromwell's mighty arm held the fretful country in subjection, making the name of England great and terrible abroad, and silencing every whisper of disaffection at home. The Puritans, in their hour of triumph, stamped upon the land the impress of their strong and bitter individuality; and a morose asceticism, part real and part affected, crushed out of life all the innocent pleasure of living. With every man determined to be better than his neighbor, the competition in saintliness ran high. Under its vigorous stimulus the May-pole and the Yule-log were alike branded as heathenish observances, the Christmas-pie became a "pye of abomination," and all amusements, from the drama to bear-baiting, were censured with impartial severity. Feast-days were abolished, and even to display the emblems of the Nativity was held to be sedition. The Established Church, cowed and shorn of its splendor, was treated with surly contempt; the Catholics were altogether beyond the pale of charity. It was not a time calculated to promote festivity; yet, while the heralds proclaimed through the frosty streets that Christmas at last was dead, Annis Vane, with holly and ivy, with Yule-dough and Babie-cake, was making all things ready for its mysterious birth. And as she worked she sang softly under breath the refrain of a carol she had learned at her nurse's knee, -- 

"This endris night I saw a sight, A star as bright as day; And ever among A maiden sung Lullay, by-by, lullay."

"Is it not strange, mother," she said, breaking suddenly off, "that men should deem it a mark of holiness to cast derision on the birth-night of their Saviour?"

"Let us be just even to our enemies," replied Mistress Vane, gently. "They think not to deride the Nativity, so much as to condemn the riotous fashion in which Christians were wont to keep the feast. There have been times, Annis, when the Lord of Misrule did more discredit to this holy season than does the Puritan to-day."

Annis opened her blue eyes to their very utmost. This view of the matter was one she was hardly prepared to accept. "Why, dearest mother," she protested, "when should we venture to be happy, if not on Christmas-day? And how can we show ourselves too joyful for our salvation? And did not his most blessed majesty King Charles knight with his own royal hand a Lord of Misrule who held court in the Middle Temple?"

Mistress Vane smiled at her daughter's vehemence. She knew more about these jovial monarchs and their courts than Annis did, and it may even be that his most blessed majesty's approval carried less weight to her experienced mind. But in these dark and chilly days a little enthusiasm was helpful in keeping one's heart warm, and she was far too wise a mother to disparage it. "Truly they made a brave show then upon Christmas-day," she admitted, "for the lord mayor and his corporation, a goodly company of gentlemen, rode in procession to the church of St. Thomas Acon, and thence to dine together with many pleasant ceremonies. And stoups of wine and huge venison pasties were despatched to the Temple for the stay and comfort of the mock-court, who made merry all day long. And the streets were crowded, far into the night, with maskers and revellers; and even the poor might for once forget their poverty, and were welcome to the brawn and plum-broth of their richer neighbors."

"And now we have nothing of all this!" cried Cicely, with passionate regret. "Nothing to look at and nothing to hear save the cracked bell of a dingy herald, who does not even ride a hobby-horse like the merry heralds of old. In truth, Master Prynne hath made good his own words when he holds that Christmas should be rather a day of mourning than one of rejoicing."

"Not so thought my godfather, kind Master Breton," said Annis, thoughtfully. "For he hath written that it is the duty of Christians to rejoice for the remembrance of Christ and for the maintenance of good-fellowship. 'I hold it,' he hath said, 'a memory of the Heaven's love and the world's peace, the mirth of the honest and the meeting of the friendly.'"

Cicely's eyes danced with glee. "That were well remembered," she said, mockingly; "if, now, you can but tell us in turn what your godfather's nephew, Captain Rupert Breton, hath thought upon the matter."

Annis flushed scarlet, and the quick tears welled into her eyes as she turned them reproachfully upon her sister. It was not easy for her to think of her absent lover and maintain the cheerful frame of mind she deemed appropriate to the season. The shores of France seemed very far away that night, and the long months that had elapsed since the defeat at Worcester stretched backward like a lifetime, as she recalled his last hurried farewell. He had ridden hard and risked much for those few words, and patiently and bravely she had waited ever since, hoping, praying, turning her face steadily to the brighter side, and keeping ever in mind the happy hour which should reunite them to each other. Now, in silence, she bound together the last green boughs and put all in order for the night. Old Catherine had long since gone off, yawning and blinking, to bed, and Cicely, half-asleep, nodded over the dying fire. Only her mother watched her, with eyes of loving scrutiny, and Annis smiled brightly as she kissed the careworn face. "I shall not cry myself to sleep to-night," she said, resolutely. "This is a time for gladness; for the star of Bethlehem is shining in the sky, and the birth of the Lord is at hand."

*    *    *    *    *

Bright glowed the Christmas-logs on the capacious hearth till every pointed leaf and scarlet holly-berry shone in the generous firelight.

"Whosoever against holly doth cry, In a rope shall be hung full high."

For, when the oak and ash trees babbled to the wind, and betrayed the Saviour's hiding-place, the holly, the ivy, and the pine kept the secret hidden in their silent hearts; and for this good deed they stand green and living under winter's icy breath, while their companions shiver naked in the blast. Not till the risen sun has danced on Easter morn shall the oak adorn a Christian household and prove itself forgiven. The Christmas-pie -- the Christ-cradle, as the Saxons used to call it -- had been baked in its oblong dish in memory of the manger at Bethlehem, with the star of the Magi cut deeply in the swelling crust. The Yule-dough, cunningly moulded into the likeness of a little babe, had been carefully laid by as a sovereign protector from the evils of fire, floods, carnage, and -- so say some ancient writers -- from the bite of rabid dogs. Annis Vane, decked out in the bravest array her altered fortunes would permit, knelt by the blazing hearth. Her ruff was of the finest lace, and a row of milk-white pearls clasped her slender throat. She shaded her face from the fire, and piled up shining cones of bright-brown nuts that seemed to tempt the flames.

The Cavalier From France

"All we lack now is the mistletoe," she said, half-despondently. "It was no easy task to find the holly and bring it home unnoticed; but we cannot gather mistletoe near London, and there is none for sale throughout the city."

"Of what use is the mistletoe," said the practical Cicely, "when we are but three women here alone? We can kiss each other as readily under a sprig of ivy, and we can fire our nuts without the help of man or lad, provided only we keep one in our minds. Of whom shall I think, Annis?" she queried, wrinkling up her pretty forehead in anxious perplexity over so disturbing a doubt.

"You are far too young to think of men at all," answered Annis, reprovingly, and with all the conscious superiority of age. "Nor do you know enough as yet to make such pastime profitable."

Cicely's brows drew together with a frown which plainly indicated the nature of the retort upon her lips, but a glance from her mother checked her. "The word uttered in vexation is better left unspoken," said Mistress Vane, with gentle authority. "And I am waiting here, not to listen to disputes, which in these stormy times have grown wearisome, but to hear the Christmas carol promised me to-night."

Annis, with flushed cheeks, took down from the wall a little mandolin of Spanish workmanship, and, striking a few chords, began the carol, in which Cicely, after sacrificing some moments to ill-temper, concluded presently to join, her clear flute-notes rising high above her sister's weaker tones, -- 

"When Christ was born of Mary free, In Bethlehem, in that fair citie, Angels sungen with mirth and glee, In Excelsis Gloria!

"Herdsmen beheld these angels bright To them appeared with great light, And said, God's Son is born this night, In Excelsis Gloria!

"The King is comen to save kind, Even in Scripture as we find; Therefore this song have we in mind, In Excelsis Gloria!

"Then, dear Lord, for thy great grace, Grant us in bliss to see thy face, Where we may sing to thee solace, In Excelsis Gloria!"

As the sounds died into silence there stood one in the icy streets and listened. No self-elected saint was he, scenting out treason to the Commonwealth, but a cavalier from France, with his love-locks shorn for sweet prudence's sake, and a mighty mantle enveloping him from head to foot. If Annis Vane had waited, and hoped, and built up her faith in the cheer of Christmas-night, the joy she coveted was very near at last. After lingering a few moments, as though on the chance of hearing more, the stranger advanced and knocked sharply at the heavily-barred door. It was opened in due season and with great caution by old Catherine, who evidently thought the hour ill-chosen for a new-comer, and mistrusted sorely the purpose of his visit. He allowed her scant time, however, to threaten or expostulate, but, putting her gently on one side, stepped to the inner room. There, pale with anxiety and terror, Mistress Vane leaned forward in her chair, while Cicely, half-frightened, half-defiant, grasped her mother's skirt. Before the fire stood Annis, her blue eyes shining like stars, a round, red spot burning feverishly in each cheek, her lace ruff rising and falling distressfully with the heaving bosom within. The mandolin had fallen from her hands; the ruddy firelight lit up her slight figure and fair, disordered curls. She stood thus for a moment, swaying breathless betwixt hope and fear, then, with a low, joyous cry, sprang forward into her lover's arms.

Welcome now the good cheer of Christmas-night! Welcome the Christmas-pie, the pasty of venison, the pudding stuffed with plums, and the flagon of old wine. Love is a brave appetizer when backed by long fasting and a ten hours' ride, and Captain Breton brought all the vigor of youth and happiness and of a noble hunger to bear upon the viands. The glow of the cheerful room was infinitely comforting to the tired traveller; the sight of Annis's happy face put fresh hope and courage in his heart. He had much to tell of the gay court of France, and of the royal exile, who should one day, God willing, sit on his father's throne. Nor were there lacking adventures and dangers of his own to give flavor to the narrative, nor plans for the future, colored with all the happy confidence of youth. He had come home to win his bride, and to carry her away to brighter scenes until this soured and gloomy England should be merrie England once more. "He who would keep a light heart within London walls," said he, "must needs be very sure of heaven, as are Master Prynne and Master Philip Stubbes, or very much in love, as am I. It lacks but a covered cart and a bell in every street to make one feel the Black Death is upon us. If you can laugh in such an atmosphere of melancholy, Annis, what will you do in France?"

"Mayhap if I laugh enough in sober London I shall grow too giddy and forward in foolish France," returned Annis, gayly; "unless --  -- "

"Unless what, dear heart?"

"Unless while I am safe in Paris you are fighting the battles of the king in England. Then tears will come easier than laughter, as in truth they have done of late."

"Wherever I may be, your prayers will prove my bulwark," said Captain Breton, confidently. "It would take more than a silver bullet to find its way to my heart while you are besieging heaven's doors in the tumultuous fashion that only women can attain. I bear a charmed life as long as you remember your petitions."

Annis answered with a look, and Cicely, nestling by her mother's chair, watched her sister with wide, serious eyes. To the child standing on the threshold of womanhood the presence of love carries with it an intoxicating flavor of mystery. It is something that fills her alike with envy and a vague resentment, with wonder and an indefinable desire. Its commonest expression is a perverse antipathy to one of the lovers, with an irrational increase of affection for the other; and in this case Captain Breton came in for his full share of Cicely's smothered anger and disdain. He, meanwhile, in happy unconsciousness, chancing to meet the brown eyes lifted dreamily to his own, and noting the upward curve of the short, sweet lip, thought within himself that this elfish little Cicely was growing almost as pretty as her sister -- a judgment which proves conclusively the blindness of love; for Annis, though fair and comely to look upon, came no nearer to her young sister's beauty than does the pink-tipped daisy to the half-opened rosebud uncurling slowly in the sun. At present, the girl, seeing that she was watched, turned away her head pettishly and eyed the leaping flames.

"Annis said to-night there was but one thing lacking to her Christmas cheer," she remarked, after a pause, and with the too evident intention of saying something vexatious.

"And that was I!" interposed the cavalier, with the ready assurance of a lover.

"It was not you at all," returned Cicely, "but the mistletoe. We gathered the other greens ourselves, but there was no mistletoe to be found within or without the gates of London."

"By a happy chance we can proceed as though we had it," said Captain Breton, contentedly, while Annis crimsoned like a rose. "It is a welcome little plant, and carries a merry message; but if it be banished in these saintly days, we obstinate sinners must kiss without its sanction."

"But the maid who is not kissed on Christmas-night beneath the mistletoe will never be a wife during the coming year," persisted Cicely, who had laid down her line of attack and was not to be driven therefrom.

"Now, will you wager your ring or your new ear-drop on that, little sister?" said the captain, laughing at the threat. "Or have you a trinket that you value less to risk in such a cause?"

Cicely, deeply affronted, puckered up her brow and drew closer to her mother; but Annis, far too happy to be vexed, leaned over and kissed the pouting lips. With her, joy meant thanksgiving, and her heart was singing -- singing the song of the angel of Judea: "In Excelsis Gloria!"



A Norseman's Saga.


"As he sat there with a sou'wester down over his ears, in a long pilot coat, his figure appeared to assume quite supernatural proportions, and you might almost imagine that you had one of the old Vikings before you."

Asbjörnsen.



Thrond.


There was once a man named Alf, who had raised great expectations among his fellow-parishioners because he excelled most of them both in the work he accomplished and in the advice he gave. Now, when this man was thirty years old, he went to live up the mountain, and cleared a piece of land for farming, about fourteen miles from any settlement. Many people wondered how he could endure thus depending on himself for companionship, but they were still more astonished when, a few years later, a young girl from the valley, and one, too, who had been the gayest of the gay at all the social gatherings and dances of the parish, was willing to share his solitude.

This couple were called "the people in the wood," and the man was known by the name of "Alf in the wood." People viewed him with inquisitive eyes when they met him at church or at work, because they did not understand him; but neither did he take the trouble to give them any explanation of his conduct. His wife was only seen in the parish twice, and on one of these occasions it was to present a child for baptism.

This child was a son, and he was called Thrond. When he grew larger his parents often talked about needing help, and, as they could not afford to take a full-grown servant, they hired what they called "a half:" they brought into their house a girl of fourteen, who took care of the boy while the father and mother were busy in the field.

This girl was not the brightest person in the world, and the boy soon observed that his mother's words were easy to comprehend, but that it was hard to get at the meaning of what Ragnhild said. He never talked much with his father, and he was rather afraid of him, for the house had to be kept very quiet when he was home. One Christmas Eve -- they were burning two candles on the table, and the father was drinking from a white flask -- the father took the boy up in his arms and set him on his lap, looked him sternly in the eyes, and exclaimed, -- 

"Ugh, boy!" Then he added more gently, -- "Why, you are not so much afraid. Would you have the courage to listen to a story?"

The boy made no reply, but he looked full in his father's face. His father then told him about a man from Vaage, whose name was Blessom. This man was in Copenhagen for the purpose of getting the king's verdict in a law-suit he was engaged in, and he was detained so long that Christmas eve overtook him there. Blessom was greatly annoyed at this, and, as he was sauntering about the streets fancying himself at home, he saw a very large man, in a white, short coat, walking in front of him.

"How fast you are walking!" said Blessom.

"I have a long distance to go in order to get home this evening," replied the man.

"Where are you going?"

"To Vaage," answered the man, and walked on.

"Why, that is very nice," said Blessom, "for that is where I am going, too."

"Well, then, you may ride with me, if you will stand on the runners of my sledge," answered the man, and turned into a side street where his horse was standing.

He mounted his seat and looked over his shoulder at Blessom, who was just getting on the runners.

"You had better hold fast," said the stranger.

Blessom did as he was told, and it was well he did, for their journey was evidently not by land.

"It seems to me that you are driving on the water," cried Blessom.

"I am," said the man, and the spray whirled about them.

But after a while it seemed to Blessom their course no longer lay on the water.

"It seems to me we are moving through the air," said he.

"Yes, so we are," replied the stranger.

But when they had gone still farther, Blessom thought he recognized the parish they were driving through.

"Is not this Vaage?" cried he.

"Yes, now we are there," replied the stranger, and it seemed to Blessom that they had gone pretty fast.

"Thank you for the good ride," said he.

"Thanks to yourself," replied the man, and added, as he whipped up his horse, "Now you had better not look after me."

"No, indeed," thought Blessom, and started over the hills for home.

But just then so loud and terrible a crash was heard behind him that it seemed as if the whole mountain must be tumbling down, and a bright light was shed over the surrounding landscape; he looked round and beheld the stranger in the white coat driving through the crackling flames into the open mountain, which was yawning wide to receive him, like some huge gate. Blessom felt somewhat strange in regard to his travelling companion; and thought he would look in another direction; but as he had turned his head so it remained, and never more could Blossom get it straight again.

The boy had never heard anything to equal this in all his life. He dared not ask his father for more, but early the next morning he asked his mother if she knew any stories. Yes, of course she did; but hers were chiefly about princesses who were in captivity for seven years, until the right prince came along. The boy believed that everything he heard or read about took place close around him.

He was about eight years old when the first stranger entered their door one winter evening. He had black hair, and this was something Thrond had never seen before. The stranger saluted them with a short "Good-evening!" and came forward. Thrond grew frightened and sat down on a cricket by the hearth. The mother asked the man to take a seat on the bench along the wall; he did so, and then the mother could examine his face more closely.

"Dear me! is not this Knud the fiddler?" cried she.

"Yes, to be sure it is. It has been a long time since I played at your wedding."

"Oh, yes; it is quite a while now. Have you been on a long journey?"

"I have been playing for Christmas on the other side of the mountain. But half-way down the slope I began to feel very badly, and I was obliged to come in here to rest."

The mother brought forward food for him; he sat down to the table, but did not say "in the name of Jesus," as the boy had been accustomed to hear. When he had finished eating, he got up from the table, and said, -- 

"Now I feel very comfortable; let me rest a little while."

And he was allowed to rest on Thrond's bed.

For Thrond a bed was made on the floor. As the boy lay there, he felt cold on the side that was turned away from the fire, and that was the left side. He discovered that it was because this side was exposed to the chill night air; for he was lying out in the wood. How came he in the wood? He got up and looked about him, and saw that there was fire burning a long distance off, and that he was actually alone in the wood. He longed to go home to the fire; but could not stir from the spot. Then a great fear overcame him; for wild beasts might be roaming about, trolls and ghosts might appear to him; he must get home to the fire; but he could not stir from the spot. Then his terror grew, he strove with all his might to gain self-control, and was at last able to cry, "Mother," and then he awoke.

"Dear child, you have had bad dreams," said she, and took him up.

A shudder ran through him, and he glanced round. The stranger was gone, and he dared not inquire after him.

His mother appeared in her black dress, and started for the parish. She came home with two new strangers, who also had black hair and who wore flat caps. They did not say "in the name of Jesus," when they ate, and they talked in low tones with the father. Afterwards the latter and they went into the barn, and came out again with a large box, which the men carried between them. They placed it on a sled, and said farewell. Then the mother said, -- 

"Wait a little, and take with you the smaller box he brought here with him."

And she went in to get it. But one of the men said, -- 

"He can have that," and he pointed at Thrond.

"Use it as well as he who is now lying here," added the other stranger, pointing at the large box.

Then they both laughed and went on. Thrond looked at the little box which thus came into his possession.

"What is there in it?" asked he.

"Carry it in and find out," said the mother.

He did as he was told, but his mother helped him open it. Then a great joy lighted up his face, for he saw something very light and fine lying there.

"Take it up," said his mother.

He put just one finger down on it, but quickly drew it back again in great alarm.

"It cries," said he.

"Have courage," said his mother, and he grasped it with his whole hand and drew it forth from the box.

He weighed it and turned it round, he laughed and felt of it.

"Dear me! what is it?" asked he, for it was as light as a toy.

"It is a fiddle."

This was the way that Thrond Alfson got his first violin.

The father could play a little, and he taught the boy how to handle the instrument; the mother could sing the tunes she remembered from her dancing days, and these the boy learned, but soon began to make new ones for himself. He played all the time he was not at his books; he played until his father once told him he was fading away before his eyes. All the boy had read and heard until that time was put into the fiddle. The tender, delicate string was his mother; the one that lay close beside it, and always accompanied his mother, was Ragnhild. The coarse string, which he seldom ventured to play on, was his father. But of the last solemn string he was half afraid, and he gave no name to it. When he played a wrong note on the E string, it was the cat; but when he took a wrong note on his father's string, it was the ox. The bow was Blessom, who drove from Copenhagen to Vaage in one night. And every tune he played represented something. The one containing the long solemn tones was his mother in her black dress. The one that jerked and skipped was like Moses, who stuttered and smote the rock with his staff. The one that had to be played quietly, with the bow moving lightly over the strings, was the hulder in yonder fog, calling together her cattle, where no one but herself could see.

But the music wafted him onward over the mountains, and a great yearning took possession of his soul. One day, when his father told about a little boy who had been playing at the fair and who had earned a great deal of money, Thrond waited for his mother in the kitchen and asked her softly if he could not go to the fair and play for people.

"Whoever heard of such a thing!" said his mother; but she immediately spoke to his father about it.

"He will get out into the world soon enough," answered the father; and he spoke in such a way that the mother did not ask again.

Shortly after this, the father and mother were talking at table about some new settlers who had recently moved up on the mountain and were about to be married. They had no fiddler for the wedding, the father said.

"Could not I be the fiddler?" whispered the boy, when he was alone in the kitchen once more with his mother.

"What, a little boy like you?" said she; but she went out to the barn where his father was and told him about it.

"He has never been in the parish," she added; "he has never seen a church."

"I should not think you would ask about such things," said Alf; but neither did he say anything more, and so the mother thought she had permission. Consequently she went over to the new settlers and offered the boy's services.

"The way he plays," said she, "no little boy has ever played before;" and the boy was to be allowed to come.

What joy there was at home! Thrond played from morning until evening and practised new tunes; at night he dreamed about them: they bore him far over the hills, away to foreign lands, as though he were afloat on sailing clouds. His mother made a new suit of clothes for him; but his father would not take part in what was going on.

The last night he did not sleep, but thought out a new tune about the church which he had never seen. He was up early in the morning, and so was his mother, in order to get him his breakfast, but he could not eat. He put on his new clothes and took his fiddle in his hand, and it seemed to him as though a bright light were glowing before his eyes. His mother accompanied him out on the flag-stone, and stood watching him as he ascended the slopes; it was the first time he had left home.

His father got quietly out of bed, and walked to the window; he stood there, following the boy with his eyes until he heard the mother out on the flag-stone, then he went back to bed and was lying down when she came in.

She kept stirring about him, as if she wanted to relieve her mind of something. And finally it came out, -- 

"I really think I must walk down to the church and see how things are going."

He made no reply, and therefore she considered the matter settled, dressed herself, and started.

It was a glorious, sunny day, the boy walked rapidly onward, he listened to the song of the birds and saw the sun glittering among the foliage, while he proceeded on his way, with his fiddle under his arm. And when he reached the bride's house, he was still so occupied with his own thoughts, that he observed neither the bridal splendor nor the procession; he merely asked if they were about to start, and learned that they were. He walked on in advance with his fiddle, and he played the whole morning into it, and the tones he produced resounded through the trees.

"Will we soon see the church?" he asked over his shoulder.

For a long time he received only "No" for an answer, but at last some one said, -- 

"As soon as you reach that crag yonder, you will see it."

He threw his newest tune into the fiddle, the bow danced on the strings, and he kept his eyes fixed intently before him. There lay the parish right in front of him!

The first thing he saw was a little light mist, curling like smoke on the opposite mountain side. His eyes wandered over the green meadow and the large houses, with windows which glistened beneath the scorching rays of the sun, like the glacier on a winter's day. The houses kept increasing in size, the windows in number, and here on one side of him lay the enormous red house, in front of which horses were tied; little children were playing on a hill, dogs were sitting watching them. But everywhere there penetrated a long, heavy tone, that shook him from head to foot, and everything he saw seemed to vibrate with that tone. Then suddenly he saw a large, straight house, with a tall, glittering staff reaching up to the skies. And below, a hundred windows blazed, so that the house seemed to be enveloped in flames. This must be the church, the boy thought, and the music must come from it! Round about stood a vast multitude of people, and they all looked alike! He put them forthwith into relations with the church, and thus acquired a respect mingled with awe for the smallest child he saw.

"Now I must play," thought Thrond, and tried to do so.

But what was this? The fiddle had no longer any sound in it. There must be some defect in the strings; he examined, but could find none.

"Then it must be because I do not press on hard enough," and he drew his bow with a firmer hand; but the fiddle seemed as if it were cracked.

He changed the tune that was meant to represent the church into another, but with equally bad results; no music was produced, only squeaking and wailing. He felt the cold sweat start out over his face; he thought of all these wise people who were standing here and perhaps laughing him to scorn, this boy who at home could play so beautifully, but who here failed to bring out a single tone!

"Thank God that mother is not here to see my shame!" said he softly to himself, as he played among the people; but lo! there she stood, in her black dress, and she shrank farther and farther away.

At that moment he beheld far up on the spire the black-haired man who had given him the fiddle. "Give it back to me," he now shouted, laughing, and stretching out his arms, and the spire went up and down with him, up and down. But the boy took the fiddle under one arm, screaming, "You shall not have it!" and, turning, ran away from the people, beyond the houses, onward through meadow and field, until his strength forsook him, and then sank to the ground.

There he lay for a long time, with his face toward the earth, and when finally he looked round he saw and heard only God's infinite blue sky that floated above him, with its everlasting sough. This was so terrible to him that he had to turn his face to the ground again. When he raised his head once more his eyes fell on his fiddle, which lay at his side.

"This is all your fault!" shouted the boy, and seized the instrument with the intention of dashing it to pieces, but hesitated as he looked at it.

"We have had many a happy hour together," said he, then paused. Presently he said, "The strings must be severed, for they are worthless." And he took out a knife and cut. "Oh!" cried the E string, in a short, pained tone. The boy cut. "Oh!" wailed the next, but the boy cut. "Oh!" said the third, mournfully; and he paused at the fourth. A sharp pain seized him; that fourth string, to which he never dared give a name, he did not cut. Now a feeling came over him that it was not the fault of the strings that he was unable to play, and just then he saw his mother walking slowly up the slope toward where he was lying, that she might take him home with her. A greater fright than ever overcame him; he held the fiddle by the severed strings, sprang to his feet, and shouted down to her, -- 

"No, mother! I will not go home again until I can play what I have seen to-day."



Contributed by An Oriental Traveller.

"A great, long devil of a Spahi in his red burnous."

Daudet.



Christmas In The Desert.


I.

It seemed all too good to be true: the rest from labor, the swift flight across southern seas, the landing, amid strange, dark faces on a burnished shore, the slow, delicious journey through tamarisk groves and palm forests, and the halt in the Desert that came at last.

I had been doing for the last twelve months what young artists and authors are constantly doing, to their own ruin and the justifiable ill-humor of critics, namely, working against the grain. A sweet, generous, and beautiful Patroness, seeing me on the high road to brain fever or hopeless mediocrity, stepped forward in time, and sent me to the Desert. If ever I achieve anything excellent, it will be owing to that lady, the Vittoria Colonna of her humble Michael Angelo. My little sister Mary came with me, and, when I tell you that she was a teacher in a school, you will easily understand what an intoxicating thing it was for her to see a new world every day, and have nothing to do from morning, till night. The poor child could hardly believe in an existence without Czerny's scales being played on three or four pianos at once, and a barrel organ and brass band in the street. "Oh, Tom!" she would say to me, a dozen times a day, "I've got C scale and 'Wait for the Wagon' on my brain, and can't get rid of them;" so that I verily believe to my beautiful Vittoria Colonna Mary's present well-being is due as much as my own.

We halted at a little military station on the borders of the Great Sahara, about a week before Christmas-day. The weather was perfect, and not too warm. A delicious, mellow atmosphere enveloped palm, and plain, and mosque; the air, blown across thousands and thousands of acres of wild thyme and rosemary, refreshed us like wine: we seemed to have new souls and new bodies given us, and were as free from care as the swallows flying overhead. Travellers never came to Teschoun, as this little oasis is called; but we had placed ourselves under the guidance of an enterprising Frenchman, who transacted all sorts of business on the road between Mascara and Fig-gig, the last French post in the Desert. His name was Dominique, and I shall always look upon him as the most remarkable man I ever knew. He was as witty as Sydney Smith, as clever at expediences as Robinson Crusoe, as shrewd a politician as Machiavelli, as apt at languages as Mezzofanti, and as brave as Garibaldi. Being a bachelor, Dominique was none the less ready to receive us, and, with the help of an old Corsican named Napoleon, made us very comfortable. When Dominique was carrying His Imperial Majesty's mails to some remote stations southward, or had gone to an Arab fair to buy cattle, Napoleon catered for us and cooked for us, and did both admirably. Both master and servant spiced their dishes plentifully with that mother-wit, never seen in such perfection as in crude colonies where people without it would fare so ill.

"What are we to do for society for poor mademoiselle?" asked Dominique, as he served our first dinner. "Monsieur can amuse himself with the officers of the garrison, but there are no ladies here."

"When my brother is out, I shall stay at home and talk to Napoleon," Mary said, with a mock assumption of dignity. "I don't want to be amused, Monsieur Dominique."

"Mon Dieu, mademoiselle! the officers of the garrison will fall in love with you, and that ought to amuse you better than talking to Napoleon," Dominique answered. "It's a very dull life they lead here, these poor officers; and if it weren't for hunting gazelles and hyenas, and playing the deuce with the Arabs, they'd die of ennui; but a pretty young lady like you will turn their heads soon enough."

Mary blushed, and tried to turn the conversation.

"What do they do with themselves all day long?" she asked.

"I'll tell you that quickly enough, mademoiselle. M. le Commandant has to see that the Cadi gets what he can out of the Sheiks, and the Sheiks get what they can out of the tribes, and that the tribes hold their tongue. That is what the Commandant has to do, young lady, and he does it pretty well. M. le Capitaine has an easier time of it, except when there is an insurrection, and then he makes a raid against the Arabs, and after keeping his men out of their way very cleverly, sticks up the French flag somewhere in the Desert and comes home. M. le Lieutenant does odd jobs for the Commandant and the Capitaine, and plays the flute; but we have got M. le Général down here for a few days, and he is setting everybody to work. I dare say the end of it will be an expedition into the Desert. You may look, monsieur. I'm not talking at random, I assure you; generals love war as umbrella-makers love bad weather; and it is easier to make people fight than it is to make it rain."

"I think French officers must be a wicked set; I hope none of them will come near us," Mary said. "The poor Arabs! how my heart bleeds for them."

"Tiens! mademoiselle, there is no reason for your heart to bleed. Big flies live on little ones all the world over; and if the French eat up the Arabs, the Arabs eat up each other. The officers are very nice, harmless gentlemen, I assure you; and as to the Commandant, though he thinks fighting the best fun in the world, he wouldn't hurt a fly. To see him pet his little gazelle would make you cry. She's the only lady in the place, and I believe, if she died, it would break his heart. But people must have something to be fond of. My old Napoleon, yonder, has taken a fancy to a cat, and when the cat dies, Napoleon will be as lost as his namesake the Emperor was at St. Helena. Listen a moment; that's the Lieutenant practising on his flute: he has a little lodging next door."

The Lieutenant played very prettily, and Mary seemed to like his playing much better than Dominique's stories. As her room adjoined the Lieutenant's, she seemed likely to have the full benefit of his musical capacities; but I do not think she lay awake to be serenaded that night. We were fairly intoxicated with the sweet air of the Desert we had been breathing all day, and went to bed at eight o'clock, too tired and happy to dream.

Next morning Dominique informed us that he had himself delivered our letter of introduction to M. le Commandant, who promised to wait upon us in the course of the day. Not knowing at what hour we might expect him, we set to work immediately after breakfast to prepare my room for the reception of so distinguished a visitor. I helped Mary as well as I was able, and, when nothing remained to do but the dusting, retired into a recess to trim my beard.

An Englishwoman is never so well dressed as when she emerges from her bedroom at early morning; and I must say that Mary looked the daintiest little housewife possible to conceive as she went about dusting and polishing in a pink cambric dress and tiny black apron. But, neat as she was, and neat as my beard and the room were in a fair way of becoming, we were overwhelmed with surprise and confusion at what followed, for quite suddenly the door was thrown open; there was a military tramp and a rattling of a sword outside, and Dominique exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, "M. le Commandant!"

Impassible self-possession is a beautiful quality, and while Mary and I stood blushing and aghast, like school children caught at stealing cherries, M. le Commandant had made a courteous speech, welcoming us to Teschoun. Then we all sat down, and M. le Commandant talked to us. He was a sunburnt, soldierly man about fifty-five, with a rough manner but a kind smile, and we felt at home with him in a moment.

"I presume that monsieur wishes to see as much of the country as possible," he said; "and I shall be enchanted to place at monsieur's disposal horses, and my servant and a spahi as guides. But what will mademoiselle do while her brother is away? I must send her my little gazelle to play with her."

"My sister will like to go with me where it is practicable," I said.

The Commandant opened his eyes, and looked at Mary much as one looks upon a pretty little duckling or a year-old baby.

"Monsieur is evidently jesting," he answered. "Mademoiselle would be too fatigued to undertake such journeys."

"I don't think so," Mary said. "I have no fear, monsieur, and I like to be with my brother."

"Ah, what courage you English ladies have! Well, mademoiselle, we will find you a quiet horse, and make everything as pleasant as possible." And after inviting us to dine with him one evening, and bidding us to make use of him in every possible way, he took leave of us.

"How nice he is!" cried Mary, as soon as the door was closed; "if all French officers were like this one, Tom, I think we shall not care how long we stay in the Desert --  -- "

"Your heart has very quickly ceased to bleed for the poor Arabs, I see."

"But how can we be sure that Dominique's stories are all true? No, Tom; I won't believe any harm of this kind-looking Commandant. I only wish he had not come till the room was tidied and I had got on a muslin frock, but, as we are sure of having no more visitors, I'll finish your room and then unpack."

We were fairly at our work again, when another military step sounded, and another sword rattled in the passage outside. This time Dominique's arm swung back the door with less pomposity, and Dominique's voice was a trifle less emphatic as he ushered in "M. le Capitaine."

Again Mary and I scuttled about like young rabbits, and then stood still, staring shyly, and again our embarrassment was met by the calmest nonchalance. The second figure was a man of much more presence than the Commandant. He had the polished, graceful ease of a man of the world, and, though quite as good-natured as the Commandant, his good-nature pleased us less, because it was less spontaneous.

"I hope you will stay some time at Teschoun," he said, looking at Mary. "The ennui of our lives here is terrible. Think of it, mademoiselle; we have no theatre, no music, no society, and no domestic life. To find a lady here is like the miraculous advent of an angel." Mary blushed, and had no courage to make the sprightly answers she had made the Commandant.

The fine air and grand compliments of the Capitaine overcame the little thing, but she looked distractingly pretty as she sat opposite to him, smiling and blushing when he addressed her, and only saying, "Oui, monsieur," or "Non, monsieur," or at most, "Vraiment, monsieur."

"Does mademoiselle ride?" asked the gallant Capitaine.

"Oui, monsieur."

"Then mademoiselle shall ride my little barb; there is hardly such a horse anywhere, mademoiselle, so docile, so sweet-tempered, and so sure-footed. It is not every lady I would trust with my little horse; but I know how an Englishwoman can sit in the saddle, and I am proud to offer it to mademoiselle."

"Je vous remercie bien, monsieur."

Then the Capitaine talked of Christmas-day.

"We will have a little fête-champêtre in mademoiselle's honor," he said; "we will go to the great water-falls of Boisel-Kebir and breakfast there. I will invite my Commandant and all the officers of the garrison. Monsieur can make a sketch and mademoiselle can gather flowers."

We expressed ourselves delighted at the proposal, and, after promising to send Mary ostrich eggs and jackal skins to take to England, the Capitaine left us.

"I don't like the Capitaine as well as the Commandant," Mary said; "but how kind they all are to us! It is as if we were princes on a journey of triumph. Oh, Tom! what days to remember are these!"

"I think your head will be fairly turned, what with the Commandant's dinners and the Capitaine's fêtes-champêtres," I said; "and if the Lieutenant --  -- "

"M. le Lieutenant!" announced Dominique, opening the door calmly, as if nothing was the matter.

We had been twice so shocked and surprised that we had no more embarrassment to expend on the Lieutenant. Indeed, he was rather shy himself, which was the very thing to reassure a warm-hearted, sympathetic little creature like my sister, and they began to talk together without any effort.

He was young and handsome, with a very frank, pleasant expression.

"I am afraid that it is useless for me to offer my poor services," he said, very modestly, "my superior officers having forestalled me; but it will make me very happy to do anything for you. If mademoiselle would like any stuffed birds, or dried flowers and plants, it will give me pleasure to procure them for her; and perhaps monsieur would like me to show him some wonderful things to paint. I draw a little myself, and know where the finest points of view are to be found."

We thanked him heartily, and accepted all that he offered us. As it was now time for our second breakfast, or, more properly speaking, lunch, we pressed him to partake of it with us, which he did. We should not have ventured upon inviting the Commandant, much less the Capitaine, so unceremoniously, but the Lieutenant's diffident manner had set us quite at our ease.

"I have a very humble apartment," he said; "but if monsieur and mademoiselle will visit me, I will do the honors of it with pride and pleasure. I can at least offer them a little music."

"Yes, I know that you play," Mary said, smiling; "our rooms join, and I heard you playing before I went to sleep last night."

"Oh, mademoiselle! I shall never forgive myself if I disturbed you."

"No, indeed, you did not, monsieur. Much as I liked the music, I was too tired to listen to it, and went to sleep all the same."

Then they both laughed gleefully, like children, and the Lieutenant promised to play to her and send her to sleep every night.

After breakfast he accompanied us on a tour of inspection. We soon saw all that there was to see of Teschoun, namely, a little line of bazaars kept by Jews and negroes, a little boulevard of a year's growth, two imposing-looking gates, -- one looking towards Morocco, one towards the Sahara, -- a straggling camp, and a wall of circumvallation. There were gardens in embryo here and there, but no trees of any size, and not till you had got fairly away from Teschoun could you perceive that its aspect was striking or imposing. Then, looking back from the craggy heights that surrounded it, the white line of the camp and the belt of verdure encircling it like a ribbon, struck the eye as a pleasant contrast to the warm, yellow atmosphere of earth and sky. The warmth and the yellowness were delicious. A fresh, sweet breeze blew across our faces from the Desert. We sat down and drew it in with long, devouring breaths.

A hundred yards behind us, his bright-brown body sharply outlined against the pale, amber-colored sky, stood a little Bedouin smiling down upon us. It was a perfect personification of Eastern life, and I made a sketch, while the Lieutenant told Mary of his hard campaign southward, and his joy at catching the first glimpse of Teschoun from the distance.

When we returned home we found that the Commandant's servant had left a bunch of roses for Mary, with his master's compliments; that the Capitaine's servant had been sent round with his master's horse for her to try, and that the Général had sent word by his aide-de-camp that he would himself have the pleasure of calling upon us that evening.

Mary and I felt utterly overwhelmed by such goodness and condescension. A real starred, laced Général was about to call on us! We could hardly believe that we were our identical, insignificant selves, who, but for you, oh! most sweet and honored Patroness, would have sunk under the burden of toil imposed upon us. But how all was changed! The poor, unknown artist was treated as if he had been Sir Peter Paul Rubens; the humble little school teacher was fêted and flattered like the wife of a conquering commander-in-chief.

We had invited the young Lieutenant to drink tea with us at eight o'clock, and were enjoying a little music after a very sociable fashion, when a noisy excitement seemed to shake the house like a shock of an earthquake, and M. le Général was announced in Dominique's most impressive manner.

M. le Général was by no means an awful-looking person; and, indeed, we had so expended our surprise already, that we had no more at command.

He was an excessively stout, merry person, middle-aged, of a beautiful complexion, and a capacity to wink that would have vulgarized any one else but a general. He made himself very pleasant, accepted a cup of tea, praised Mary's French, said that he intended to dine with us at the Commandant's to-morrow, and told us some laughable stories about the Arabs. I noticed that the Lieutenant seemed quite overawed by the presence of the Général, and sat flute in hand, like a statue. Mary tried to put him at his ease, but to no purpose. It did not mend matters when the Général began first to twit him about his musical accomplishments, and then to catechise him on military matters.

"You were in that affair of '59, in Kabylia, weren't you?" he asked, in that quick, positive, military tone to which we with difficulty get accustomed.

My Little Sister Mary

"Oui, mon Général."

"It was a badly managed thing, I believe. The Kabyles got the better of you more than once, didn't they?"

"I believe so, mon Général."

"Bah!" cried the Général, turning to me. "You see what these young officers know of their trade. I have no doubt that Monsieur le Lieutenant's musical education is much more advanced, and to serenade mademoiselle suits him much better than to make war against the enemies of his country."

And, at the mention of the enemies of his country, the Général indulged in a wink. When he was ready to go, he sent the Lieutenant to order his horse, much as if he had been a little boy of ten years old; and on taking leave added half a dozen commissions in the same peremptory tone. The poor Lieutenant listened very submissively, but no sooner had the Général dashed down the street, followed by his servant, equally well mounted, than he grew gay and easy again.

As soon as we were alone, Mary brought out her slender supply of gala dresses, and we discussed the important subject of her toilet of the next evening.

"It seems to me," I said, "that if you dress for the Lieutenant, you will displease the Capitaine; if you dress for the Capitaine, you will displease the Commandant; and if you dress for the Commandant, you will displease the Général."

Mary gathered up her fineries in alarm. "Don't you think I had better stay away from the dinner altogether, Tom?"

"By no means," I said; "settle the matter by dressing to please me."

Which she accordingly did, and the result was a semi-moresque, dainty, and glowing bit of costume quite in keeping with the time and place.


II.

Precisely at seven o'clock we presented ourselves at the Commandant's, Mary looking very pretty in her transparent white dress, brilliant sack of Tunis silk, and necklets and bracelets of coral and palm-seeds. The little thing had such loving, dark eyes, such a soft bloom on her cheeks, and such a sweet mouth, that I could hardly blame the Général for wishing to have her sit beside him at dinner. The Commandant, being a little shy, would have given up all his privileges as host, but the Général insisted upon the Commandant leading her in, and she sat between the two. It was very mortifying for the Capitaine and the Lieutenant; the former made an effort to be complimentary and entertaining across the table, but the latter looked quite crestfallen, and hardly raised his eyes from his plate. When we retired to the drawing-room, matters went a little better. The tame gazelle was brought in for Mademoiselle Marie to see; and while the Général and the Commandant had a long discussion on military affairs, the rest of us sported with the pretty creature and made pleasant plans for the morrow. Then an amusing game of cards was set on foot, over which we were growing very merry, when up came the Général and the Commandant.

"Eh, bien!" said the Général, slyly nudging the Capitaine. "We have not been so engrossed, but we heard one or two pleasant things talked of. Upon my word, Capitaine, I am half disposed not to go to Mascara till after your picnic to the water-falls."

"You will do my poor little fête great honor, mon Général," answered the Capitaine, adding, naïvely, "but I think that the wild geese flying northwards means rain."

"Not a bit of it. We shall have no rain until a fortnight after Christmas. Mademoiselle Marie, I shall do myself the honor of offering you one of my horses to ride."

"Mademoiselle has already condescended to accept mine," the Capitaine put in, with stiffness.

"Mademoiselle Marie, this gentleman has no horse fit to carry a lady. The brute he offers you has no more mouth than an elephant. Keep on the safe side and ride mine, which is a lamb, I assure you, mademoiselle, -- a lamb."

The Général spoke in jest, but the Capitaine was very near losing his temper. Mary being thus appealed to, thought to extricate herself from the difficulty by declaring herself half afraid to ride either horse, being an inexperienced horsewoman. But both the gentlemen had mules, and both the gentlemen's mules were the best. Poor Mary colored, and looked at me in despair.

"I think," I said, "the safest plan will be for my sister to try the horses, and see which suits her the best."

Then the different routes to the water-falls were discussed, and the different Douars or Arab villages where it would be best to have a Diffa, or feast, provided, -- Mary's judgment being asked in every instance. All this time the Lieutenant had turned over the leaves of a newspaper very meekly, and the Commandant had caressed his tame gazelle. As soon as she could politely free herself, Mary went up to him.

"How pretty, and playful, and fond it is!" she said, stooping down to stroke the little creature. The grave face of the Commandant brightened.

"Yes; it would be very triste here without the little thing."

"Do you never go to France, monsieur?"

"I shall perhaps go in two years' time; but you see, mademoiselle, that is a long time to look forward to; and if my mother should not be living, I might as well stay here."

"Do you like fighting the Arabs in the Desert, then, monsieur?"

"Mademoiselle, when one takes up the profession of arms, fighting and exile are choses entendues. I often sigh for a settled, domestic life; but I might have been worse off. I might have gone to Mexico, for instance."

The Commandant's manner was so simple, so manly, and so tinged with sadness, that I think any woman would have sympathized with him as much as my little sister Mary did. She, poor child, having lived all her life in a school-room, was quite ready to make a hero of any man that smiled kindly upon her; and here were four heroes, in handsome uniforms, all smiling upon her at once! There was the sweet sense of youth drawing her to the Lieutenant; but I think the Commandant stood next in her favor, and she could not for a moment forget the courteous kindness of the other two.

"It must all be a dream, Tom," she said, as she gave me her good-night kiss; "but, oh! if it is a dream, don't let me wake yet."

We dreamed some wonderful things in the next few days. Dominique made us get up, one morning, very early, and drove us in his little wooden gig to an Arab encampment miles away in the Desert. It was dawn when we started, and large, pale stars were shining in a violet sky; then, like a gorgeous butterfly emerging from a dusky chrysalis, came the Eastern day, and we felt as if living in a world warmed by a hundred suns. The warm, intoxicating light took possession of our senses, and so sweet, so rarefied, so indescribably delicious was the air, that it seemed to give wings to our dull bodies. Every now and then we were overtaken by clouds of locusts, their little wings glistening like diamonds against the soft sky, or flocks of starlings darkened the air, or a serried line of wild geese passed majestically overhead. Then we came to the tents, and at our approach a dozen dogs rushed out to snap and snarl, and a hundred little naked children scampered and scuttled across the way. A stately Bedouin made us welcome, and, while Dominique transacted business with him, his women gathered around us, chattering and grinning like children. Then we were feasted upon cous-cous-sou and figs, and took leave, after many "salamaleks."

Another day we went out hunting gazelles, bivouacking along a riverside, and feasting, Arab fashion, off a sheep roasted whole. Dominique had found a pretty little French girl, daughter of a travelling farrier, to act as Mary's handmaid; and she now felt less isolated among so many men, and less shy, too. The poor child stood a fair chance of being spoiled, what with suddenly finding herself transformed from a school-room Cinderella to a fairy-tale princess, and having four lovers, all heroes, at once. For it was impossible to deny that the Général, the Commandant, the Capitaine, and the Lieutenant all behaved like lovers, presenting her with jackal skins, ostrich plumes and eggs, rare birds, and other treasures of the Sahara. The Général went so far as to give her a little negro boy about ten years old, though this gift we had accepted only temporarily, not quite knowing what to do with him when we left Teschoun.

Christmas-day came at last. Mary had artfully evaded the delicate point about horses by declaring herself afraid of every one's beast but Dominique's; accordingly, mounted on Dominique's ugly hack, she led the way with the Général, her long, bright hair flowing in curls over her shoulders, her cheeks glowing with excitement. The pleasure and picturesqueness of the last few days -- for Mary had an artistic perception of beauty -- had brought out a new side to her character; and she quite surprised me, from time to time, with her saucy humor and quick repartee.

We made a brilliant cavalcade, what with the uniforms of the officers, and the richly embroidered saddles and bright-red burnouses of our attendant spahis. After riding some miles across a monotonous tract of stony desert, we came to a majestic sierra of crag, down which fell a dozen water-falls, narrow and bright as sword-blades. A thin little stream threaded the ravine, and on its banks grew clumps of the tamarisk, the oleander, and the thuya, making an oasis grateful to the eyes. Here we sat down and ate our Christmas breakfast, with stray thoughts of village bells chiming at home, and school children lustily singing their Christmas hymns.

Our host, the Capitaine, had provided a sumptuous feast of Desert fare, -- roast quails and plovers, cous-cous-sou, figs, dates, and bananas, with the addition of champagne; and we were very merry.

"Mademoiselle," said the Capitaine, "think what our next Christmas will be if you are not here. Persuade monsieur, your brother, to purchase some land between Mascara and Teschoun, so that we shall not lose you altogether."

The Général nudged the Commandant.

"You see what our friend the Capitaine is dreaming of! Mon Capitaine, your escadron is sure to be sent into the interior this spring; put all romances out of your head, my dear fellow, and do not entice monsieur into the committal of follies."

"I am not the only one to entertain romances," said the Capitaine, coolly. "You, mon Général, did us all the honor to spend Christmas at Teschoun. We can but attribute such a condescension to the gracious influence of mademoiselle."

"Look well after the Commandant when I am gone, gentlemen," continued the Général, looking round with a smile. "Matters are gone so far already that he loses his temper if a fellow-officer but jests with him. What a terrible slur it would be upon the glorious annals of French-African conquest, if such a brave officer should show himself fonder of stuffing birds for an English demoiselle than running swords through ungrateful Arabs!" and the Général looked round with a very comical expression of mock horror.

"Mademoiselle has indiscriminately accepted our tokens of homage," the Commandant said, maliciously.

"But it yet remains to be seen whose offering has been most acceptable to her," went on the Général, adding, au grand sérieux, "we won't resort to duels unless absolutely necessary."

This sort of banter lasted so long that poor Mary's cheeks burned with mixed vanity and mortification, and she made an excuse to leave us.

"And what does our Lieutenant advise monsieur to do?" asked the Général, -- "to settle here, or to follow his escadron to the Desert?" Whereupon the poor Lieutenant colored, and said nothing.

What an experience it was, that Christmas-day in the Desert! The noonday sun seemed to dissolve in the warm atmosphere, and, instead of a single orb shining overhead, large and golden, we had melted suns innumerable about us, and almost lost the sense of corporeity in their charmed medium.

When the short bright day waned, and the large stars were coming out one by one, we found ourselves near home; and when the heavens had turned to bluish-black, and the stars to splendid silvery moons, we passed under the gate of Teschoun, and saw our shadows, darker and deeper than real things, fall across the white walls of mosque and fortress. For shadow and substance lost their identity in the Desert and one is always on the point of mistaking the one for the other: if anything, shadow is the more real of the two.

So absorbed was I in the suggestions of this mysterious beauty, that I had forgotten all about my sister's lovers till we were fairly in our little sitting-room. Then Mary began to sigh and blush, and to hint that she thought we had better leave Teschoun very soon.

"You see, Tom, dear," she said, with tears in her eyes, "the Général says he adores me, and the Commandant says he never loved any one in the world until he saw me, and the Capitaine says that if I go away he will blow his brains out, and what am I to do?"

"And the Lieutenant, -- what did he say?"

"He says nothing," said Mary, looking down; "and," -- here came a sob, -- "and I like him best of all!"

"But, if he does not declare the same liking for you, we must leave him out of the question, and choose between the other three, I suppose."

"He does not speak because he is too modest: I'm sure he likes me," Mary added, still ready to cry.

"His state of feeling does not help us much, unless expressed," I replied. "Meantime, what am I to say to the Général, the Commandant, and the Capitaine, if they ask to marry you?"

The little thing plucked at the folds of her riding-skirt in the greatest perplexity.

"I like the Général and I like the Commandant, and I ought not to dislike the Capitaine; but I cannot marry one without offending the others; and, if I were to marry out here in the Desert, Tom, would you stay, too?"

We had been living in such utter fairy-land lately, that I felt as if it were quite possible for me to marry some brown-skinned, soft-eyed Rebecca, and turn Mahometan. But, in any case, could I desire for my sister a happier fate than to marry one of these brave gentlemen, and live in the sunny South all the rest of her days? She would be rescued from a life of toil and friendlessness, and have another protector besides her Bohemian of a brother.

"My dear child," I said, "it would be impossible for me to say that our lives should be spent together; but you may be quite sure that nothing would utterly divide them. The chief point is, of all your lovers, whom do you love?"

To this question I could elicit no positive reply. Mary, in fact, was half in love with the Général and the Commandant, and wholly in love with the Lieutenant, and was quite incapable of deciding her own fate.

"You must not laugh at me," she said, simply, as we bade each other good-night; "it is so new to me to have lovers, and so delightful, that I wish I could go on forever being happy, and making them happy, without marrying either." Then she blushed and ran off to bed.

The next morning we were taking our early coffee, when we heard the clatter of horses' feet, and, looking out, saw one of the Général's splendid, brown-skinned, red-cloaked spahis dashing into the town at a furious rate. He pulled up at Dominique's door, and, letting his little barb prance and rear at will, looked towards us, showing his white teeth and waving a letter in one hand.

I left my breakfast and ran down to him. We exchanged "salamaleks," and then he put the letter in my hand, adding, in broken French, "Le Général, -- envoyer cela, -- va faire le guerre, -- la-bas." Then he put spurs to his horse's flanks, and dashed away as fast as he had come.

I broke the seal of the Général's letter, which ran as follows:

"Monsieur, -- This morning at daybreak I received telegraphic information that a serious rising has taken place among the tribes southward of Fig-gig, and I have resolved to march upon them without delay. Judge, monsieur, how more than sorry I am to be forced to quit the society of your charming sister and yourself without making my adieux; but a soldier's duty forces him from the consummation of his fondest desires, when such a consummation seems close at hand, and I go, if not with joy, at least without soldierly reluctance. I shall never forget, monsieur, this episode, an oasis in the desert of my military life; and, while wishing for mademoiselle and yourself all possible prosperity, I hope you will remember Teschoun and the poor exiled officers there, who will never think of you both without regret.

"I feel it right, under the grave circumstances of the revolt, to advise your speedy return to Mascara, and will order a trusty escort to be in readiness for you when you shall require it.

"Meantime, receive, monsieur, the expression of my utmost esteem.

"De Marion."

We were both of us talking over the astounding contents of the Général's letter, when Napoleon came in, full of news. The insurgents numbered thousands, and there were skirmishing parties close to Teschoun. Teschoun would be most likely besieged, as it had been more than once, etc., etc. As the day wore on, the excitement increased. Little groups of French or Jewish shopkeepers collected together and talked gravely, Arabs walked about in stately fashion, smiling superciliously. In the French camp it was the old story on a lesser scale:

"And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car Went pouring forward with impetuous speed."

And so great was the need for hurry that we doubted whether we should see either of our gallant hosts again. Late in the afternoon, however, the Capitaine paid us a formal, sentimental visit, and after him came the Commandant, who stood up before us, square and stiff, and stammered out a word or two with tears in his kind eyes. Mary held out her little hand; but he seemed overcome with shyness or sadness, or both, and rushed away without having taken it.

Last of all, when we had quite given him up, came the poor Lieutenant: he had been busy on a hundred errands for his superior officers, and had only five minutes to spare. We can never do anything with a few last moments, and Mary and the Lieutenant had not a word to say to each other, though I could see well enough what both would fain have said.

So I quietly left them under the pretext of fetching a cigar, and when I returned, at the close of the fifth minute, all that was necessary had been said. We then embraced each other after the hearty French fashion. Mary and the Lieutenant exchanged rings, and he went off to fight the disaffected Arabs as happy as a king!

It was a fine sight to see the troops march out of Teschoun. Color is really color in the South, and the lines of blue zouaves and crimson spahis against the mellow afternoon sky were vivid and picturesque beyond description.

On they went, arms flashing, drums beating, colors flying, till the last column had turned the hill, and then evening came on all at once, and we felt a dreary sense of disenchantment creeping over us. It was as if we had been dreaming during the last few weeks, and now we were waked, indeed! Dominique recalled us to ourselves with a cynical smile.

"Bah!" he cries, "it's all play; let 'em pretend to put down insurrection as often as they please. It is good for trade and promotion, and the Arabs know how to defend themselves."

But events falsified this sarcasm of Monsieur Dominique's, for the insurrection proved serious, and it was months before we heard of our Lieutenant. When we did hear, the news was good; and the news of him and of his English wife -- dowered by our Vittoria Colonna -- has been good ever since.

<eob>

The Motor Maids At Sunrise Camp

By

Katherine Stokes



Chapter I.

Off For The Mountains.


"Sunrise Camp! What next, pray tell me?" sighed Miss Helen Campbell.

"But it doesn't mean getting up at sunrise, Cousin Helen," Billie Campbell assured her. "Although Papa says we would like it, once we got started. Campers always do rise with the sun. It's the proper thing to do."

"But why do they give it that uncivilized name?" continued Miss Campbell in an injured tone of voice. "Why not Sunset Camp or Meridian Camp or even Moonrise Camp? There is nothing restful to me in the name of 'Sunrise.'"

"It will be restful, indeed it will, dear cousin, once you are used to the life, and it couldn't be called any of those other names because they would not be appropriate. You see there is a wonderful view of the sunrise from the camp, and every morning if you wake early enough you see a beautiful pink light all over the sky and you wonder where the sun is; and suddenly he comes shooting up from behind the tallest mountain in the range across the valley, and it's really quite late by then. He has been up ever so long, but he's been hiding behind the mountains."

"And we are to sleep on the ground under those flimsy tents, I suppose?" asked Miss Campbell, who was not taking very kindly to the camping proposition.

"No, no," protested her young cousin, laughing, "you're thinking of soldiers, and they do have cots. This camp is a log house, a really beautiful log house. There is one immense room without any ceiling, and you look straight up through the beams into the roof. Papa says it's splendid."

Miss Campbell bestowed upon Billie a tolerant, suffering smile.

"And back of that room," continued Billie, speaking quickly, "is a long sleeping porch that can be partitioned off into bedrooms --  -- "

"No protection from rain and wild animals, I suppose?" put in Miss Campbell sadly.

"Oh, yes. There is a roof overhead and a floor underneath, and it's all enclosed with wire netting to keep out mosquitoes. It can't rain in far enough to wet the beds and, of course, nothing else matters --  -- "

"Clothes?" groaned the little lady.

"But khaki skirts, cousin, and rubber-soled shoes and pongee blouses, -- water couldn't injure things like that."

"I went camping once forty years ago," went on Miss Campbell, without seeming to notice Billie's reply. "It was terrible, I assure you, it was quite too dreadful. One night there was a storm, and the tents that were not blown away by the high winds were swamped by rain. Our clothes all mildewed, and the flies! I shall never forget the disgusting flies, -- they were everywhere."

"This camp couldn't possibly be blown away even by the strongest wind," broke in Billie, ready to refute every argument, "and the screens make it just as comfortable as your own home would be."

"How far is it from anywhere?" demanded Miss Campbell suddenly.

Billie hesitated.

"It's twenty-five miles, but there is a good road from the railroad station and the 'Comet' can take us across in no time. You see, there is a little village in the valley at the foot of our mountain, and in summer a 'bus runs twice a day with passengers and the mail, so the road must be fairly good. Papa says lots of automobiles go over it."

"Twenty-five miles," groaned Miss Campbell.

"Twenty-five miles from a telegraph station --  -- "

"But there is no one for you to telegraph to if Papa and I are with you, dear Cousin, is there?" asked Billie ingenuously.

Miss Campbell's expression softened. Nothing pleased her so much as for Billie to make one family of the three. The young cousin had become such a fixture in her home that she had grown quite jealous of Duncan Campbell's possessive airs with his daughter.

"One would think she really belonged to him more than to me," she would exclaim at such times, with some unreasonableness it must be admitted.

But it was plain that the little spinster's resolutions against camping were beginning to crumble.

"We are not to eat on the ground, then, or drink coffee from tin cups, or sleep in our clothes, or be bitten to death by mosquitoes, and finally exterminated by wild animals?"

Billie laughed joyously. She knew by these extravagant remarks that her cousin had been won over.

"None of those things," she cried. "We are to lead a comfortable, beautiful rustic life, and I know you'll just love it. There are lakes, cousin, exquisite, beautiful little gems of lakes; and trails all through the pine forests, and the walking isn't a bit difficult --  -- "

"Khaki skirts, did you say?"

"Yes, and sneakers."

"What are they, child?"

"Rubber-soled shoes to keep you from slipping."

Miss Campbell sighed.

"And at my age!" she said aloud, answering some unspoken thought. "Tell your father I accept, but it's the last straw, and I may never see my comfortable old home again."

Billie did not pause to disprove this dejected statement. She kissed her relative with the wild abandon of eighteen, rushed from the room and was down the stairs in a breathlessly short space of time.

"She's going! She's going!" she cried, rushing into the drawing-room, where her three friends were anxiously awaiting news, and Mr. Campbell, almost as anxious himself, was pacing the floor, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

"Good work, little daughter!" he said, pausing in his walk. "I knew you could win her over if anybody could, although last night I was afraid we hadn't the ghost of a show. She was dead set against it. The word 'camp' alone seemed to make her wild."

"But, you see, she thought it was tents and flies and mosquitoes and tin cups."

Mr. Campbell smiled.

"I think we won't tell her any more, now that she has made up her mind. We'll give her a little surprise. Call the camp a log hut and let it go at that."

"Now, about clothes --  -- " began Nancy Brown, and her friends all smiled. "Well, one must have clothes, even on a camping trip. Don't you think a blue corduroy would be attractive, with a touch of coral pink in the silk tie, say; and high russet walking boots -- the kind that lace, you know --  -- "

"They must have rubber soles," put in Billie, "no matter what the tops are."

"And a straw hat in the natural color, with a brim that droops slightly, and a pheasant's tail feather, slightly at one side --  -- "

There was another burst of laughter at this juncture, and Mr. Campbell joined in.

"Miss Nancy," he said, "I'm afraid you'll have everything from hedge hogs to wood choppers at your feet if you make yourself so attractive in silks and velvets and russets --  -- "

"Nothing perishable," protested Nancy. "It will be quite suitable, of course. It's a mountain costume I saw in a French fashion magazine, and it was really intended for an Alpine climber; only it was much fancier. The French lady in the picture wore a lace jabot and high-heeled shoes, and she carried an Alpine stock with a pink bow tied just below the crook."

"Was the skirt hobble?" demanded Billie.

"It sounds to me like a Little Bo-Peep costume," put in Mary Price.

"I think one should dress quite quietly on a camping party," observed Elinor Butler.

Mr. Campbell seized his hat.

"My only advice to you, ladies," he announced as he reached the door, "is to wear shoes that won't turn your ankles; skirts that give you plenty of leeway for climbing, and shirts that may be easily washed, because laundries are not abundant in those regions. As for hats," he finished, "you'll probably not wear any after the first day, even the latest thing from the Alps trimmed with the tail feather of a pheasant. As for colors, the first time you go camping you'll probably let your fancy run riot and wear Assyrian purple or crushed strawberry. But the next time, you'll pass right down the line until you get to brown, because you will know by that time that brown fades brown. If campers had been born wild animals instead of human beings, Nature would surely have provided them with brown coats for utilitarian as well as protective purposes."

"I thought we could just wear old clothes," put in Mary Price, doubtfully. "I didn't know people had costumes made for camping."

Mr. Campbell thrust his genial, handsome face back into the room.

"Camping clothes are like bathing suits," he remarked. "After the first wetting or so, they all look alike."

"I'm sure blue corduroy will last," cried Nancy. "The man at the store said it was unfadeable."

"You mean that curly-haired clerk who wears the ruby scarf pin?" laughed Billie. "What's his name?"

"Delosia Moxley," answered Elinor. "He is always giving Nancy pointers about the latest modes. He was responsible for that Spanish veil she would wear last winter --  -- "

"He was not," interrupted Nancy. "He merely told me they were the fashion in New York. I needn't have bought it if I hadn't wanted to."

"I suppose he furnished that French lady's Alpine costume, too, didn't he, Nancy Bell?"

Nancy smiled good-naturedly. She never really minded being teased about her elaborate taste in dress.

"His taste is extremely good," she said. "He expects to run a millinery shop in a year or so. He says he can trim hats charmingly."

"My word!" exclaimed Billie. "I suppose his mother will make your suit and he'll pin the feather on the hat, and between them they will equip you to climb the Adirondacks. But, oh, Nancy, I implore you to explain to Mrs. Moxley that hobbles don't go in the mountains."

"She understands," replied Nancy with much dignity. "She is going to make me the very latest thing in mountain-climbing suits, and she gets all her fashions straight from New York."

Her friends exchanged covert glances and said nothing. Nancy's conferences with Mrs. Moxley, the dressmaker, were a source of endless amusement to them. It was Mrs. Moxley who had made Nancy's graduating costume that June, and never had been seen on the platform of West Haven High School such a fashionable toilette. It had a hobble skirt and a fancy little train that flopped about Nancy's feet like a beaver's tail, and at the reception afterwards the boys had teased her until she left in tears.

Two weeks had passed since graduation and our Motor Maids were just beginning to feel the results of their hard winter's work. It had been a tough pull to catch up with their classes after the return from Japan. There had been no gayeties for them during the Christmas holidays, only continuous hard study, and for weeks afterwards Billie and Nancy and Elinor were tutored every afternoon. Mary Price, the best student of the three, had outstripped them, and in the end had carried off first honors and a scholarship besides. But after the excitement of finals, the four friends had collapsed like pricked balloons. Billie, mortified at what she considered a weakness in her character, had not been able to throw off a deep cold contracted in the spring. Mary Price was limp and white; Elinor had grown mortally thin, and even Nancy had lost her roundness, and her usually plump face was peaked and pale.

"My child needs mountain air!" said Mr. Campbell on one of his flying trips to West Haven. "She must not be in a hotel, and she must have her friends with her."

With characteristic energy he had set to work to find a place somewhere in the mountains, and he had made three trips before he satisfied himself that "Sunrise Camp" in the Adirondacks, to let furnished, was exactly what he had been searching for. The owners had gone abroad and were glad to rent it at a low price.

To "Sunrise Camp" therefore, after due preparation, Miss Helen Campbell, the Motor Maids and Mr. Campbell, who went up to install them, departed. At the station next day they found the "Comet," still attired in his blue suit acquired in Japan, in charge of a chauffeur from a nearby hotel. Along twenty-five miles of mountainous road the faithful car carried them, patiently climbing the last steep grade which led to a kind of shelf in the mountain whereon stood "Sunrise Camp."



Chapter II.

The Camp.


"Hurrah!" cried Billie, trying to pretend that she was not at all tired after the interminable hot journey on the train and across the mountains.

But her enthusiasm was not echoed by the others. Even Mr. Campbell, who always felt the heat, sat silent and dejected. Billie, however, usually endeavored to live up to her theories, and she had believed that pure mountain air would act as an instantaneous tonic on their jaded spirits. She was trying now to persuade herself that she was not hot and dusty and excessively weary.

They had drawn up in front of a rustic hut built of logs with the bark left on. The roof had a graceful slant from the central peak, and over the gallery in front was another low-hanging roof like the visor of a cap. On one side of the camp, at no great distance from the house, a majestic army of pine trees had ranged itself in the manner of a silent and faithful guard. At the other side, the ledge sloped down in natural, uneven terraces to the valley far below. From the sleeping porches in the back could be seen a broad vista of low country encircled by a wall of mountains, now clothed in a mantle of purple shadows as the sun sank behind the crests of the opposite range. The air was hot and sweet and very dry, and the atmosphere vibrated with the hum of insects like the low, steady accompaniment of stringed instruments in a great orchestra. But at close view, it must be confessed, Nature was very dingy. The pine trees had a rusty look and the parched earth cried out for rain.

"Well, ladies, we are here," remarked Mr. Campbell, "and I hope you'll find it to your several tastes."

"I am sure we will," answered Mary politely, while the others moved in a silent procession toward the house.

Miss Campbell was already wondering how long they could endure this crude and lonely existence a hundred miles from anywhere. The contagion of doubt had indeed spread like a plague over the entire company, and all for the want of a bath, a supper and a good night's rest.

"Ah, here are Mr. and Mrs. Lupo," exclaimed Mr. Campbell in a tone of relief, as a man and woman approached down the gallery. "They are half Indians," he added in a low voice. "Mrs. Lupo will be cook and her husband, guide, protector and man of all work."

Miss Campbell turned reproachful eyes upon her relative.

So then they were to be left in charge of two half-breed Indians in this wild mountainous place, while he was away. Really, men were too incorrigible. But Mr. and Mrs. Lupo, at first glimpse, were far removed from savages. They were, apparently, like two shy, gentle animals with dark, shining eyes, and when they spoke, which was seldom, it was almost as if they had broken a vow of silence. Winter and summer they lived in these high places, and only occasionally did Mrs. Lupo descend to the valley to visit the little shops in the village and look upon the vanities of life.

"Well, Mrs. Lupo," said Mr. Campbell, after shaking hands with the husband and wife and properly introducing them to the others, "I trust you have some food ready for a crowd of very hungry people. It was too hot this afternoon to be enthusiastic about lunch at the Valley Inn and hunger has overtaken us."

Mrs. Lupo looked gravely from one face to another but said nothing.

"Supper will be ready in fifteen minutes," answered her husband, and the strange pair promptly and quietly disappeared.

"She reminds me," said Mary to Billie, "of one of those genii in fairy tales that appear when you want them and melt away when you have finished with them."

"I wonder if she can cook," was Billie's unpoetic reply.

During these brief moments they had lingered on the dusty gallery, and now Mr. Campbell, eager as a boy for their approval, led them through the broad opening into the only room of the camp, of which they had caught glimpses as they waited outside. But they were quite unprepared for its vast size, capped by the unceiled roof now fast filling with shadows.

"Why, it's really grand," cried Miss Campbell, with a sudden spurt of enthusiasm. "It's like a cathedral."

"Isn't it fine?" answered Mr. Campbell. "I think the primeval huts must have looked like this, and when it came time to build churches it wasn't a very far cry."

"I expect Mr. Primeval Man would have been mighty glad to have had one of those nice Morris chairs," observed Billie.

"It would have been good-by to cathedrals then," answered her father. "Mr. Primeval Man would have passed so much of his time in the easy chair that he would never have got beyond the age of dull-edged tools."

And in this thoroughly modern primeval hut there were plenty of inducements to be lazy. Grouped about the stone chimney of an immense open fire-place were numerous easy chairs, and ranged against the dim confines of the walls were quite half a dozen cots to be used by people who might prefer to sleep indoors, Mr. Campbell explained.

The heads of several deer with branching antlers looked down at them from the walls, and on the floor in front of the fire-place was stretched the skin of a great black bear.

"Papa, I think it's really beautiful," exclaimed Billie, rubbing her cheek against her father's shoulder.

"So do we all, Mr. Campbell," cried the other Motor Maids.

"I am delighted and relieved," he answered, rubbing his hands together with pleasure over their pleasure. "Better introduce Cousin Helen to her -- er bedroom now, and wash up before supper," he added, winking and grinning behind that little lady's back.

Anybody would approve of the big room of the camp. It was indeed a splendid place, but how was Miss Campbell going to take to the dormitory? A flight of rustic steps at one end led to a gallery opening on this doubtful territory.

"Oh, how delightful," cried Billie, rushing through the door with a great show of enthusiasm. "I have always wanted to sleep in the open and never had a chance except that one night on the plains. Remember, Cousin Helen? And how you did enjoy it, too!"

"One night, yes, my dear, but this is for some sixty nights or more," answered Miss Campbell, surveying a row of cots placed at intervals along the porch. "I never slept in the room with anybody in my life before."

"But this is not sleeping in a room. This is sleeping in the world, under the great dome of heaven," exclaimed Billie, laughing uneasily.

"If you want privacy, you can draw a veil," remarked Elinor, pointing to denim curtains on poles between some of the beds.

"And be alone in the world, under the great dome of heaven? Never!" cried Miss Campbell. "But do we dress out here in sight of the entire range of mountains? I should feel that each mountain had an eye turned on me."

"Really, cousin, you remind me of the old lady from Skye," ejaculated Billie:

"'There was an old lady from Skye Who was so exceedingly shy, When she undressed at night, She put out the light, For fear of the all-seeing eye.'"

Miss Campbell so far forgot her objections as to burst out laughing, and she was still further placated by finding at one end of the porch a good-sized locker room, and adjoining that a bathroom.

"The water comes from the top of the mountain," announced Billie. "It's just piped in and doesn't have to be pumped. Think of bathing in such clear pure water as that. Oh, I know camping like this will be perfect!"

"It may and it may not be," observed Miss Campbell, bathing her hands and face in some of the crystal water. "Good heavens, what's that?" she demanded, startled by the sound of a bugle in the twilight stillness. The call was loud and clear, reverberating among the mountains and coming back to them in a softened, muffled echo.

"That's Mr. Lupo blowing the supper horn," called Mr. Campbell from the sleeping porch below. Down they all filed and seated themselves anywhere around a long rustic table apparently loaded with food, for all the meal had been placed upon it regardless of ceremony, and people were expected to help themselves.

"Fall to, fall to, ladies," said Mr. Campbell, serving slices of broiled ham until the pile of plates in front of him was reduced to one.

"Let's introduce scientific management into this business," suggested Billie. "With one deft movement of the arm, I'll help each plate to creamed potatoes, passing them along in order to Nancy, who can dish out the baked omelette. While we are doing that Mary can serve the butter and Elinor can pass around the biscuits. There is no labor wasted and the food is distributed in the quickest possible time."

"What shall I be doing?" asked Miss Campbell. "I don't see that I am being scientifically managed."

"Yes you are," answered Mr. Campbell with a mischievous glance at the pretty little lady. "You are being scientifically managed by not being allowed to do anything."

There was a chorus of drowsy, good-natured laughter. The leavening influence of food at a journey's end was already beginning to take effect. Presently Mr. Lupo came in with a tray of cups and saucers and a pot of steaming hot coffee, and Mrs. Lupo, silent and soft of foot, placed four tall wooden candlesticks on the table, the light from the tallow candles shedding a yellow glow on their faces.

"Excuse me," said Mary, rising, after the hungry company had cleared up everything before them, "I want to go to the end of the room and see what we look like. I feel as if we were making a picture somebody ought to see. We are," she called presently from the far end of the vast apartment. "You've no idea how picturesque you look around that dark wooden table with those candles and the blue water pitcher and the pewter coffee pot."

"And the empty omelette dish," called Billie.

"And only one biscuit left," added Elinor.

"I've no doubt Mr. Rembrandt would have painted us just so," said Mr. Campbell.

"And called it 'The Guild of The Globe Trotters'," Miss Campbell was saying, when Mary gave a low exclamation of surprise. In order not to obstruct the beautiful view across the valley, the rustic porch had not been enclosed with screens, but the openings into the living room were screened, and, standing just outside the broad door, Mary saw a man peering into the room.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "I am afraid I frightened you. I was lost on the side of the mountain, and when I saw the light in the camp I thought I would stop and ask the way."

"Come in, won't you?" said Mr. Campbell hospitably. "Have you had your supper?"

"I am afraid not," answered the stranger with a short laugh.

"Mrs. Lupo, will you get this gentleman some supper?" called Mr. Campbell, while Miss Campbell, almost lost in one of the big chairs, was wondering if this were the etiquette of campers, and if they would be expected to take in strangers after Duncan had departed.

"Sit down," went on the incorrigible Duncan. "We only arrived ourselves an hour ago, and we are hardly familiar with the house yet, but there is plenty of room. Won't you stop over night? My name is Campbell."

"My name is St. Clair," answered the stranger. "I live in a place called West Haven. Ever hear of it?"

"Percy St. Clair!" cried the girls and Miss Helen. "Where did you come from?"

"The scheme worked pretty well, eh, Percy?" laughed Mr. Campbell, after the young man, their old friend and playmate, had shaken hands all around and insisted on hugging Miss Campbell. "I thought I would keep you as a surprise. Where's the motor cycle?"

"It's outside. I walked it up the last climb."

"Did you have any trouble finding the way?"

"Considerable. That's why I'm so late. A fellow told me the wrong road, and I was lost for a while and had a foolish adventure besides."

"What was it? What was it?" they demanded.

Percy seated himself at the supper table, while Nancy poured out his coffee and Billie served him with ham and eggs.

"Well, I asked a man the way and he said, 'Are you a doctor?' I said, 'Not yet, but soon.' Then he showed me a road and told me there was a very sick woman in a house at the top, and would I call and see what could be done. You may imagine my feelings when I found that the road led straight to an old ruined hotel, and there wasn't a human being in it as far as I could see nor any sign of one. So I got on my cycle and went back down the mountain until I found a sign board that put me on the right track again. But it was queer, wasn't it, and rather uncanny, too."

It was a strange experience, and after supper they sat under the stars discussing it until bedtime, and came to the conclusion that Percy had met a crazy man.

Never had Miss Helen Campbell slept so well as she did that night on the sleeping porch. Toward morning there came a quiet life-giving rain that freshened the parched earth and brought out the pungency of the pine trees. Only Mary knew of the shower and of the soft wind that followed just before dawn, bearing with it the fragrance of the wet woods. Only Mary saw the miracle of the dawn; first the faint flush of pink; then a deep rosy blush; next, rays of orange and gold, and at last the sun bursting into view. It was Mary who softly let down the bamboo blinds to keep out the sunlight and who finally slipped back to bed and went to sleep with the songs of innumerable forest birds in her ears.



Chapter III.

Rules And Regulations.


At six o'clock they were awakened by a long, melodious trumpet call. The vigorous tripping melody drove the sleep from their brains like a dash of cold water. Billie found herself sitting up in bed humming:

"'Oh, come to the stable, As soon as you're able And feed the horses grain. If you don't do it The Captain will know it And raise particular Cain.'"

It was an energetic summons to rise and view a fresh and beautiful world, and Billie, glancing at her watch, was aware that, as a concession to new arrivals, the summons had come half an hour later than scheduled. Half-past five was to be the hour for rising in camp, provided the ladies were willing. And certainly they showed no signs of unwillingness at the six o'clock call. Miss Campbell glanced placidly down the line of white cots. Then she inhaled a breath of the delicious air.

"In all my life I never slept as I did last night," she announced. "Did somebody put sleeping drops in my coffee, I wonder?"

"I fancy the sleeping drops fell in the night in the form of showers," observed Mary from her cot at the end of the line. "There was no storm, just one of those quiet steady rains, and I never saw people sleep so hard. I thought you were all dead until I heard Miss Campbell --  -- " Mary paused and blushed. "That is, until I heard some one breathing very heavily."

"Now, Mary Price, don't tell me you heard me snore. I never did such a thing in my life," cried Miss Campbell.

With a laugh, Billie leapt from her bed and ran to take a cold plunge in the mountain water which gurgled from the faucet with the pleasant song it had not left off singing when it leaped out of the side of the rock into the pipe.

At seven o'clock came the clarion call for breakfast: inviting and persuasive it was, with a lingering last note that fell softly on the ear and gradually died into discreet silence.

"Mr. Lupo blows the horn with so much expression," said Elinor. "I really think he must have had long experience in summoning people to breakfast who were never ready. He'll be giving 'Weber's Invitation to the Dance' for dinner, I suppose."

They had finished their morning toilets in the locker room, and were about to go downstairs when something tapped against one of the bamboo blinds. Billie promptly drew it up and looked into the clearing below.

"Who's tapping at our chamber door?" she demanded.

A long fishing pole on which dangled five little nosegays made of ferns and grasses and wild asters was thrust at her. "Why, Algernon Percival," she called. "I never dreamed you were so energetic."

"Not guilty," answered that young man's voice from the lower porch. "When the bugle sounded just now, I was taking a shower bath. I'm still busy, but it doesn't take long to get into camping clothes. Who is the only person we know who would get up at dawn and go tramping off for wild flowers?"

A tall, lanky figure stepped out from the shadow of the gallery and lifted his handsome, thoughtful face up to the girls leaning over the railing.

"Why, it's Ben Austen," they cried. "Dear old Ben, when did you come?"

"Last night at ten o'clock," he answered. "The 'bus wouldn't come up from the village at that hour, so I walked. It was great. How are all of you?" he added, wiggling the nosegays in front of their noses.

"We're as fine as silk," answered Billie, with a happy laugh. "And it's such fun that you and Percy are here. Papa kept it a secret so as to surprise us, I suppose."

"I hope it's a pleasant surprise."

"The jolliest kind," they cried, running downstairs at the second call to breakfast.

Those of you who have read the first volume of this series, "The Motor Maids' School Days," will recall Percy St. Clair and Ben Austen, two West Haven boys who were great friends of the girls during that winter when Billie Campbell and her red car first made their appearance in the town. Percy, in the transition from boyhood to manhood, has changed very little. He is of medium height, and his handsome fair face still flushes like a schoolgirl's, to his great annoyance. Ben, at nineteen, is six feet tall. His face has developed since we knew him some years ago. His features are large and regular, his dark eyes filled with serious intent, and a mop of curly black hair covers his head like a thick cap.

Downstairs they found Mr. Campbell pouring for himself a cup of coffee. The camp table was never to be set for breakfast, but the dishes were to be piled at one end and the food at the other, and each camper was to help himself to what he chose. There was a good deal of laughing and scrambling at this morning meal. It started everybody off in a good humor, and in time it became the hour for jokes and absurdities that will never die out as long as there are boys and girls enough to keep them alive.

After they had disposed of quantities of very good food, at least it seemed good to mountain appetites, Mr. Campbell took a sheet of letter paper from his pocket and rapped for quiet.

"Young people, I want to read you a few rules which must be obeyed if camp is to be run on a military basis, the only way a camp can be successfully conducted. Here they are:

"'Rules For Sunrise Camp.

"'Unless physically unable, all persons must appear at breakfast promptly at six-thirty. Penalty for not appearing -- general housework for a day.

"'Every camper, except Captain Helen E. Campbell, must make his own bed and keep his part of the dormitory in first rate order.

"'There will be inspection twice a week by Captain H. E. Campbell.'"

Miss Campbell bowed her head in acknowledgment of the honor.

"'Dinner at twelve-thirty, unless picnics interfere.

"'Supper at six.

"'Sub-Rules For Women Members.

"'Females unattended or with each other are expressly forbidden to wander off bounds; that is, off the three trails which pass near this camp.

"'Picnics are forbidden without male attendants.'"

"Dear me," interrupted Billie, "aren't there any laws for the men to follow? These are all against women."

"They are merely for your protection, my dear."

"That's what the men always say when they begin to trample on women's rights," declared Billie.

"All right, Miss Suffragette, just wait a minute. There'll be a few for the men.

"'SUB-RULES FOR WOMEN MEMBERS -- Continued.

"'Hobble skirts are forbidden.'" Mr. Campbell gave a jovial wink and glanced at Nancy.

"'Any individual who introduces a Parisian Alpine climbing suit into camp must pay the penalty by being made to climb a mountain in it.'"

"Now, you know that's not on the list. You're making it up," exclaimed Nancy, blushing.

"'The tail feather of a pheasant is not recommended as trimming for a camp hat,'" he went on blandly.

"'No woman member is permitted to wear a lavender silk polonaise with lace ruffles.'"

"Polonaise?" cried Miss Campbell. "What on earth are you talking about, Duncan? Do you mean negligée?"

"Oh, excuse my ignorance. I thought it was called polonaise," he answered humbly.

"Polonaise," exclaimed the little lady, amid a wild whoop of laughter. "It's a good thing you brought your daughter to a woman member to have her education finished. Goodness me!"

"Dearest Papa," said Billie, kissing him, "don't you wear negligée shirts most all the time? It's the same thing."

"I thought all ladies wore polonaises," insisted Mr. Campbell. "It certainly was the fashion in my youth, at any rate."

"Fashions change with the times and manners, my boy," said Miss Campbell. "But do give us the rules for the men of this household before you forget it."

"'Sub-Rules For Men Members.

"'Men are required to look after the wants of the ladies and see that they obey their set of rules to the letter.'"

"And is that all?" demanded the women members with a great show of indignation. "Why, we have no rights at all and they have everything!"

"No indeed, children," answered Mr. Campbell. "When a man is required to look after the wants of five ladies, he at once gives up all rights of his own and becomes a slave. There is no need of making any more rules for the men, but there is one more rule for general obedience.

"'All questions and disputes arising shall be settled by Helen Eustace Campbell, Captain of Sunrise Camp.'"

"Three cheers for Captain Campbell," cried Percy.

Miss Campbell rose and lifted her little crinkled hand for silence.

"I accept the responsibility of Sunrise Camp," she said, "under the conditions I am about to state: that I am not asked to go canoeing in one of those tippy little boats without seats; that I am not persuaded against my better judgment to climb to the top of a mountain, for I simply won't, I tell you beforehand; and that nothing shall interfere with my afternoon nap."

"I am sure that these mild requests will be agreeable to all concerned," said Mr. Campbell. "Will the company state objections, if any?"

There was a dead silence.

"Captain Campbell, consider yourself installed as absolute ruler in this camp."

"Papa, why be so businesslike?" asked Billie.

"Because there must always be a certain amount of system in a camp or it won't run. I've lived in camp so much more than in houses that I know, and since I can't be with you until later, I think it wise to get things started in this way before I go --  -- "

"The car is ready, sir," said the village chauffeur at the door.

The Motor Maids had begun to learn by this time that it was invariably Mr. Campbell's way to leave his guests in a cheerful frame of mind, and they all knew perfectly well that "Rules for Sunrise Camp" had been prepared chiefly for Billie's sake, that she would be still laughing when her father kissed her good-by and still smiling when he turned to wave his hat for the last time. She had been very homesick for him lately during his absences from West Haven, perhaps because she had been run down in health and tired out. And to-day, in spite of all the laughing and joking, her eyes filled with tears as she watched the car creep down the mountain road to the valley.

For a little while the camp seemed lonely and remote.

"The truth is," thought Mary, wandering down the path to look at the view, "Mr. Campbell is so splendid that when he goes away he always leaves a big empty space that doesn't seem to fill up. And Billie is just like him. Nobody ever could fill the emptiness she would leave."

As if drawn by these loyal and devoted thoughts, Billie had followed Mary, and the two girls stood with clasped hands watching the distant motor, now a black speck in the valley.

"Dearest, dearest Papa," exclaimed Billie under her breath, as the tears welled into her eyes and slipped down her cheeks.

Mary pressed close to her side with silent sympathy.

Presently Billie wiped her eyes and began to smile.

"Don't tell on me, Mary dear. I'm just like a foolish little girl. But I do love Papa so, and sometimes I can't bear to have him leave me. Then I wish I had been born his twin brother and we never could be separated."

Mary was about to dispute this argument on the grounds that marriage would have separated them, when they noticed coming up the steep road a small bony horse drawing a little cart. A girl was walking at one side, holding the reins. She wore a broad-brimmed jimmy hat and an old gingham dress faded to a soft mellowed pink. The two girls watched her with admiration as she swung along the road, swaying slightly at the waist like one who had adopted the easiest way of walking up hill. They were so intent upon her that they hardly noticed the blackberries and vegetables in the back of the cart.

Presently the girl paused and turned her beautiful dark blue eyes on them without any embarrassment.

"Want to buy any vegetables?" she asked.

"Perhaps they will up at the camp," said Billie. "Ask Mrs. Lupo."

The mountain girl looked at her strangely and shook her head.

"Do you know Mrs. Lupo?" asked Billie.

"Yes, but I will not ask her."

"Very well, I'll buy something myself. What have you got?"

"Blackberries, onions and beets."

Billie bought a pail of berries.

"You had better come up to the camp and let me empty them," she said.

"Keep the pail," answered the mountain girl, and swung on up the road, flicking the little old horse with a long switch.

Billie and Mary followed with the berries, which they presently left in the kitchen where Mrs. Lupo was working.

"I bought these from a mountain girl, Mrs. Lupo," said Billie.

The woman went on working without looking up. Billie repeated what she had said. There was still no answer, and the girls went out of the kitchen somewhat disconcerted.

"She's a queer, shy creature," said Billie, and thought no more about it.



Chapter IV.

Table Top.


Miss Campbell was quite willing to trust her brood with Ben Austen.

"He was always reliable," she remarked. "When he was a baby, his mother could depend on him not to cry at the wrong time, although, of course, he was only human."

On the whole, she was relieved that her cousin had asked Ben to make them a visit. Mr. Lupo was all very well and had guided their walking parties up the trails, or, seated beside Billie in the "Comet," had pointed out good roads for motoring; but Miss Campbell did not consider him as entirely to be trusted, because, as you probably recall, she never liked mixed bloods nor mixed colors, either.

Some days after their arrival, when they had quite recovered from that unconquerable disposition to sleep, which always attacks lowlanders visiting the mountains, Billie proposed that they take a walking trip across a tableland which separated their mountain from the one behind, and finally scale the peak beyond, where the view, it was said, was magnificent.

"Let's go to-day while the spirit moves us and it's so delightfully cool," she suggested at breakfast.

"But Mr. Lupo isn't here," objected Miss Campbell. "He's gone to the village."

"We know the way, don't we, Ben? Mr. Lupo showed us the trail yesterday. Most of it goes through the woods. It's only two miles across 'Table Top' and then we get to the other mountain. I'm wild to go. I'm beginning to feel shut in, and I want to see what's on the other side of this Chinese wall."

"More Chinese walls," observed Ben gravely.

"Mr. Lupo is such a restraining influence," put in Nancy. "When he's along, we have no real conversation."

"He is a kind of a wet blanket," observed Percy. "You never know whether he has heard you or not. You generally have a feeling he has, but that your remarks are too trivial for comment."

"All of which means," said Miss Campbell, "that you want to go off for the day without a guide."

"Please, Cousin Helen," pleaded Billie.

"Dear Miss Campbell, won't you let us?" cried the other Motor Maids.

"Not because that feather-top Percy is with you, but because Ben is here, I suppose I might as well consent," said Miss Campbell.

"Old Ben is just as much of a feather-top as I am, Miss Campbell," protested Percy. "He deceives people because he looks like an Indian. I've got a serious mind underneath all this curl and color."

"I don't believe it," answered Miss Campbell. "But I wouldn't have you changed, my boy. I like you as you are."

After this two-sided compliment, they took it for granted that consent had been given and Billie rushed off to see Mrs. Lupo about the lunch.

They had come to learn during that first week in camp that Mrs. Lupo was a law unto herself. For one thing, the blackberries that Billie had purchased of the mountain girl had never come to the table, although the girls kept looking for them to appear in the form of a cobbler or a roly-poly pudding. What had become of them they never learned, but Billie had an uncomfortable suspicion that they had been tossed into the garbage pail.

"We can't do anything about it, my dear," Miss Campbell had informed Billie. "The woman certainly holds us in the hollow of her hand unless we want to do our own cooking."

Billie smiled. Miss Campbell was never known to boil a kettleful of water, let alone cook a meal. If there was any culinary work to be done the Motor Maids would do it, and Miss Campbell might possibly arrange the salt cellars or offer to go over the silver with a polishing cloth.

Mrs. Lupo dumbly acquiesced to the lunch.

"We will be glad to make the sandwiches, Mrs. Lupo," said Billie timidly. "Please let us have some cold meat. I suppose there is plenty of bread? Will you hard-boil a dozen eggs?"

Mrs. Lupo rarely replied to any question addressed to her, but she went about getting the things for the lunch and Billie breathed a sigh of silent thanks.

"It's really terrible to be a slave to one's cook," she thought. "But I know perfectly well that if I ever tried to subjugate Mrs. Lupo I'd get mad, and she would just fold her tent like the Arab and silently steal away, and one morning there would be no breakfast."

Billie had tried several methods with Mrs. Lupo. She had said good morning with a polite smile, but received no response. Once she had added:

"How do you feel this morning, Mrs. Lupo?"

A dead silence had followed this courteous inquiry.

"Wires crossed," Percy had cried. "Try again, Central."

They had all laughed at this witticism and Billie had hoped Mrs. Lupo had not understood.

"If you had lived in the mountains all your life I guess you wouldn't be very communicative, either," she had admonished Percy, after Mrs. Lupo had glided noiselessly out of the room.

"I guess I wouldn't miss a call," answered Percy. "If there was any one to call, I wouldn't hang up the receiver."

There were times, however, when Billie could scarcely conceal her irritation, and this morning nothing went quite as she had planned.

There was only enough bread for a dozen sandwiches and there were only six eggs.

"But I said a dozen eggs, Mrs. Lupo," she said, after she had sliced and buttered the bread and glancing up saw six eggs cooling in a pan. "You know we are going to take a long walk across Table Top to Indian Head."

The silence was profound.

"And we need more bread. Will you get me another loaf, please?"

No reply. Mrs. Lupo was quietly stringing beans on a bench by the door of the lean-to which served the camp as a kitchen.

"Did you hear what I asked?" demanded Billie.

Nancy and Mary, placing ham between the slices of bread, looked up quickly, half amused and half frightened.

"Did you hear me ask you a question, Mrs. Lupo?" repeated Billie, exasperated beyond endurance.

Mrs. Lupo went on stringing beans.

Brandishing the long carving knife, Billie went over and stood in front of the strange woman. Percy, peeping through the half open door, was grinning, and Nancy stifled a giggle.

"When I speak to you I expect an answer, Mrs. Lupo," said Billie, trying to keep her voice smooth and even. "Now, answer me at once."

Mrs. Lupo looked up mildly surprised.

"There ain't no more bread and there ain't no more eggs," she said, in a voice that sounded like an echo.

Billie went back to her work without a word, and later, when they had started on the walk with the small allowance of lunch packed in a candy box, Percy teased her and called her the javelin thrower.

"I was almost tempted to pitch it at her," said Billie. "She is the most aggravating human being I ever saw. I'll certainly never address another word to her, but it's so hard to remember not to be agreeable."

The placid depths of Billie's amiable nature had been so stirred by the incident that it took her some time to calm down, and she went blindly along the trail following Ben without seeing anything or anybody.

"Don't let her jar you, Billie," said Ben, soothingly. "If you want to forget your troubles, just have a look at Nancy-Bell. She looks like a fashion plate lady standing on the top of Mont Blanc."

Nancy had disappeared just when they were ready to start and kept them waiting fifteen minutes, which had also served to aggravate Billie's ruffled temper.

"Goodness me," exclaimed Billie, laughing, "the child has put on her new walking costume made by Delosia Moxley's mother! When the climbing part comes, what will she do, Ben?"

Ben shook his head doubtfully.

"How do you like it, Billie dear?" asked Nancy in a honeyed tone, noticing her friend's backward glances.

"It's awfully pretty, Nancy. Lovely color, but --  -- "

"You see, the skirt's quite broad," interrupted Nancy, anticipating objections and endeavoring to spread the skirt to the full limit of its yard and a quarter.

"Just about as broad as one trouser leg," teased Ben.

Nancy ignored the remark, and the pheasant's feather in her hat seemed to quiver with indignation.

"Where's the crook?" asked Mary politely.

"I'm her crook," put in Percy. "You'll find she'll be using me as a staff presently when she has to take a step six inches instead of five."

"We'll be carrying her yet," Ben predicted.

"I think you are all perfectly horrid," ejaculated Nancy, who indeed looked as pretty as a picture in the blue velveteen. There was the coral tie at her throat, as she had planned, and perched on her curls was the jauntiest little hat imaginable that served only to keep the sun off the top of her head and was no protection whatever to her tip-tilted freckled nose. Mary and Elinor wore jimmies bought in the village, and Billie wore no hat at all.

"No, we aren't, Nancy dear. We're just teasing," said Billie. "You look sweet, but why have you never worn it before?"

"To tell the truth, I was afraid of the scorn of Mr. Lupo," said Nancy. "All of you are just like a family, so it didn't matter, but Mr. Lupo might have thought me, well -- an amateur. I've been dying to wear it," she added, giving a dance step and looking down with pride at the snug-fitting skirt. "Of course, I know the skirt is a bit narrow. You know how Mrs. Moxley is, -- just determined to have her own way. It was all I could do to get her to put the extra quarter of a yard in the skirt. But I think I can manage it if we don't walk too fast. There is so much level ground on this walk, too, -- all that table land, you know."

Ben gave a covert smile and the others laughed openly.

"You funny child," said Billie. "It's really beautiful to see a person enjoy clothes like that. You look sweet enough to charm a snake, and if the walking is too stiff, we'll just carry you."

"So far so good," said Ben, "but on the other side of Table Top there'll be some climb."

Nancy did not hear this prediction.

So far, indeed, the trail was a broad and honest path leading through the pine forest; but after a while, as it descended toward the tableland, it grew so narrow as to be imperceptible to everybody but Ben, whose eyes, trained by long months of camping and vacation walking trips, could pick out the faintest indication of a path where the others saw nothing at all.

It was well past noon when at last they arrived at a scooped out area of land between the two mountains, connecting them half way to their summit, like the web foot of a duck.

Here, hungry and tired, they paused for lunch, and somehow, two sandwiches and a boiled egg apiece didn't seem to go very far.

"I have to apologize," said Billie. "There was nothing in the camp to eat. I suppose that's why Mr. Lupo made his mysterious visit to the village: to get supplies."

"I'm thankful it's all gone and there is no more," announced Percy. "It's something less to carry," he added, tying a cord around Nancy's coat and his own and hanging them over his back like a peddler's pack.

"Be still," whispered Elinor, raising a warning hand, "I was certain I heard music off in that direction."

The six friends sat silently listening for strains of music. In the stillness of the forest they heard nothing but the songs of the birds, broken occasionally by the caw of a crow or the tapping of a woodpecker. But it was good to stop chattering for a while in this peaceful place, and Billie, lying on her back looking up into the interlacing branches of the trees, smiled happily.

How could she have been out of humor when just at their very doorstep lay the most wonderful enchanted forest? It would not be easy to recall silly domestic troubles in the midst of all this beauty.

"Curious. I was certain I heard the sound of some instrument like a mandolin or a zither," said Elinor. "It was just one strain, almost as if the wind had blown over an aeolian harp."

"It was fairy music," put in Mary.

"Like enough," said Ben; "and we had better be moving on," he added, rising and leading the way. "The fairies don't like human ears to hear their music and they might be playing tricks on us. Then we'd be in the deuce of a fix out in the wilderness."

"They don't mind at all," said Mary. "You're entirely mistaken, Ben. You are thinking of elves. The fairies are kind little people who never harm anyone."

They had been walking for some time when they heard cries behind them.

"Help! Help!" screamed the voice of Nancy from around a curve in the trail.

"What did I tell you," said Ben, running back with the others to see what had happened, and then bursting into a perfect roar of laughter.

There was Percy in the act of killing a long black snake, which was curled up with head thrust out in an attitude of defence, and there was Nancy, who had evidently started to run and, missing the trail, had rushed into a tall clump of bramble bushes. The brambles had wrapped themselves about her like the tentacles of an octopus, and the jaunty feather was caught in an overhanging branch.

"Don't kill the snake, Percy," objected Ben. "There are lots more just like him, and it won't help any to kill one. Besides, they never start a quarrel."

"All right, old S. P. C. A.," said Percy, as relieved as the snake, which immediately glided off into the bushes as if it had actually understood that Ben was making a plea for its life.

With subdued giggles they released Nancy from the clutches of the brambles. The feather was broken in half and dragged dejectedly over the crown of her hat, and there was a long scratch across her left cheek.

"Do you remember Jim Phipps in the Fourth Grade, Ben," began Percy, pointing to Nancy's hat. "Do you remember the poem called 'Absalom' he recited? That is, he began it but he never got any farther than the first line, because he started out by saying, 'Abalsom, my son Abalsom.'"

The laugh was against Nancy, but she took it good-naturedly and joined in, while she broke the feather in half and left the lower end standing up in the band in a straight cockade.

And now the path, although it was on level ground, seemed to grow more and more difficult. Ben, glancing behind him, doubtfully remarked:

"As long as there are only two miles of this, I suppose we can stand it, but if any person feels tired, sing out and we'll start back without trying to make Indian Head."

"We are all right," they assured him.

For a long time they walked on in silence. The ground was soft and squashy under foot, and Billie privately believed that the trail lay only in Ben's imagination.

"Ben," she said at last. "I think maybe we had better start back. We don't seem to be getting anywhere, and this ground is like a sponge."

Silently they turned their faces in the other direction, feeling all at once chilled and tired and hungry. Ben, leading the way with Billie, began to look serious.

"Billie," he said in a low voice after a while, "I am afraid I am not worthy the confidence Miss Campbell has placed in me. I am afraid I'll have to confess that we are lost."



Chapter V.

In The Bog.


It was not an unique experience to Billie to be lost. She had once known what it was to be out of sight of every human habitation on a Western plain, and furthermore half dead with hunger and thirst. You will recall how the "Comet" once carried the Motor Maids safely over an old wagon trail through a tropical forest in Florida, and perhaps also you have not forgotten how Billie and Mary Price were lost in the sacred groves of Nikko in Japan. Therefore, Billie was not in the least frightened when Ben confided to her private ear that he had missed the trail.

"We can't be very much lost," she answered. "'Table Top' is only two miles broad, and we'll have to reach one side or the other pretty soon."

"I hope so," said Ben, "but don't tell the others yet. If they lose confidence in me, it will only make matters worse. I wasn't prepared for this bog. I should think Mr. Lupo might have mentioned it."

"There couldn't be a trail through a bog anyhow, could there?"

"Sometimes there is. I've seen a swamp with just a narrow path running through it. But a swamp path is the sneakiest kind of a trail. It hides itself wherever it can under tall grasses and bushes. Of course, Mr. Lupo didn't know we were going, or he would certainly have stopped us, but do you suppose Mrs. Lupo understood we were taking this particular trail?"

"She certainly did. I told her myself just before I drew the knife on her."

Ben smiled at the mental picture of Billie brandishing a carving knife.

"Hey, Ben," called Percy. "Is this a trail? I think it's a channel. I'm up to my knees."

Ben made no reply. He was deeply mortified, and hung his head with a kind of animal-like humiliation.

"What's the matter, old man?" demanded Percy, putting his arm affectionately on his friend's shoulder. "You look like my collie did when I caught him sucking eggs."

"I've missed the trail," Ben burst out with a choke in his voice.

The others had gathered around now. Their shoes were wet, their stockings torn with brambles, and their skirts splattered and stained with grasses and the juices of wild berries. But they were a valiant little company, even Mary Price, the weakest and frailest among them, and the sight of Ben's unhappiness and remorse only added to their courage.

"It's all right, Ben," said Elinor. "We'll find the trail again. We're obliged to. There is the mountain right over there. Why not walk until we get to it?"

"I'm afraid it looks nearer than it is," said Ben, "and besides, it's not Sunrise Mountain. It's Indian Head. I thought some time ago we were getting well away from it, but these infernal bogs are so deceiving."

"I move we start on," put in Billie, briskly. "We're obliged to get somewhere some time."

"I'll put it to the vote, then," announced Ben. "Shall we go toward Indian Head or Sunrise? We are nearer to Indian Head, and we may strike a farm and hire a horse and wagon to take us home."

This seemed a good suggestion, and they accordingly turned their faces toward the mountain, the rugged outline of which resembled the profile of an Indian.

Anything to get on solid dry land again was the unspoken thought of the six friends. Once on dry surfaces and out of the level treacherous monotony of the bog, they felt they might be equal to anything. For nearly two hours they worked their way through the morass without making any apparent progress toward the mountain. And now the sun was sinking behind the Western range. Ben watched the lessening rays with feelings very much like despair.

"If I had been alone or with some of the fellows it wouldn't have mattered," he thought, "but with the girls --  -- "

In a little while Table Top took on the appearance of a vast plain shut in by high walls. It was a weird, lonely place.

"It reminds me of the Valley of the Shadow of Death in 'Pilgrim's Progress'," Mary whispered to Ben, who was helping her over the rough, uneven ground. "Don't you remember the Wilderness that Christian had to pass through before he reached the Celestial City?"

"I'm afraid I never read 'Pilgrim's Progress'," Ben confessed in grief-stricken tones, "but I can see what you mean, and the white mist that's rolling in looks like a troop of spirits."

"Would any person or persons care to hear me sing some cheerful ditty?" asked Percy, and he forthwith began to sing in a rollicking tenor voice:

"'It was a robber's daughter and her name was Alice Brown; Her father was the terror of a small Italian town, Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing, But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.

"'As Alice was a-sitting at her window sill one day, A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way, She cast her eyes upon him and he looked so good and true That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you."'"

"Help! Help!" screamed Nancy. "Oh, Ben, Oh, Percy, Oh, Billie, save me!"

"What is the matter?" they cried.

"Don't come near me," she interrupted. "Don't, don't! Keep away. They'll kill you, too."

Nancy was jumping up and down in a perfect agony of fear, wringing her hands one moment and tearing at her skirts the next.

"It's a hornet's nest," exclaimed Ben. "Keep still, Nancy. Don't run. They won't sting you if you are perfectly still."

But it was needless to tell Nancy not to run. What with her narrow skirt and the spongy ground she could scarcely walk.

"There are dozens of them crawling inside my skirt," she sobbed, "and you tell me to keep still."

"Don't be frightened, Nancy-Bell. I'll stand with you," announced Percy, boldly offering himself as a sacrifice to hornets, as he drew Nancy's arm through his.

"Come on, hornets," he cried. "Sting a man. Don't attack a helpless girl."

The others could not keep from laughing at the picture of Nancy and Percy standing arm in arm in the wilderness.

"You remind me of a bridal couple walking up the aisle," exclaimed Billie. But Nancy was too frightened to withdraw her arm from Percy's even at this witticism. She leaned on him in an attitude of relief and extreme confidence.

"Didn't I tell you I would be her staff before the day was over?" he remarked with a grin.

"I've been stung in a dozen different places," sobbed Nancy.

"Stand still," ordered Ben. "They will leave you and go back to their nest if you are quiet."

And as he had predicted, the hornets did leave off their attack and return to their home, but not until Percy had been stung several times without a murmur. For the sake of Nancy Brown, he would voluntarily have stepped into any number of hornets' nests.

At last the procession started on. In the misty twilight, they were a company of gray shadows moving silently along. When people are lost, really and unquestionably lost, their true natures rise to the surface: if there is any selfishness hidden away, it develops into complainings and reproaches; the faint-hearted make unhappy predictions; the lazy ones get tired before they have any right to. Ben had always admired the Motor Maids, but never more than now when he saw them quiet and courageous in the face of a night in the swamp. Nancy might shriek over hornets and snakes, but she would never confess to being tired or frightened. Not once had they complained or reproached him, and now when the will-o'-the-wisps began their ghostly dance through the mists, and the great wall of mountain loomed up in front of them black and threatening, it seemed to poor Ben that it would make it easier for him to bear his sorrows if some one would only make one little complaint.

It was Mary who gave out first. She was just sinking to her knees when Billie called out cheerfully:

"I see a light and it's not a will-o'-the-wisp."

There indeed was a light sending out a kindly beam in the darkness, and while they watched it, it went out.

"Listen," exclaimed Elinor, "I hear the music again." There came to them the sweet fairy notes of the zither.

"Halloo!" called Ben again and again, and presently the others joined in the chorus.

"What is it?" answered a voice quite near, and a figure bounded toward them through the mists.

"We have been lost," answered Ben. "Do you think you could let these young ladies rest in your cabin while we get a vehicle and drive them home?"

"Yes," answered the voice, and Billie then recognized the mountain girl who had sold them the blackberries that Mrs. Lupo had pitched out.

After a stiff climb up a rocky path, they reached a little cabin. -- Page 77.

"Come this way," she added, and they presently realized they were on rising ground and that the morass with its glimmering will-o'-the-wisps and its floating veils of thin mist was now well below them. After a stiff climb up a rocky path they reached a little cabin built in a clearing, commanding a wide vista of the treacherous Table Top and the mountains beyond. At the door of the cabin sat the zither player, his hands traveling aimlessly over the strings while he listened to the approaching footsteps.

"Father," called the girl, "visitors!"

"Eh? Eh?" answered the man. "Physicians, with medicines? Will they save her? Come in! Come in!"

They filed slowly into the cabin wondering what sort of a person it was sitting in the darkness and calling for physicians. The girl struck a match and lighted two candles, and at least three of the visitors noticed that the candlesticks were of silver, tall and graceful in design, and as bright as rubbing could make them.

The father like the daughter was tall and slender, with the same dark blue eyes, although his had a strange unseeing look in them. His hair was very thick and almost white, his frame spare to emaciation, but he carried himself erect and his shoulders were broad and well developed.

"Make a fire, father," the girl ordered, and he obediently left the room, presently returning with an armful of wood.

Oh, the joy of sinking to the floor in front of that warm blaze! Ben consulted with the girl at the door of the cabin, and the strange father, rubbing his hands and smiling absently, remarked with an accent that was very different from Mr. Lupo's or any of the natives thereabouts:

"Not half bad, this fire, eh? Rather cheerful on a dull night."

Presently his daughter began preparing supper on a little wood stove in the lean-to back of the house. Swiftly and silently, with Ben's assistance, she made coffee, scrambled eggs and fried bacon.

"You may set the table," she said to Percy, pointing to some shelves at one end of the cabin.

Percy obediently placed on the plain deal table six blue plates, nicked and cracked in a dozen places, but undoubtedly of Canton; also in a tin box he found knives and forks and spoons, all shining as brightly as the candlesticks, and, he felt perfectly certain, all of silver. It was necessary to revive Mary with some hot coffee before she could eat a mouthful, and after she had taken a little food, Ben hoisted her in his arms and carried her into a small adjoining room where he laid her on a cot; all this under the supervision of the young mistress of the cabin.

There was no attempt at conversation while they satisfied their ravenous appetites, but later, when the wanderers had risen and Billie was consulting with Ben and Percy what was best to do, the father pointed to Nancy sitting in the darkest corner of the room in a small huddled heap.

"Rosalind has come out of the Forest of Arden," he said.

All eyes were turned on Nancy who shrank into the shadow. Suddenly Percy seized one of the tall candlesticks and held it over her head.

"Why, Nancy-Bell," he cried, "what has happened to your --  -- "

Nancy spread her hands over her lap and turned her large blue eyes to them with a piteous expression.

"I took it off and threw it away in the swamp," she said tremulously. "I did hate the thing so, and it was full of hornets and not big enough to take a decent step in anyhow. I hoped no one would notice."

They were tired, but not too tired to laugh.

"If I had been dying, I should have died laughing," Billie often afterwards remarked in telling of this incident.

Nancy, minus her narrow velveteen skirt, was really a beguiling figure in blue pongee knickerbockers. The straight velveteen jacket reached just below her waist, and with her rumpled curls and weary expression she might easily have been taken for Rosalind, just arrived at the Forest of Arden with Celia and Touchstone.

But the wonder of it was how a half-crazed mountaineer could know anything about the greatest comedy in the world. This did not trouble them until afterwards, however.

"Billie," observed Ben presently, "I've been consulting with -- with this young lady here. She knows the trail through the swamp and has consented to guide me back to the camp to-night. We may be able to make it in less than two hours by a short cut, she says, and we ought to start at once. Miss Campbell will be half wild with uneasiness. As soon as it's daylight, I'll come back by the road in the 'Comet.' There are some bearskins and blankets. You can all put up here for the night. Percy will stay of course."

"But isn't that a great deal to ask of you, to take that long trip to-night?" asked Billie gratefully, turning to the girl.

"It is nothing," she answered shortly and set about lighting a lantern. Then she beckoned to Ben and they silently left the cabin.

In a few moments, the father, who had been smoking a pipe at the cabin door, took one of the silver candlesticks from the mantel.

"Good night," he said courteously. "I trust you will have a pleasant rest after your journey. I presume you have been shown your rooms?"

"Yes, sir," answered Percy.

The man paused at the door of his bedroom at the other side of the cabin.

"I trust the physician will come soon," he said. "With luck he may reach there before I do."

"That's the man who sent me to the old ruined hotel," whispered Percy. "He's certainly touched, but he's harmless."

They found two steamer rugs and several blankets in a heap on a bench, left there by the mountain girl for their comfort; and it was not long before they lay in a circle around the fire, sound asleep.



Chapter VI.

The Doctor.


After the young people had departed on the morning of that eventful day, Miss Helen Campbell settled herself in a hammock on the upper porch with a novel and two new magazines. She loved the "children," as she called them, and the sound of their voices and laughter was as music to her ears, but occasionally she enjoyed a peaceful morning to herself without any chatter to disturb her quietude.

Who would have imagined as she sat there idly swinging in the hammock, that the dainty little lady was all the way to sixty years old? Her eyes were as blandly blue and clear as a child's; her complexion had never lost its peach blossom glow, and the fine network of wrinkles around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth was only faintly visible.

"But I'm getting old," she thought. "Those long trips have rejuvenated my spirits but my body is tired. I haven't the physique for adventuring any longer. I don't think I could stand a shock of any kind, great or small."

Her thoughts broke off at this point and she idly touched the railing of the porch with one of her little feet and set the hammock to a gentle motion like a rocking cradle.

"No, I shall not put myself in the way of shocks. I am glad we are not touring this summer; just taking life peacefully --  -- "

Again her thoughts broke off. Her eyes wandered across the wide vista of valley flanked by a range of mountains. The landscape was flecked by great shadows cast by lazily moving ribbons of cloud. The foliage of the trees and the undergrowth on the opposite mountains were like rugs of velvet. One might imagine a gigantic figure stretched out on the soft green patches of forest. There were no harsh outlines to the mountains. Their rugged edges were veiled and softened by the shadows of the passing clouds. Miss Campbell closed her eyes.

"Life is very pleasant," she thought, "even at sixty."

After a long dreamy period as untroubled as a summer sea, some instinct compelled her to open her eyes, and she found herself looking straight into the eyes of Mrs. Lupo who was standing at the foot of the hammock. Mrs. Lupo held her hands behind her back. Miss Campbell noticed at once that the woman's expression had changed. She had lost that look of a shy gentle animal. Her eyes had narrowed into little slits and her upper lip was drawn back showing an even row of glistening teeth. Without taking her eyes off Mrs. Lupo's, Miss Campbell sat up very straight and stiff.

"Well, what do you want?" she demanded, always holding the woman's gaze with hers.

Mrs. Lupo moved a step nearer, still with her hands behind her back.

"Stand where you are," ordered Miss Campbell, fired with superhuman courage and never once shifting her gaze. "Stand where you are," she repeated. There was not a tremor in her voice. "Now, give me what you are hiding behind you."

For at least a moment the two women stood looking at each other. If Miss Campbell had flinched, there is no telling what the half-savage creature, insane with rage, might have done.

And even now, with a swift movement, Mrs. Lupo brandished a long carving knife in Miss Campbell's face.

"Drop that instantly," thundered Miss Campbell in a voice that did not seem to be her own.

But the force of her splendid will and courage struck home. The carving knife slipped from Mrs. Lupo's hand and stood upright between them in the board floor of the porch.

"Get down on your knees," ordered Miss Campbell, and all this time she had never taken her eyes off Mrs. Lupo's.

The knife was still swaying on the point of its blade, as the woman sank to the floor in a quivering, sobbing heap.

"What do you mean by coming to me like this?" demanded Miss Campbell.

"Your daughter, she try cut my throat this morning with same. I take revenge," answered Mrs. Lupo between her sobs.

"Nonsense! Absurd!"

"She have dislike me from first," went on Mrs. Lupo, who seemed to eliminate all articles from her conversation. "She joke at me. She buy berries of girl I hate."

Miss Campbell leaned against the rail and watched the woman crouched at her feet like a whipped dog. Only an instant did she allow the thought to come to her that she was alone in camp with a half-crazed savage.

"She is a very weak, pitiable object," she said to herself. "I must manage her and I shall. I am not afraid."

Suddenly she leaned over and put her hand very softly on the woman's shoulder.

"I am so sorry for you," she said. "Won't you let me help you? I think you are much too fine and capable to fly into rages like this. What is the reason of it?"

"Not know," answered Mrs. Lupo. "When they come, I see red. I wish to break up -- kill."

"Do you love your husband?"

"Yes," answered the other with so much eloquence of expression that Miss Campbell knew she spoke the truth.

"And he loves you?"

"He loves me, but not so much. He leaves me for long time, -- alone."

"Has he ever seen you in a rage?"

"Yes," answered Mrs. Lupo in a low voice, her head sinking on her breast.

"Of course, then, that is why he leaves you. Men like gentleness in a woman. A violent-tempered wife never keeps her husband's love. If you were gentle and quiet, your husband would take you with him to the village. But you are jealous and uncontrolled. You make a spectacle of yourself and of him. You look very ugly as you looked a while ago, like an angry animal instead of a handsome young woman. Try being gentle and always looking pretty and see how it works."

Mrs. Lupo looked up. Miss Campbell had captured her interest and she was listening to that sage spinster's advice with entire attention.

"You think me handsome woman?"

"Very, when you are in a good temper."

"Suppose I can't keep back anger?"

"The next time your eyes see red, make a little prayer. It will always be answered."

"To Christ?" asked Mrs. Lupo, who had been to a mission school as a girl.

"Yes, to Christ, who never spoke a harsh word even when He was struck in the face and spit upon and finally nailed to a cross."

"What shall I say?" asked the other, as interested as a child.

"When you feel the rage coming on, say over and over: 'Oh, Christ, take my anger from me and make me gentle and kind.'"

Mrs. Lupo repeated the prayer several times.

"And it will come true?" she asked.

"Always, always. Try it and see."

At last the half-breed rose to her feet. The knife stood upright between them swaying on its blade.

"You forgive?" she asked.

"I forgive."

"I will go away. I am afraid yet when the daughter comes. There is still hate here," she pointed to her temples. "But it will be gone if I stay away. When Lupo goes to village he stays long time. It is better for me not to see him when he comes back. Until I learn, I will not see him no more. Good-by. I'm thankful to you."

Mrs. Lupo departed, leaving the knife where it had fallen. It was on the tip of Miss Campbell's tongue to say:

"You must not leave me alone." But she checked herself. She doubted if she could exert her will another time like that. Already beads of perspiration stood out on her brows. A feeling of extreme lassitude crept over her and she slipped back into the hammock with a sensation of nausea. Then unconsciousness bound her with invisible cords and the brave little woman fainted dead away.

As Mrs. Lupo turned into the gallery, she glanced back but she only saw the train of Miss Campbell's white wrapper fluttering from the hammock in the breeze.

There had been several loud raps downstairs, but to Miss Campbell, fighting her way slowly back to consciousness, it sounded hundreds of miles away, like spirit rapping; or perhaps it was the pounding of her own pulses. A man entered the living room. He was of medium height and spare with a lean brown face, and he was dressed as men usually dress for walking trips, in knickerbockers, heavy shoes laced well up the leg, a gray flannel shirt open at the neck with a brown silk tie. He wore a pith helmet; on his back was strapped a flat knapsack, and he carried a cane and a telescope. As he hurried through the living room, he tossed his helmet into a chair. There was a bald spot on his head fringed with reddish hair turning gray. His features were distinguished and because of a certain dignity with which he carried himself, a certain air of command and confidence, people were apt to wonder who he was.

"It was upstairs, I am certain," the visitor remarked to himself, glancing into the empty kitchen and then mounting the rustic steps to the upper sleeping porch. With quick, comprehensive eyes he took in the five white cots standing in a row, on the porch the group of wicker chairs, the murderous looking knife, swaying on the tip of its shining blade, and lastly the high-backed canvas sleeping hammock from which trailed the train of a white muslin dress.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, under his breath.

For a moment it looked as if something unspeakably dreadful had happened that beautiful morning, and his fears were not set at rest even when he bounded past the knife and stood leaning over Miss Campbell's half conscious form.

"Water," she gasped faintly.

"I wonder if there's a bathroom," he thought, running along the porch to the nearest door after the one leading to the passage. "Of course they always have them in these so-called camps," he added, catching the flash of a porcelain tub beyond. In another moment he had wet Miss Campbell's lips from a glass of water and was dabbing her temples with the end of a wet towel. "Better now?" he asked, as she opened her heavenly blue eyes.

She nodded with a faint smile and closed them again.

"Curious how a doctor is always finding work to do even in the wilderness," he thought, feeling Miss Helen's pulse. With an exclamation, he hurried back to the bathroom, and among a perfect army of tooth powder and talcum powder boxes, -- "enough for half a dozen people," he thought, -- he spied a bottle of aromatic spirits of ammonia. He mixed a dose in the glass with professional dexterity and hurried back.

"Just as well I happened along," he thought, moistening her lips with the mixture. "That does the trick," he added, as she presently opened her eyes again and swallowed a little of the ammonia and water.

The white, pinched look left her face, the color crept back to her cheeks, and she gave a sigh of relief as she shifted her position in the hammock.

"My pillows?" she asked, feeling for the pillows which he had slipped from under her head to the floor.

"Better lie flat for a while," he ordered in a tone of authority. "I wonder where her people are?" the doctor added to himself, glancing again at the five cot beds. Then he drew up a chair and watched Miss Helen Campbell as she dropped into a doze.

In a little while she exclaimed in a much stronger tone of voice:

"Please take me out of this wobbly thing; I want to lie on my own bed." The walking-doctor promptly lifted her in his arms like a little child and deposited her on one of the cots. Her hands were cold, and he covered her with a Roman blanket that lay on the foot of the bed. Then he found two hot water bottles, marched down stairs, heated a kettle of water on the kerosene stove, searched for beef tea in the ice chest and by good luck found half a jar. With the water bottles at her feet and a little beef tea to nourish her, Miss Campbell at last fell into a deep sleep, while the doctor, sitting near at hand, read one of the magazines and, occasionally tip-toeing to her bedside, listened to her breathing and felt her pulse.

Toward late afternoon, he descended into the lower regions of the log house and foraged for food. He found crackers and cheese, a tin of beans and a bottle of ginger ale. Having refreshed himself, he was about to return to his patient when Mr. Lupo staggered into the kitchen with a market basket on his arm.

"Where is my wife?" he asked in a thick voice.

"She is not here and you'd better go, too, quick," answered the doctor.

Mr. Lupo looked at him with an ugly expression, his eyes narrowing, as his wife's had done when she had approached Miss Campbell with the carving knife.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am a doctor."

"Has anything happened? My wife, she is crazy when she is mad. Is that the reason why she ran away?"

"Does your wife flourish carving knives?"

Mr. Lupo retreated with a terrified expression.

"She has -- ?" he was too frightened to finish.

"No," replied the doctor. "The lady was too strong for her here." He touched his forehead with his finger.

"She was not touched -- the lady?"

"No, but she has collapsed from fright, -- she is very ill, -- I could not answer for her recovery if you gave her another shock."

Without a word, Mr. Lupo rushed out of doors, jumped into a rickety wagon drawn by an old mountain-climbing horse and in another instant was clattering down the road.

Toward evening Miss Campbell grew stronger. The doctor raised her head and fed her by the spoonful a cup of malted milk, also found in the ice chest.

"Billie?" she said.

"That's my name," answered the doctor. "William for long."

"Nice boy," she added, patting him on the shoulder, with a very small limp hand. "Have the children got back?"

"They will be here pretty soon, now," he answered, frowning and glancing at his watch.

"Ben is a safe guide. They are safe with him. Wake me when they arrive," and turning over on her side, Miss Campbell went back to sleep.

Occasionally the doctor scanned the side of the mountain with his telescope.

"The children are taking a long time," he said to himself. "They had better look alive, if they want to make it before nightfall."

But night fell and there was no sign of the wanderers. The doctor lit a cigar and watched the shadows creep up the side of the mountains. He listened to the last twittering of the birds and then a silence, profound and deep, settled on the camp.

Again he descended to the living room of the camp now in darkness. Presently he lighted the green shaded lamp and two lanterns, hanging one at the front of the house and the other at the back. He unpacked the market basket and cooked himself some supper, and finally with a glass of milk and a slice of bread for Miss Campbell when she waked, returned to the upper sleeping porch.

"A telescope is an excellent thing," he observed, settling himself in a steamer chair, a lamp on the floor beside him with a tin protector to keep draughts from the flame. "I saw the woman plainly enough flourishing the carving knife. It must have been sheer force of will on the part of this little lady that made her drop it."

And now the darkness had indeed fallen, a black, impenetrable curtain. Only the outline of the opposite range could be seen. It seemed to have closed in on the camp, and like a gigantic wall, to shut it off from the outer world. An owl hooted in a tree not far away and from a cleft in the mountains came the weird song of the whippoorwill.



Chapter VII.

Phoebe.


Fate had chosen a very simple way of bringing about events of great importance to persons in this history. A doctor off on a walking trip had idly lifted his telescope to scan the village in the valley. As he swept his glass over the country, it had brought near to him glimpses of white farmhouses, men working in the fields and then looming quite close and unexpectedly large to his eye, a woman brandishing a long knife over the head of a person in white.

The doctor lost no time in idle speculation.

"It's in that camp on the lower ledge," he said to himself as he dashed down the path, and in some twenty minutes or more entered the living room of Sunrise Camp.

It is not pleasant to think of what might have happened to Miss Helen Campbell if the doctor's alert, intelligent eyes had not caught and instantly comprehended the significance of the picture brought to him by the telescope. How long might she have lain there unconscious, or how dealt with the half-intoxicated Lupo if he had mounted the steps in search of his wife? Then, as the hours slipped on and no human soul came near to minister to her and comfort her, and she had finally realized that her young people had never returned, how would she have endured that second shock?

Fate had brought the doctor in the nick of time to perform an inestimable service to the Motor Maids and to all those who knew and loved Miss Helen Campbell.

And through this service to the friends of Miss Campbell, another was to follow, -- one filled with danger and interest, which would require all the skill of his profession.

About ten o'clock Miss Campbell awoke, refreshed and rested. She took the milk and bread with an appetite. Then she examined the stranger at her bedside with some curiosity.

"I suppose they sent for you from the village?" she asked.

"I happened to be nearer than that," he answered.

Memory was returning by slow degrees.

"I had a shock of some sort; or was it a fall? I remember fainting and the next thing I recall was aromatic ammonia and you." The doctor smiled. "I suppose they are all in bed now. They were too tired to sit up."

"It was so late, you see," he said apologetically.

"They needn't have left me this enormous porch to myself. I know they will hate sleeping down there. Can't Billie come and speak to me?"

"I am afraid he's sound asleep by now."

"He?" ejaculated the patient. "But, of course, how could you be expected to know my young cousin by name. She is the tall girl with the gray eyes. I think she is beautiful. Perhaps you might not -- but you would -- "

The doctor started. He had heard a stealthy step on the porch below.

"You will not think me impertinent if I ask you not to talk?" he said. "Just a few more hours' quiet and you'll be quite fit. I'm going to leave you a moment."

Miss Campbell gave him a good natured smile. She liked his fine face and his clear brown eyes.

"Very well, doctor," she said. "I see you know your business. I'll be obedient."

Taking the lamp he went downstairs.

It could hardly be the gray-eyed Billie and her friends returning, he argued. They would never come creeping back in that stealthy manner.

"Well, who is it?" he called in a low voice.

Mrs. Lupo came out of the shadows and stood before him.

"Lady going die?" she asked in a terrified whisper.

"Pretty ill, but she's coming around."

The woman looked vastly relieved.

"Young lady know?"

"She has never come back."

Mrs. Lupo raised both hands in a gesture of despair.

"The marsh -- I never told -- I'm wicked woman!" she exclaimed.

"Good heavens!" said the doctor, "you mean to say you sent them through that bog? It's full of suck holes. You have done enough wickedness for one day. Where is your husband? Hurry up, quick. Wake up the villagers. Get lanterns. Go find them!"

Mrs. Lupo seized a lantern from the gallery.

"I go myself," she said, and disappeared. All that night Mrs. Lupo searched Table Top. She knew the trail as intimately as the mountain girl, but at dawn she had found nothing. But as the light spread over the marsh, she saw something lying on the very edge of the most dangerous quicksand in the place. It was Nancy's hobble skirt.

"Oh, oh!" groaned the poor woman over and over with a kind of savage chant. "Oh, oh! I'm punished now."

Rolling the skirt into a bundle she turned her face from Sunrise Camp and disappeared in the pine forests.

About an hour after Mrs. Lupo had left the camp, the doctor heard the noise of hurrying footsteps on the gallery at the front and hastening downstairs he found Ben Austen and his guide.

"Miss Campbell -- how has she stood it? Is she all right?" demanded Ben breathlessly.

"Not so loud," answered the doctor. Then he told Ben in a few words what had happened. "She doesn't even know you have been lost," he said.

While the two men were talking together in whispers, the girl looked about her with much curiosity. Was she in a palace? The high roof, the rugs and chairs were things new to her. And this was called a "camp"! What was the inside of a real house like, she wondered.

"That virago!" she heard Ben say. "No wonder she drives Lupo to drink. This young lady here has saved us all and guided me back through the swamp." He indicated the barefooted girl. "I suppose we would have been there yet if she hadn't heard us call."

"You must sit down," said the doctor kindly. "I'll just have a look at my patient and then help this young man get some supper. Your name is -- ?"

"Phoebe," she answered, shrinking with shyness.

"Phoebe what?"

"I have no other name."

Phoebe had been accustomed all her life to the courtesy and gentleness of one man, her father. The few others she had known were rough mountaineers, and here was she, barefooted and ragged, treated like a princess by two men.

While the doctor fried ham and eggs, the staple of every camp, Ben made a pot of tea, and presently drew up a table in front of her and placed on it a tray set as neatly as he knew how. Phoebe watched the proceedings with wide frightened eyes. She tried to hide her bare feet under her ragged dress and to draw down the sleeves over her hands, brown and stained with blackberry juice. Later, when they had made her a bed on one of the divans and left her to sleep until daylight, she was too bewildered to say good-night.

All her life Phoebe had lived in the little mountain cabin. She had never known a mother and she had never had a friend. Her father had taught her many things, however, and one was to read from the books on the shelf. There were several books on astronomy; Pilgrim's Progress; the Bible; a volume of Shakespeare; a history of England; a translation of the "Iliad", and some volumes of poetry: -- Keats, Tennyson and Browning. Where her father had got these books and the silver and the blue china, she knew no more than he. He had tried and tried to remember, but he had forgotten. He had no identity, no past. His name, his family, everything connected with his early life had gone. His past life had stopped when he had gone for a physician. He had taught his little girl to read, as we have said, and when old enough she had often read aloud in the long winter evenings. He had seemed to listen with absorbed interest, but it is difficult to say how much he grasped of the words he heard, or whether they were mere words to him with no collective significance.

With a certain instinct left to him from that mysterious dead past, he had imparted to his daughter an unmistakable refinement of speech and manner. About some things he was even fastidious, -- her way of eating, the appearance of the table and the silver. He himself was excessively neat and orderly and had periods of great industry, weaving baskets of sweet grass and carving wood, not crudely, but with unusual taste, boxes and chalets, napkin rings and figures of animals. Where he had learned these arts his daughter never knew, but she imagined from an old Indian who had lived in the little cabin in the early days and had died when Phoebe was still quite small. As far as a man may be sane whose memory extends back only some eighteen years and who has only one illusion, Phoebe's father was sane. The baskets and woodcarving he and his daughter peddled through the country with success, because they were exceedingly well done, and the money earned was sufficient for their small needs.

Too excited from the unusual events of the night to sleep, Phoebe lay on the divan in the living room and reviewed the mysteries that filled her life. She had a strange smattering of knowledge for a girl of eighteen. It would seem that she had been gifted with a memory for two since her father had none, and whatever she learned from the row of books on the shelves she remembered. That is, whatever interested her.

She knew the constellations and the planets, and on summer nights had located them in the heavens by means of the book chart. She would point them out to her father, who glanced at them vaguely, smiled and went on playing the zither, his consolation in idle moments.

She had read and re-read the history of England so many times that some of the chapters she could repeat word for word. She understood little of the poetry, but the rhythm of the lines sang in her head, and without knowing the meaning she could repeat in a sing-song voice long poems and sonnets. "Pilgrim's Progress" and the "Iliad" and the New Testament with the Psalms were her solace on the long winter evenings. One after the other she read them with unending pleasure. She would read slowly so as not to finish too soon, as a child nibbles at her sweet cake to make it last the longer, and having finished one volume she would take up another with all the eagerness of one about to plunge into a new book. Just how much she had gained from the teachings of Christ was hidden deep in her own soul, but we will find later that Phoebe had learned a secret which those who have had the advantage of broad education have often passed by.

When at last the first pipings of the birds came to herald the dawn, she rose and went out to the gallery. The last star was fading into the grayness of the sky and already morning was at hand. In the growing light it might be seen that Phoebe had an unusually beautiful face. Her eyes, of very dark blue, were almost black at times; her reddish brown hair, coiled into a thick knot on her neck, grew low on her forehead. Her features were well molded, her mouth fine and strong, and a full, rounded chin added sweetness to her expression.

Standing in the very spot where she had first seen Billie and Mary, she turned her face toward the east and watched for the sun.

"I believe my prayers are answered," she said.

Some twenty minutes later, seated by Ben in the motor car, she guided him along a mountain road, which led at last to a point near her father's cabin.



Chapter VIII.

The Gypsy Cooks.


"Dearest Papa:" (wrote Billie) "Cousin Helen has entirely recovered from her fright, -- anger she calls it. She is not afraid of either of the Lupos, although the dent in the plank where the knife was still standing when we finally did get home will always make me feel trembly. Dr. Hume is making us a visit. Cousin Helen will not hear of his leaving us. She says she will certainly have another attack of heart failure if he goes away, but that it's of a different variety from the last. I think we all have a touch of that kind of heart disease as a matter of fact, boys and girls. He is a wonderful man and has taken us on some beautiful walks over the mountain. Nancy and Percy always stay behind with Cousin Helen, and we are finally beginning to understand that it's as much preference as self-denial. Nancy and I are doing the cooking with some help from Ben and Dr. Hume. It's great fun. We cook on a camp fire outside and not on that wretched little stove, which is like a bad child and never behaves when it is expected to. Ben and Percy wash the dishes. Thank heavens for that. I could never make a living as a scullery maid. It's a dog's life. Elinor and Mary make up our cots and keep things tidy. It is really and truly camping now, and such a relief not to have those Lupos. But there is trouble about the laundry. Nobody in these high places will stoop to wash clothes. If you could send us up a strong, fearless girl, it doesn't matter how little she knows, it would be fine. We want her strong to scour pans and wash clothes, and fearless enough to be left at the camp alone when we all go off in the 'Comet' on a picnic.

"The mountain girl who saved us is named Phoebe. Her father is not insane, but he has no memory. His accent might be English. At any rate it's better than ours. Nobody on the mountain knows anything about them. An old Indian brought them to the cabin when Phoebe was a baby and took care of them both for several years. The people call the man 'Frenchy,' why I'm sure I can't imagine, perhaps because he seems foreign. He does really beautiful wood carving and basket weaving and he seemed quite pleased over getting orders from us. We all of us want to do something for Phoebe but she is not the kind you can approach easily. I would not dare even offer her a pair of shoes, and she's generally barefooted. Cousin Helen thought perhaps she might like to work for us, but I would as soon think of asking our dear cousin herself. I'm the best coffee maker in the compound and I've learned by the cookbook how to poach eggs, after breaking six to get the hang of it. Dr. Hume knows a Scotch dish that's a dream and so easy to make. Nancy and I are going to give them a surprise. It's 'Mock Duck,' made of beefsteak stuffed with many things, and then rolled up like a mummy and tied with strings. We shall roast it over hot embers on a spit Ben has rigged up, with a thing he calls a 'gutter' to catch the juices. Good-by, dearest Papa. Don't forget the strong, fearless girl.

Your devoted daughter, Billie."

In due time a telegram was telephoned from the railroad station to the nearest hotel and from thence to the postoffice in the village at the foot of Sunrise Mountain. Here it was written down on a scrap of paper and in the course of events reached Billie Campbell. It said:

"Meet Alberdina, fearless Swiss-German. 4.30 train Saturday. Father."

Ben brought the message with the evening mail Friday afternoon while Nancy and Billie, much heated and excited, were in the act of cooking the mock duck.

"What are you roasting? An Indian papoose?" he demanded, after they had laughed over the name of the new, fearless maid.

The spurious fowl made of a large flat piece of meat stuffed out to plump proportions and tied at each end did resemble a fat little Indian baby.

"Don't worry us," exclaimed Nancy. "We have enough to bother us now. The potatoes are taking forever to cook and the beans are almost done."

"The onions are just as bad," put in Billie.

"Why don't you put the onions and potatoes in the same pot with the beans? Maybe it will bring them luck," suggested Ben.

"Do you think it would affect the flavor?" Billie asked eagerly.

But Nancy, of a more adventurous spirit in cooking, recklessly dumped all the vegetables together into one pot and set it on the kerosene stove, which had been carried out by the ever-useful Ben and placed at no great distance from the open fire.

Percy came up just then.

"How are the Gypsy cooks? Is the pot boiling? What's that thing that looks like a pig in a blanket? Or is this a cannibal feast?"

"Run away, Algernon Percival, and don't ask so many questions," replied Billie, stirring the pot.

"I've brought the dinner horn along," said Percy in an insinuating tone of voice.

Even the Gypsy cooks laughed at this. Percy was the last person to rise in the morning. He usually appeared with the coffee and eggs, but the moment he waked up, he seized the trumpet from a nail in the wall at the side of his bed and blew a long triumphant aria with variations. Then from the camp fire at a safe distance from the log hut would come shouts of derision from the others who had been up quite an hour. The table had been carried out under the trees, and here in the early morning they had their breakfast. Here also, they had their supper if it was ready before dark and there were no lights to attract the myriads of night-flying insects. But it did look this evening as if they would be obliged to transfer all dishes and stools, table and eatables into the house, unless the potatoes and onions could be impressed with the importance of submitting to the inevitable.

Dr. Hume, just in from a long walk, tired and mortally hungry, now made his appearance, and Miss Helen Campbell in dainty white, and without any traces whatever of her recent experience with Mrs. Lupo, came trailing across the clearing. There was an expectant expression on her face, as of one who is thinking with inward pleasure of dinner. Elinor came with a bowl of Michaelmas daisies and Mary brought up the procession, carrying a platter of bread sliced so as not to destroy the shape of the loaf, an accomplishment she was proud of.

Percy, seeing the gathering of the company, promptly lifted the trumpet to his lips and blew a blast so startling and unexpected that Mary gave a nervous shriek and dropped the bread to the ground.

"Oh, you wretch," she cried, "see what you have done! And what was the use anyway, since dinner isn't ready and we are all here?"

"Don't be so hasty in your judgments, Lady Mary," answered Percy, composedly gathering up the slices of bread. "That was a song of joy because a beautiful damozel approached with bread for the hungry."

"Hungry?" repeated Miss Campbell, watching, unmoved, the process of shaking the pine needles from the bread. "Starving, rather. If I don't have my dinner in a minute, I shall be light enough to float away like a thistledown."

"Who said starving?" cried Dr. Hume, joining the circle. "If there were a stronger word, I'd use it."

"Famished?" suggested Ben.

"Perishing for want of food," added Elinor.

Nancy and Billie exchanged glances of dismay and Billie impotently poked the pot of vegetables with a long peeled wand.

"What's that thing that looks like an emigrant's roll?" demanded the doctor.

"It won't explode, I hope," remarked Miss Campbell, noticing that the roll of meat seemed to be bursting its bonds in the process of roasting.

"Poor thing, it does seem to be suffering," said Dr. Hume gravely. "There is some enlargement taking place in its internal organs, due to heat expansion, I judge."

"I guess that animal, whatever it is, feels something like an early Christian martyr," put in Percy.

"What is the creature?" inquired Miss Campbell, raising her tortoise shell lorgnette in order the better to see the writhing form over the flames.

"It's a duck," answered Billie, desperately stirring the kettle of vegetables.

"Duck?" they shouted in a loud chorus.

"There never was a duck on land or sea that looked like that."

"Where are its legs?"

"Was it a winged duck?"

"Perhaps it's a species of wingless, legless mountain duck, unknown to low countries?"

"Well, if you must know," cried Billie, now very hot and red over the fire, and wishing devoutly that that brutally truthful speech about watched pots had never been made, "if you demand the truth, it's mock duck --  -- "

"It sounds like the name of a Chinese laundry-man," put in Percy.

"Made by a famous Southern recipe. We didn't know it would take so long to cook." She was ashamed to mention the potatoes and onions. "If you are all so famished, you might start on the bread and butter."

Instantly they gathered around the table and Percy passed around the bread tray. From bread they turned to the salad of tomatoes and cucumbers. Lettuce did not seem to flourish in that country. They drank the ginger ale and ate all the olives, and still the spurious fowl remained a mockery to cooks. It sent forth rivulets of juices and made a great to do over the fire, like people who are all promises and talk and no action, but it would not get done. Then the doctor slipped away and presently returned with his contribution to the supper. He had made it in the morning and it had been standing in the ice chest all day.

"I thought we might help this so as there would be no delays after we had dispatched that talkative fat person in the blanket," he said. "I hope you will like it. My mother used to call it 'piddling.' It was a wash-day dessert and we always had it Mondays, made from Sunday's cake."

Elinor busied herself serving the wash-day dessert into china saucers. It was made of slices of cake soaked in fruit juice and spread with jam.

"When there is cream in the house, it adds of course," observed the doctor with some pride over his success as a cook.

"The flavor's delicious," observed Miss Campbell, testing a small piece daintily on the edge of her spoon.

"It's bully," exclaimed Ben.

The doctor was really vain over his efforts.

"And I made it from memory," he informed them, "without any recipe. I call that pretty good for a first attempt."

They wondered if he had ever done anything in his profession that gave him as much childish delight as making this simple dessert of his boyhood.

After a brief silence, broken only by the tinkle of spoons against saucers, the campers around the table glanced at each other guiltily. Except for the portions reserved for the two cooks, there was not a crumb of piddling left.

"Better hide the plates and cover the dish," said the doctor in a conspirator's whisper. "It's enough to provoke them into a mutiny. Time enough to break the news after they have eaten their mock turtle."

"Duck," choked Percy.

But the Gypsy cooks had noticed nothing. They were too absorbed with straining the beans and the onions now cooked to shreds, from the adamantine potatoes. The cooked vegetables they arranged in the bottom of a large meat platter as a becoming bed for the mock duck which Billie, with mingled feelings of fear and triumph, now prepared to loose from his fastenings with a long fork and the historic carving knife. But Mock Duck to the end was a rogue and a trickster. The poor little cook had just loosened him from the spit and was holding him precariously on the prong of a fork, when he gave a malicious leap into the air and plunged into the very centre of the hot embers. Instantly a circle of flames rose high about him and the air was charged with the fumes of burning flesh.

"Oh, oh!" shrieked Billie. "Help! Help!"

They did what they could to save the remnants of Mock Duck. Ben singed his eyebrows in an effort to spear him on a fork and raise him from his fiery bed. They were all very quick but the flames were quicker, and when at last Mock Duck was lifted from the embers his form was no longer recognizable and the surface of his outer covering was burned to a cinder.

The two little Gypsy cooks wept with disappointment. They had worked so hard and were so hot and tired and hungry.

Their friends were consumed with pity.

"There, there," cried Dr. Hume, too tender hearted to look upon tears without being moved. "Don't cry, little cooks. Look at all this nice gravy and these delicious vegetables."

"Why, my dearest children, you mustn't mind," exclaimed Miss Campbell. "See what a beautiful mixture we can have. Pour the gravy right into the platter with the beans and onions. We'll eat it on bread."

How callous do the most fastidious become after a few weeks in camp!

"Come, come, there's no time to be lost," exclaimed the starving Percy.

But the two disappointed cooks had nothing to say. They choked back their tears and fell to with an appetite on beans and onions ingloriously mixed with bread and gravy. And as a final delicacy, the campers, who had commenced with dessert and salad, finished off with two very delicious mealy potatoes apiece.

"If we stayed in this wilderness long, we'd revert to savages," Miss Campbell remarked, stirring a large cup of black coffee. "But on the whole, I think I am enjoying the reversion and my appetite is getting better every day."

"If I were starving in the wilderness and somebody offered me Mock Duck, I'd refuse it," ejaculated Billie irrelevantly, for nobody had mentioned mock duck for a long time.

The Ballad Of Mock Duck.

(Poem by Percy.)

There was a haughty animal, Lived in a meadow fine; A domesticated lady Of the genus called bovine.

Like many other females, Beast or human or divine, This domesticated lady Of the family of kine

Gazed with rapture at her features, As reflected in a brook, When with unblushing ecstasy Each morn she took a look.

As she smiled at her reflection In the mirror of the stream, She indulged in gentle rev'ries Of complacency supreme.

"Besides my gift of beauty And my cultivated mind, I have other choice attractions Of a very varied kind.

"My roasts and steaks are luscious, On my hash all have relied, My youthful veal's delicious, And my milk is certified."

On these pleasing meditations Broke a mother with her brood, Sailing o'er that calm reflection In a most ungracious mood.

"You may be steaks and roast beef And hash of quality, But you stoop to imitations Of poor humble little me.

"You may be a benefactor, But I'll just remind you, ma'am, That in one small particular You are a blooming sham.

"Don't let your sweet milk curdle And don't let it sour your luck, If I make so bold to mention That imposture called 'Mock Duck'!"

So this web-footed lady, With a malice quite feline, Disturbed the calm reflections Of that innocent bovine.



Chapter IX.

A Lesson By The Wayside.


Promptly at nine o'clock Saturday morning the "Comet" might have been seen crawling down the side of the mountain with Billie at the wheel. Dr. Hume sat beside her and Elinor and Ben were in the back seat. It was with something of a holiday feeling that they went forth to meet Alberdina, the new maid, whose presence was becoming a pressing necessity.

"I don't mind the cooking a bit, Doctor," Billie was saying. "Especially with Nancy, although I suppose I am really her assistant. She makes things exciting enough. I think she's a kind of culinary speculator and takes a lot of chances, but she's awfully lucky. She takes all sorts of rag-tag ends of things, chops them into bits and turns out what she calls ragouts."

"They're mighty good," said the doctor. "Experimenting cooks generally have a sub-conscious instinct that carries them along when they seem to be going blindly. But it's difficult to work with them. They are always dictatorial and inclined to treat the assistant as a scullery maid."

Billie groaned.

"I hope Alberdina, strong and fearless, will relieve us of that awful scullery work. I have a feeling it would be a reflection on my character and on the Campbell family if I didn't leave every pan bright and shining, but oh, dear, it's work! I think if I had to keep it up I should cook everything together, vegetables and meat, in one big kettle full of boiling water."

"That wouldn't be such a bad mess," laughed the doctor. "The vegetable and meat juices would make a rich broth and you could serve soup, meat and vegetables all in one plate. Think of the saving of that."

"As Cousin Helen said, it wouldn't take campers long to revert to savagery," ejaculated Billie. "We are already as brown as Indians. We keep our sleeves rolled up and our collars turned in and wear creepers instead of shoes, and always khaki skirts, and never dress for supper. Even Cousin Helen has slipped back a peg -- "

"It's the only possible way to enjoy camping," broke in the doctor. "But you would never get to be an all the way savage. Look at that remarkable young woman, Miss Phoebe, who has never had anything else in all her life, -- she is far from being a savage."

"Indeed she is," said Billie. "She has never been to school in her life, but she knows a great deal more about some things than I do -- astronomy, for instance, and English history."

"There is more than that," put in Elinor, leaning over to join in the conversation. "Phoebe has learned something else that keeps her from ever being ill or tired or unhappy. I asked her what it was and she said it was a secret."

"Speaking of angels," remarked Ben, "there is Phoebe in front of us now, carrying a basket. I suppose she is going to the Antler's Inn to sell some of her father's work."

Far ahead of them, swinging along the dusty road, was Phoebe. Her tall, slender figure swayed gracefully with the movement of the walk, but her shoulders did not bend under the burden of the large basket. A hot, dry wind blew her skirts about her and flapped the brim of her jimmie hat. Since the night at Sunrise Camp, Phoebe had never gone barefooted again, and she now wore a pair of canvas creepers that gave a spring to her step as she hurried along.

Keeping time to the rhythm of her steps, Phoebe chanted softly in a rich, clear voice:

"'The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want.

"'He maketh me to lie down in the green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.'"

The whir of the motor car interrupted the chanting, and, with an absent-minded glance over her shoulder, she stepped to the side of the road to wait for it to pass.

But the "Comet" stopped short and all the occupants called out, "Good morning," with an especial cordiality.

Phoebe bowed her head gravely. Her eyes had a remote expression as if she had been awakened from a dream. Ben opened the door of the car and jumped out, while Billie exclaimed:

"I am so glad we met you, Phoebe, because now you will let us give you a lift."

Phoebe looked into Billie's kind gray eyes for a moment and then smiled as if she had found something there that pleased her.

"I will come," she said, as Ben took the basket from her arm and helped her into the car.

"Have you walked across the mountain this morning?" he asked, when they had started on their way again.

"I started early," she said, "when it was cool."

"And you are not tired?" asked the doctor.

Her eyes had a remote expression as if she had been awakened from a dream. -- Page 136.

"No, no, I am not tired. Why should I be? This was my work for to-day. If I had been tired, I could not have done it."

The doctor looked at her curiously.

"You believe, then, you are given strength for each day's task?"

Phoebe did not reply. She was not accustomed to conversation and it was impossible to find words in which to express herself.

She turned her dark beautiful eyes on him with a gaze that was almost disconcerting while searching her mind for an answer.

The doctor put his question in a different way.

"When it's your day's work to take a long walk across the mountain in the hot sun, what keeps you from getting tired?"

"I sing," answered Phoebe, and settled back in the seat between Elinor and Ben, her brown hands folded loosely in her lap.

The ride over to meet the new maid was intended to be something in the nature of a picnic, and they had made an early start in order to eat lunch in the woods after the first stage of the journey. And now, as the sun crept up toward the meridian, their appetites began to clamor for food. About that time, too, they came near to the road which led to the Antlers, where Phoebe hoped to sell some of her baskets. She lifted the big basket into her lap and touched Billie on the shoulder as a dumb signal to stop.

"But we are not going to let you go, Phoebe," exclaimed Billie. "You must lunch with us in the woods. Then we'll have time I think to drop you at the Antlers and stop for you again on the way back."

"I do not see why Miss Phoebe needs to visit the inn at all," put in Dr. Hume. "I wanted to get presents for my nieces and nephews. I will buy the basketful and that will save me no end of trouble searching for things in the village."

Phoebe thoughtfully considered these generous and hospitable propositions before she replied with great seriousness of tone and manner:

"Thank you, but it is too much; I cannot accept. It is too much."

"But it is not, Phoebe," protested Billie. "We want you. We like to have you with us."

"And I want the baskets, too," went on the doctor. "It will save me a hot, stupid journey to the village."

Phoebe looked from one to the other. Her pride was struggling with her yearning to be with these new and wonderful friends.

"We won't take 'No'," cried Billie. "We are depending on you to show us a good place for our picnic and you can guide us over the last of the road to the station. You see, we have a reason for asking you. We want your help."

The mountain-girl was therefore persuaded to remain with them for the rest of the trip, and presently they drew up near a pine forest where there was a little stream. Ben lifted out the luncheon hamper and the tea basket, and while the girls unpacked the food, Phoebe stood shyly by and watched the proceedings. With a heightened color she glanced from Billie's and Elinor's neat skirts and pongee blouses to her own faded calico dress. She spread out her brown fingers stained with berry juice, and looked at them sadly. Then her face brightened.

"I was almost forgetting," she said out loud, but to no one. "I am always in too great a hurry. I have waited a long time and now it is beginning to come. It was too soon last summer, but now at last it is time."

Dr. Hume noticed Phoebe talking to herself and shook his head.

"Too much alone," he thought.

Meanwhile, Billie, piling sandwiches on the lunch cloth, was busy thinking of something far different. Her glance shifted from Dr. Hume to Phoebe and back again. She closed her eyes and the thought which at first she saw dimly in the dark recesses of her mind advanced to the open, took form and shape and presently boldly showed itself as a full-grown plan. Billie, sitting abstractedly on the ground, piling and re-piling the sandwiches, was startled by Ben's rather impatient voice.

"I'll have to fall-to unless you give the word, Billie; I'm famished."

"Excuse my absent-mindedness, Ben," laughed Billie. "I had just thought up a wild, though perfectly feasible scheme, and I couldn't turn my mind to mere food for a moment."

"And the scheme is?" demanded Elinor, seating herself at the lunch table while she waited for the water to boil.

"I shall have to wait to tell you until it's ready to serve up," answered Billie, "nice and brown and done through."

"Why, Billie, what kind of kitchen talk is that?" exclaimed Elinor, laughing. "You'll be seeing with the eyes of a cook next. Sunsets will remind you of tomato soup and clouds will make you think of meringues and -- "

Elinor broke off, her eyes wide with astonishment, and the others following the direction of her gaze saw that she was looking at a man who had crept into their midst so silently that no one had noticed him. In that haggard and unshaved face they recognized Mr. Lupo.

"Something to eat," he demanded fiercely. "I'm almost starved."

Without a word Billie handed him several sandwiches and some fruit.

"Eat it over there," she ordered, pointing to a distant tree, "and afterwards you can tell us what is the matter."

The others admired her calm assurance with the half-breed, but Billie was tired of the Lupos. The wife had come near being the death of her beloved cousin, and the husband was a lazy, loafing fellow. Such was her judgment of them.

"Come, Phoebe. Come, Dr. Hume," she said, and the others gathered around the lunch cloth. Mr. Lupo lifted his sodden, bloodshot eyes at the word "Phoebe," and saw with astonishment the young girl, whom Billie knew the couple hated, now drinking tea and mingling on equal terms with the people of Sunrise Camp.

His eyes narrowed into little slits. After choking down the sandwiches greedily, he stalked over into their midst.

"What have you done with my wife?" he demanded.

"We know nothing of your wife, Lupo," answered Dr. Hume, who knew all about the couple by this time. "You had better go on now, if you have had enough food."

"I don't want any more of your cursed food," answered Lupo, looking very much like his namesake, the wolf, at that moment. "But I tell you if you've given my wife money to leave me, you will have to pay for it in another coin."

"Nobody has ever given your wife any money. She has never been back since the day she threatened Miss Campbell with a carving knife. If anybody has driven her away, it's you, with your drunken, low habits."

Lupo moved a step nearer and pointed his thumb at Phoebe.

"So you're trying to make a lady of her, are you?"

Phoebe took not the slightest notice. She was watching the antics of a squirrel leaping in the branches of a giant oak tree, but she turned her eyes gratefully toward Billie, when that young woman burst out with:

"She is a lady and my friend. I think you'd better go now, Mr. Lupo."

"Whoever meddles with those two shall pay for it," cried the man fiercely, just as Ben seized him by the collar and flung him into a thicket of bushes, from where he presently crawled away out of sight, occasionally pausing to shake his fist in their direction.

"A nice return for hospitality," exclaimed Billie.

"He's a dangerous fellow," said the doctor. "But I imagine he's mostly talk. What do you know of him, Miss Phoebe?"

"I only know that years ago they tried to drive us away from our house. But an old man who lived with us, protected us. He owned the cabin and he left it to father and me. There was a will that made it ours. It became a home." They smiled at her quaint expression. "And the Lupos have been turned against us always, but God has protected us from our enemies."

They looked at her silently. It was impossible not to feel deeply impressed with the earnestness of her tone. Billie felt ashamed. With all her advantages and the opportunities money and travel had brought her, Phoebe, raised in a cabin on the mountain side, had learned something she had not.

Presently she went over and sat beside the mysterious girl.

"I wish you would teach me a few things, Phoebe. I feel that I am very ignorant."

"But I have never been to school," replied Phoebe in astonishment.

"There are some things one doesn't learn at school," answered Billie.



Chapter X.

Alberdina Schoenbachler


"You no lig I shall dos clothes coog?" asked Alberdina, the Monday after her arrival.

"Boil, you mean?" corrected Miss Campbell. "Certainly. There is a clothes boiler, and goodness knows the things need it, and a good bleaching afterwards in the sun. They are as yellow as gold."

When Alberdina, the new German-Swiss maid, had alighted from the train with her absurd little iron-bound trunk, about as big as a bread basket, Billie had felt no misgivings. Here, indeed, was a creature too healthy to know the name of fear, and too good-natured to object to hard work. The brilliant red cheeks and broad engaging smile immediately decided Billie to put all her accumulated linen in wash at once.

On top of Alberdina's large peasant head was perched a small round hat, positively the most ludicrous thing ever seen in the shape of millinery. With its band of red satin ribbon and tiny bunch of field flowers, it seemed to defy the world to find anything funnier.

"It's a real comedy hat," Dr. Hume observed. "The kind they wear when they sing:

"'Hi-lee-hi-lo-hi-lee-hi-lo, I joost come over; I joost come over.'"

"But she's really a ministering angel, you know," said Billie, "sent to do the washing and ironing and scullery work. Except for cooking meals, we expect to take life easy from now on."

And so, right gladly, they had carried Alberdina Schoenbachler over the twenty-five miles of mountain road and established her in Sunrise Camp.

"I think she is the very person we needed, Cousin Helen," Billie said. "Not accomplished, you know, or trained in any way, but good enough for camping. And there is no reason now why we shouldn't take the trip to the lower lake if you feel well enough. The weather is perfect."

"Do you think we ought to leave her on the first day?" Miss Campbell replied somewhat doubtfully.

"Why not? She has enough to occupy her, goodness knows, with all that washing."

"But suppose she should get lonely or frightened -- ?"

Just then a melodious Swiss yodel broke the stillness of the early morning and Billie laughed.

"She isn't going to be lonesome. She is accustomed to the mountains. Do let's take a holiday, Cousin Helen, please," and with Miss Helen's assent, Billie rushed off to find the others and tell the good news.

Perhaps some people would regard it as a fault in Billie's character that, having formed a plan, she was always filled with wild impatience to carry it out. But when we consider that Billie's plans concerned the pleasure and entertainment of other people and that her impatience was only another form of earnest enthusiasm, it would be difficult to criticise her.

While three of the Motor Maids busied themselves preparing the luncheon, Billie and Ben worked over the motor car, putting it in condition for a long trip, and Percy, in blue overalls, washed the body of the car.

"I am so glad to save you this drudgery," he observed, with an ingratiating smile.

"You're not half as glad as we are, Percival Algernon," answered Ben. "It's a double blessing, because it's good discipline for you and it gives us a chance to show how much we know about machinery."

"Don't boast, my son. You may have a sure enough chance before the sun sets," remarked Percy in the tone of a prophet.

"After you have washed him off well, rub him down with those cloths," ordered Billie from under the car. "Then stow the rubber curtains inside and see to the lights. It may be late before we get back."

"All right, Captain," answered Percy respectfully.

It was still not nine o'clock when the "Comet," polished and oiled and looking as neat in his dark blue and buff uniform as a soldier on parade, stood ready for departure. The hamper of luncheon was strapped on behind, and underneath the middle seats in a pan of ice were bottles of root beer and ginger ale. Presently he started down the steep road with his load. The rustic camp, perched on the ledge in the side of the mountain, with its guard of pine trees crowding almost to its doors, never looked more alluring.

"I declare I hate to leave the place," said Miss Campbell, peeping through the glass window in the back curtain of the car.

"It's in good hands," laughed the doctor, as the voice of Alberdina floated to them, singing in fulsome tones:

"Ach, mein lieber Augustine, Augustine, Augustine!"

But the motor car with its load of campers had not been long gone when Alberdina withdrew her arms, elbow deep in soapsuds, from the wash tub, and looked around her.

"Ach, mein lieber Gott," she said turning her large cow-like eyes on the pile of linen, "I dis worg nod much lige. It is too many. I mag to coog dos clothes and rest. Dis life it all hard worg ees."

She lifted an armful of linen garments from the tub and stuffed them into the clothes boiler which she filled with water and set on the coal oil stove. Then drawing up a steamer chair, she settled herself comfortably and closed her eyes, not noticing that in the boilerful of white things she had plunged a red silk handkerchief of Percy's. Nearly an hour had passed when Alberdina awoke from her healthy, conscienceless slumber with a start. Turning her head lazily, she noticed that the clothes were boiling and the water was running over the sides of the boiler.

"Mein Gott!" she said in German. "That little mistress will make of me the Hamburger. I must do some work."

But to her horror and astonishment, when Alberdina made an effort to rise from the low, easy chair, she could not move. She had been bound to the chair with a stout rope, the clothes line in fact. Each fat red hand was secured to an arm of the chair, her feet tied together and her body strapped to the seat and back.

Alberdina groaned and her stupid eyes became humid with terror.

"Helb! Helb!" she called. "Helb bring. Mein Gott in himmel, helb!"

No answer came from the silent camp.

"Ees it for dis, den, I haf to you come?" she cried, addressing the circle of mountains shimmering in opalescent light. Far down from the valley below came the long clear note of a bugle, probably of some coaching party. An impudent woodpecker seated on a limb above her commenced an insistent, aggravating tapping.

Alberdina made another struggle to loose her bonds and then settled back weeping. At last merciful sleep brought her oblivion. The mountains shimmered in the heat waves. The sunlight slanting through the trees cast flickering golden shadows on the carpet of pine needles. The tinkle of a cowbell broke the stillness. In her dreams the Swiss girl was reminded of her own cherished uplands, where in the festive cheese-making time she had gathered with other maids and youths and danced to the music of the zither. Zither, did she say? But, had she been dreaming then, all the while? Was not that a zither now mingling its fairy music with the notes of the cow bell? Alberdina opened her eyes.

"Helb! Helb! I asg you helb!" she called.

The music stopped instantly and a man, tall, slender, with an indescribably distinguished air, approached, carrying the zither under his arm.

"You called?" he asked courteously.

Alberdina burst into a torrent of excited German. She rolled her prominent eyes to indicate her bonds. Streams of tears flowed down her cheeks, or taking a short cut, ran over the bridge of her nose and dropped down a precipice to her heaving bosom. Phoebe's father watched her with an expression of gentle bewilderment. He seemed to be trying to recall something an infinite distance away, like one of those inexplicable reminiscences that flash through our minds and are gone before we can grasp their significance.

"It's useless," he said, shaking his head. "But something has happened to you? Oh, yes, you have been tied up."

Taking a bone-handled clasp knife from his pocket, he carefully cut the ropes wound about her. Alberdina bounded out of the chair like a big, fleshy catapult.

"Ach, himmel, I thangs mag to you, sir," she cried respectfully, for there was something in this wanderer which commanded deference, although he did wear a threadbare suit and mountain brogans.

"You know who did this, my girl?" he asked.

She shook her head and ran into the camp beyond. The locker rooms on the two sleeping porches were in confusion. The contents of drawers and trunks had been dumped to the floor and writing portfolios overhauled. But, apparently, nothing had been taken, because there was nothing valuable enough to tempt the most eager burglar. What little ready money they had the campers had carried with them, and there was no jewelry to steal. Only Alberdina had been robbed. With many deep guttural exclamations she found that her own little emigrant trunk had not been overlooked in the pillage and her purse, containing ten dollars, was gone.

The gentleman with the zither turned to go.

"I came to find a physician," he said. "Is there none here?"

"I know nod," answered the girl, shaken with sobs.

He lifted his old slouch hat.

"I bid you good day," he said, and started away, then turning back, he exclaimed: "Perhaps I ought not to leave you here alone. But I must not stay away so long. Phoebe will be frightened. Will you come with me to my home?"

Alberdina shook her head. She was half afraid of the strange man. Who knows but it might have been this stranger, himself, who had robbed her of her savings?

"No, no; I vill stay here. The vorst is over yet already. Dey haf me robbed of my moneys. I no more haf. Dey vill not come bag."

Having so spoken, she returned to her labors and was presently hanging on the line a long row of deep pink clothing, headed by the red silk handkerchief, the iniquitous author of the wicked deed.

In the meantime the motorists had proceeded joyfully on their way. They sang and joked and made so merry that Dr. Hume felt that he had gone back fifteen years in his busy life and was a boy himself. The road as indicated on the map in the road book was cut through forests of primeval growth. Sometimes it descended into the valley past villages and farm houses. Once it took them through a splendid tract of land dedicated with its club house to St. Hubert, patron saint of the hunt. At last it began by degrees to climb upward, and with a sudden turn around the mountain side, they came into view of an exquisite little lake, reflecting in its mirrored depths the peaks of the high mountains encircling it. Hundreds of silver birches, slender and elegant, fringed its edges, gleaming white against a background of impenetrable green.

At one corner of the lake were a small boathouse and restaurant, where customers are perpetually served with tea and maple cake. Long ago they had eaten lunch and were quite ready for more refreshments. Then everybody but Miss Campbell took a dip in the lake. The hours sped past and the sun was well on its downward grade before they realized it was time to return.

In the meantime, Billie, always eager to find out about new roads and new trails, had been questioning one of the guides at the boathouse.

"He says there's a walk called the 'river trail' only two miles long that we could take, and meet the 'Comet' at a bridge at the end. Don't you think some of us could take it, Dr. Hume? It's right through the most wonderful pine forests, -- one of the most beautiful walks in the Adirondacks, he says."

"But who will run the motor car?" asked the doctor, beetling his shaggy eyebrows.

"I will," Ben volunteered, and it was accordingly arranged that Dr. Hume and Percy should conduct the girls along the river trail while Miss Campbell and Ben proceeded by the road in the car.

It was all very simple. Miss Campbell was to take a nap while Ben looked after the "Comet's" needs and in the course of half an hour, or at their leisure, they were to take the road. In the meantime, the others, with good walking, would have ample time to make the two miles through the forest. They bade each other a casual farewell since they were to meet again so soon, and led by the doctor, plunged into the forest.

The ground had been cleared of undergrowth, so that looking up the side of the mountain, at the foot of which gurgled a little river, one could see a vast multitude of tall straight pine trees and occasionally the flash of a silver birch. Rank on rank they stood in infinite perspective; and sometimes an aged beech tree generalled their march and sometimes a magnificent oak spread out his venerable arms with a gesture of command. But the rank and file were pines; gray grenadiers, still upright with the years; young stripling pines, eager to be on the march. And always they seemed to be going the same way over the mountains to the frontiers of the world, and always through their branches came the murmur of their martial song.

Nowhere had Billie seen so impressive, so magnificent a forest. She thought of the cryptomerias in Japan, but they were more like the gigantic pillars of a cathedral, while these hurrying hordes of pines and birches were like human beings. They suggested romances: lovers in the forests; knights in armor; wicked enchantresses.

Once Dr. Hume paused and pointed to a cleared space beyond. There, standing under a great pine tree looking at them with startled eyes were a doe and her young. In another instant they were gone, leaving the campers holding their breath.

In a little more than an hour they reached the end of the trail, where a foot bridge made of two logs took them over the turbulent little river. But no "Comet" stood waiting for them at the rendezvous with Ben at the wheel and Miss Campbell on the back seat. To be sure the road was twice as long, as the trail had wound around the side of the mountain for some five miles, but that was nothing to a motor car.

"Might as well sit down and wait," suggested the doctor.

They seated themselves in a row on a log expecting every minute to see the familiar blue car loom into sight.

But the lagging moments dragged themselves into half an hour and still the "Comet" lingered.

"I think we'd better walk back," said Billie, beginning to feel just a tinge of uneasiness.

"Perhaps it would be as well," echoed the doctor. "They have had a breakdown, no doubt."

The band of wayfarers feeling very weary after the rough walk along the river trail began their march back toward the lake.



Chapter XI.

A Comedy Of Errors.


The original lake party might have served as an excellent illustration of the history of many principalities and nations. Having suffered a division and then a subdivision and finally a breaking up into fractional groups, it became as a weakened and shattered government, powerless to help itself.

It soon became evident that Mary Price was too weary to take the long walk back to the lake.

She was left therefore by the roadside with Percy and Elinor, while Dr. Hume, Nancy and Billie went on.

"It will probably be no time at all before we pick them up," said the doctor cheerfully, but they made the entire walk to the lake house and there was no "Comet" to be seen.

"It left here two hours ago," the boatman informed them. "Maybe they went on to the second bridge. That's half a mile beyond the first one. They'll tell a person anything, these people here will."

"I suppose that's exactly what happened," Billie exclaimed, much relieved. "They have been waiting at the second bridge and will be on their way back by this time. But I think they will have to come all the way. Nancy has a blister on her heel."

"Now, don't blame it all on me, Billie," said Nancy. "You know you are dead tired yourself."

Billie smiled guiltily.

"I am played out," she said.

"I wouldn't think of allowing either of you young ladies to start on another tramp," put in Dr. Hume. "I am too good a doctor for that. You must stay right here and rest and I'll start back. I may meet the whole party any time, now."

Billie and Nancy, therefore, settled themselves to rest on two benches near the lake while the good doctor trudged off along the dusty road.

In the meantime, Mary, who had more than overtaxed her strength that day, gave Percy and Elinor a bad fright by toppling over in a faint. They brought her to with water which Percy carried from a brook in his hat, and then carried her into the wood a bit where she could lie on the pine needles and rest her head in Elinor's lap. But Percy hurried back to the road to keep watch, and seeing a motor car broken down in the distance hastened to catch up with it. It was a strange car, however, and the chauffeur had not seen the "Comet."

And all this while, Ben and Miss Campbell, having waited an incalculable time at the second bridge, had gone on for half a mile. Few people can stand the test of being kept waiting. Their patience may be inexhaustible but their judgments are apt to take a bad twist and bring them right about face in the wrong direction.

It is true that Ben had yielded to Miss Campbell in going beyond the supposed meeting place, and now to make matters worse, the "Comet" came to an inexplicable standstill. Poor Ben, with small knowledge of what to do, began a long and wearisome investigation of unfamiliar machinery.

There was something of the dumb driven animal in Ben when he entered unfamiliar territory, and his slow plodding methods had been known to irritate Miss Campbell profoundly.

And now, one more separation remained to complete the disbandment of this innocent party of pleasure. Ben, shamefaced and very humble, was obliged to confess to Miss Campbell that he could not locate the trouble with the "Comet." Deeply he regretted his inefficiency, but there was nothing to do but give up.

"I'm thinking," he said, "that maybe I had better walk back a little ways and see if the others aren't coming up behind us."

"Very well," answered Miss Campbell with dignity. "You may go. I suppose nobody would wish to harm an old woman."

Presently, therefore, she found herself alone in the wilderness. There was something almost human and comforting about the "Comet," however, that faithful mechanism that had borne them on so many pilgrimages, and Miss Campbell addressed herself to him as to a human companion.

"I just believe you had more sense than that stupid Ben Austen," she said. "You wouldn't go on because you knew perfectly well that your mistress was behind you. You're a nice, good old thing."

She paused and peered out of the car. Darkness was falling and the road was filled with somber shadows cast by the far-reaching branches of the trees on either side. As far as she could see along the white strip of road there was no human soul behind her. Her eyes swept the road in front. It was criss-crossed with light and shadow and it was difficult to make out anything moving, but Miss Campbell thought she saw an object approaching. Yes, it was unquestionably an object. Something large and white -- a van. Great heavens, it was a Gypsy van!

"Ben!" she called, but Ben was quite a quarter of a mile away by now.

The only thing to do was to get out and hide behind a tree in the woods. She could not bring herself to face a band of Gypsies. Hurriedly climbing down from the car, Miss Campbell concealed herself in a thicket of trees near the road.

Presently the van drew up alongside the empty car.

"By Jove, here's an abandoned motor. Where do you suppose the people are?" said a man walking at one side of the van and driving the horse.

Two women were comfortably seated in rocking chairs in the little front compartment of the vehicle.

"How strange!" said one of them. "It's like finding a derelict at sea. Where are the Captain and the crew? Where are the passengers?"

"Where indeed?" thought the lady behind the tree.

"It's like the mystery of the 'Maria Theresa,'" pursued the man. "A perfectly good ship abandoned in mid-ocean without the slightest explanation and all on board lost forever."

This gruesome comparison made Miss Campbell decidedly uncomfortable.

"Shall we leave her to drift, ladies?" he asked affably.

"I will protect the 'Comet' with my life," she thought. "I don't believe they are Gypsies anyhow. Their accent is too good, and a Gypsy would never address the women of his family as 'ladies.'"

"I am afraid I am at present the sole survivor of the crew," she said politely to the young man. "If you would be kind enough to advise me, sir, I should be greatly indebted."

Immediately the man lifted his broad-brimmed hat and the women in the rocking chairs leaned forward in order the better to see this dainty, mysterious little lady in gray who had emerged apparently from a primeval forest.

"With the greatest pleasure, ma'am," answered the young man, filled with curiosity, and they all listened with courteous attention while she related the history of the afternoon's mishaps.

"And now that stupid Ben, who is really a very nice boy under ordinary circumstances, has gone off and left me and almost anything could have happened, -- wolves, Indians, half-breeds -- " she added, thinking of the treacherous Lupos.

After she had finished, the young man stood for a moment thinking.

"My name is Richard Hook, ma'am, at your service," he said. "The only thing I could suggest is for me to unhitch Dobbin here and ride him down the road to look for your party and leave you with my sister, Maggie, and her friend. This is as good a place as any other for us to put up for the night. You might as well start supper, girls. Perhaps this lady is hungry."

"I am," interjected Miss Campbell fervently.

So it happened that Richard Hook went ambling off into the twilight on old Dobbin while Maggie Hook and her friend, Amy Swinnerton, made Miss Campbell comfortable in the van and prepared to cook supper.

"And you are not Gypsies after all?" asked the little lady, watching one of the girls light a bracket lamp on the wall of the van.

"No, indeed," laughed Maggie Hook. "Not by birth at least, but I think we have something of the Gypsy spirit because we love to spend our summers in this way. Have you never seen a van?"

Miss Campbell could not say that she had and looked about her with much interest.

"These are our beds, you see," Amy explained. "The top one folds up and we use the lower one for a divan. Richard sleeps in a tent. This is the dressing room," she continued with as much pride as a custodian showing a sightseer over an ancient castle.

A little space had been curtained off in the back and behind this hung a mirror over a small dressing table, and a row of hooks for clothes.

"And this is your kitchen?" asked Miss Campbell, indicating a row of plates and cups on a plate rack and a small kerosene stove, at one side opposite the beds.

"That and a chafing dish and a camp fire," answered Maggie Hook. "But we mostly prefer the fire. I'll get things started here to-night and when Richard comes he can make us a fire if he dares. I believe the laws around here are pretty strict about fires."

"Well, my dears, it is assuredly the most complete and delightful little traveling home I ever saw," exclaimed Miss Campbell, after she had looked over the entire van and then seated herself in a rocking chair to watch preparations for supper. It did not take long for her to make friends with these nice young girls who were indeed about the age of her own charges.

"How many are in your party, Miss Campbell?" asked Maggie, in the act of breaking eggs into a bowl.

"There are eight of us, but I hope you aren't thinking --  -- "

"Oh, but I am," insisted Maggie. "I am sure they will be very tired and hungry, and, besides, we have plenty in the larder for everyone, -- a whole ham!" she added archly.

"Dear me, I wish Billie were here," said Miss Campbell. "I believe she always keeps things stored away in the 'Comet' for an emergency."

"I'll beat up some Johnnie cakes," announced Amy. "We can cook those on the wood fire later."

In the meantime, the waiters who had waited in vain and the wanderers who had wandered fruitlessly, began to realize that the situation was serious. Billie grew desperately impatient. At last she succeeded in engaging a carry-all and two horses from a man at the moat house and soon she and Nancy, seated face to face, were hurrying along the road. Dr. Hume had met Percy. Ben had discovered Elinor and Mary standing fearfully on the edge of the forest. By the time that Richard Hook had got anywhere at all with his old nag, the lake-party, with the exception of Miss Campbell, was re-united in Billie's carry-all and driving comfortably in the direction of the "Comet."

They were very tired and hungry but a graven image would have melted to laughter over this comedy of errors, and Richard Hook, hearing the gay chorus of voices approaching, was quite sure it was another picnic party. But he was not a young man to take chances, and having taken his position across the middle of the road, he waved his arms and yelled, "Stop!"

"Do you know anything about a little lady in gray and an abandoned automobile?" he asked.

"Cousin Helen and the 'Comet,'" cried Billie, consumed with anxiety. "Oh, Ben, how could you have left them?"

"But --  -- " began Ben.

"I assure you the lady is in good hands," interrupted Richard. "My sister is looking after her."

There were more explanations and presently they started on their way again, and in a little while drew up beside the Gypsy van and the abandoned motor car. And the upshot of the whole adventure was that the two parties joined forces and provisions.

The boys built a fire against a great boulder on the river bank and there was a wonderful supper. All the very best of everything was brought out for the occasion. They ate Johnnie cakes from wooden platters and drank black coffee from glasses, Russian fashion. Later they sang songs and told stories around the camp fire. Never did people commingle so agreeably as the caravanners and the motorists. Somehow Sunrise Camp and Alberdina Schoenbachler faded into the dim recesses of their memories.

"Of course you can't go home," Richard Hook remarked to Billie. "We'll camp out to-night. You'll never be able to mend that car in all this blackness, and it would be a pretty hard road to follow at night anyhow. We've just come over it. Dobbin can pull the car over to one side of the road, and Miss Campbell and Miss Price can sleep in the van."

"And we'll show you what a bed really is," Ben went on eagerly. "Not a motor car cushion affair either."

To their surprise, Miss Campbell was agreeable to the plan.

"There's nobody at home to worry but Alberdina," she said, "and it won't hurt her to lose a little flesh, anyhow."

The boys worked hard over the beds. Springy couches they made of spruce branches, covered with blankets, and, at last as care-free as a lot of Gypsies, they all slept as soundly as they had ever slept in their own beds at home.



Chapter XII.

The Return.


With the exception of her three best friends, Billie Campbell had never met people who pleased her so much on short acquaintance as the Hooks and their guest. It had not taken them half an hour to bridge over the gap of unfamiliarity.

"What is it?" she asked of Maggie Hook, Richard's small, whimsical sister, black haired, black eyed, with quick alert movements like a bird's.

"I can tell you exactly the reason," replied Maggie. "It's because we all belong to the road. There is a bond between us. We go Gypsying in our van and you go Gypsying in your car. We be all of one blood like Kipling's Mowgli and the animals in the jungle."

"Only we aren't the real thing as much as you," said Billie modestly. "The 'Comet' is a dear old thing, but he's not a house."

"You wouldn't enjoy it if he were," said Maggie. "A motor traveling van would never do. You see the point of this kind of life is that it's lazy and contemplative. We just amble along and it doesn't matter whether we make ten miles or five. We are not attempting long distance records. We are just getting intimate with the ups and downs of the country; the streams and rivers; the little valleys and bits of green by the roadside. Sometimes, if we find a place that's secluded enough, a little glen or a grove that screens off the road, we stay there for several days."

"But what do you do?"

"We all do the things we like best. Richard reads and takes long walks or fishes, if there is a stream. I clean the van from top to bottom and polish everything up and bake a cake in the little oven. Then I darn all the stockings and mend the clothes."

Billie laughed.

"You're not a Gypsy," she said, "if you are a black-eyed wanderer. They never mend or clean anything. But what does Miss Swinnerton like to do? Is she fond of housework, too?"

"Amy? No, not specially. She sketches and paints in water colors, and botanizes, and looks for bits of stones and rocks which she examines through a glass, and translates French and generally potters around. She's always busy. She can do anything from making an omelette to painting a picture."

Billie turned her eyes half wistfully toward the plump brown-haired Amy Swinnerton. She felt suddenly very inefficient and worthless.

"I can't do anything," she said, frowning. "I'm ashamed of myself."

"You can run a motor car and keep it in order," answered the new friend. "I never knew another girl who could."

"That's ground into me by experience. But I hate sewing. I'm not a good cook and I can't draw or paint or play the piano. We met a girl this summer who has been brought up in a cabin on the mountain and has never been to school in her life, who knows a lot more than I do."

Billie told what little she knew of the strange history of Phoebe.

"It would make a wonderful story," observed Maggie. "I should like to put it into a book."

"Do you write, too?" asked Billie eagerly.

Maggie blinked her dark, bright eyes.

"When you see my name appear in book reviews and magazines and things, then you'll know I write," she replied.

This conversation occurred the next morning at breakfast. Billie had risen at dawn and repaired the "Comet" and the motor party was soon now to start on its homeward journey.

Richard Hook presently joined his sister and Billie. Sitting cross-legged on the ground at their feet, he munched a bacon sandwich and sipped black coffee from a tin cup. He reminded Billie of one of Shakespeare's wise fools. All he lacked were the cap and bells. His whimsical, humorous eyes were rather far apart; his dark hair, cropped close, stood up straight over his forehead. His nose was distinguished in shape and his flexible mouth turned up at the corners. He talked slowly with a sort of twang like a farmer from the east coast and there was a kind of hidden humor under whatever he said. He had charming old-world manners, and an old-fashioned way of saying "I thank you," or "Permit me, ma'am," or "At your service, ma'am." He was really quite a delightful person, they unanimously decided; and so was his sister and so was her friend.

Billie wondered what Richard Hook's work was; or whether perhaps he was still in college. She wondered a great many things about him, and she felt quite sure that he was not well off. Presently she said:

"It's too bad when we are all just beginning to be friends that we must part so soon. Why can't you turn old Dobbin right about face and come back and see us at Camp Sunrise?"

"Why not, indeed?" answered Richard.

"Do come," urged Billie, never dreaming that in giving this invitation she had been moved by something stronger than her own friendly wish to know more of these nice people, and that destiny itself had a hand in the business.

Richard Hook took a little calendar from his pocket and contemplated it gravely.

"Another month has perished with her moon," he remarked. "We're in August, little sister. Did you realize that? I see no reason why we shouldn't travel toward Sunrise Camp before --  -- "

"Before --  -- " repeated Maggie, and the brother and sister exchanged a swift glance.

"Then you do accept," exclaimed Billie joyfully.

"With the greatest pleasure," answered Richard, "if you think old Dobbin can climb the hill."

"Of course he can," replied Billie.

"But, Richard, do you think we dare?" asked Maggie in a low voice.

Richard's mouth turned up at the corners and his eyes gave a humorous blink.

"We dare anything," he said. "Pray excuse this little aside, Miss Billie. It's only that we are obliged to consider certain complications that arise to vex us at times. I think we can easily arrange to go to Camp Sunrise."

Billie was more certain than ever that money was the complication. But surely that was an inexpensive way of spending one's vacation, provided one owned the van and the horse.

"How much longer does your vacation last, Mr. Hook?" she asked.

"It depends. My boss is a very notionate old party. He might let me go wandering on like this for several weeks longer or he might suddenly decide to send for me, and I should have to go hiking back in the midst of my holiday."

Maggie laughed, and Billie wondered what kind of work this unusual young man did that sent out sudden calls in the very middle of hard-earned vacations.

However, it was arranged that the caravanners should meander back toward Sunrise Camp and in the course of time stop there for a visit.

"They are delightful young people," Miss Campbell said. "I don't know who they are, I'm sure, nor what the young man does, but I find them quite the most charming young people with the exception of my own that I ever met."

"It's rather strange about his work," remarked Dr. Hume. "I don't know what he does now, but he wishes above all things to be a farmer, he informed me. He's always looking for farms as he journeys along the road. That's one of the reasons why he got the van, in order to see the country and decide where he'd like best to locate."

They were not so merry on the journey back as they had been on the trip of the morning before. For one reason those who had slept in open camp had not had off their clothes for twenty-four hours, and all of them felt the crying need of baths after the two dusty journeys. But there was another reason besides these physical ones. They were beginning to feel conscience-stricken about Alberdina. How had she taken their long, unexplained absence? Would she still be singing "Ach, mein lieber Augustine!" when they returned, and would there be a long clothes line bowed under the weight of clean white linen bleaching in the sun ready to be ironed? So restless did they grow under these speculations, that they did not pause for lunch and, urging the "Comet" to the limit of his speed, they reached home a little before noon. Alberdina was there. Thank heavens for that. They could see her plainly as they turned the curve in the road. But her appearance was not promising. Perched on her head was that absurd comedy hat. She was sitting down, quite low, on the iron-bound trunk, in fact, leaning on her large cotton umbrella, as one prepared to depart on a journey.

If you have ever lived in a remote spot with an uncertain maid, you will recall how apologetic you were to her for your own shortcomings.

"Oh, dear, what shall I say to her?" exclaimed Miss Campbell. "She looks as if she were ready to go this minute."

"Why can't we tell her the truth? We simply couldn't help it," said Billie. "She ought not to be angry over something we couldn't control."

"You don't know them, but I'll just brazen it out. I know we're entirely dependent on the creature for the comforts of life, but I won't let her bully me. Well, Alberdina," she called, as the car drew up at the camp door, "have you been lonesome?"

"Lonesome?" repeated Alberdina, not moving from her ridiculous trunk. "I no time haf had for lonesomes. Many peoples to dis house come -- crazy peoples -- men and vimmen, hein? They haf my moneys took already yesterday! Ach, Gott! They haf me tied wid ropes. They have nogged and nogged in the night times. Dos vimmens, I hear the boice already yet. I no lig dees place. I to my home go bag to-day. Dey have robbed dis house. Dey haf made to turn red dos vite clothes."

In dead silence they descended from the motor car and filed into the house to investigate Alberdina's wild, incoherent story.

There were certainly signs of an invasion in the locker rooms, everything tipsy turvy on the floor. Alberdina showed them the ropes that had bound her. With rivers of tears she mentioned her loss of ten dollars.

"And the red clothes?" asked Billie doubtfully.

This had been reserved to the last by the wily-innocent Swiss girl. With cries of sorrow they beheld their underclothing and blouses all tinged a deep pink.

Suddenly Miss Campbell marched up and stood in front of the girl with a very cold steely look in her cerulean eyes.

"Answer me this instant," she said, "and speak the truth. You boiled those clothes with a red silk handkerchief?"

Alberdina broke down and wept copiously.

"I knew not about dos red," she exclaimed.

"But when you saw the clothes were turning red, why didn't you take them off the fire?" asked Billie.

"I did nod see."

"Not see? And why not, pray?" demanded Miss Campbell.

"I was asleeb and when I wog, I was wit rope tied."

"Who cut the rope?" asked Dr. Hume, beginning to doubt the whole story.

"A gentlemans who mag to play music on the zither."

"Phoebe's father!" exclaimed the girls.

They glanced at each other with a wild surmise.

"It couldn't have been --  -- "

"No, no, I'm sure he never would --  -- "

"Hush," said Ben, "here comes Phoebe."

The mountain girl, looking pale and distraught, her hair flying, her face and hands scratched from contact with brambles, rushed into their midst.

"My father," she cried. "He has been lost all night. I have looked and looked and I cannot find him. Oh, if he should be in the marshes --  -- "

She fell on her knees at Billie's feet and broke into sobbing.



Chapter XIII.

Billie And The Doctor.


Several things had to be done before any steps could be taken to find Phoebe's father. First Alberdina must be roundly scolded for her carelessness about the clothes and then placated with a ten dollar bill to compensate her for her loss. There must be lunch prepared for hungry travelers, and Phoebe, herself, must be given food and made to rest. In the meantime they questioned her concerning her father's movements. He had left the cabin with his zither the morning of the day before and had not been seen since, except when he had appeared at the camp and cut Alberdina's bonds.

"Has he ever stayed away before at night?" asked Dr. Hume.

"No, never. When he is not weaving baskets or carving, he is very restless and often is away for hours, but he always comes back before bed time. He never forgets me. That is why I am so uneasy now," she went on, clasping and unclasping her hands in the agony of her uncertainty.

"Phoebe," said the doctor, "what is it that gives you strength to do your day's work, even if it means walking across a mountain in the hot sun carrying a heavy basket?"

Phoebe lowered her eyes and a flush spread over her sunburned face.

"I forgot," she said. "I was so unhappy that I forgot. It has helped me, oh, so many times when we have had no money. Many times we have been snowed in on the mountain without food and it has always come. It saved us from the Lupos. I was lonesome and it brought me friends." She glanced at the girls busily preparing lunch and at Ben and Percy talking in low voices on the porch.

"Don't you think it will help you now?"

"It has left me. I can't find it," replied poor Phoebe. "It is because I am so frightened. It never comes if you are frightened."

"My child," said the good doctor, "you are worn out. You must have lunch and take a good rest. In the meantime we will do everything we can to find your father. Perhaps he has lost his way and is wandering in the woods somewhere."

"No," said Phoebe, shaking her head miserably, "he never loses his way. He knows the trails better than I do myself."

The doctor himself brought Phoebe a tray of lunch. She was ravenously hungry.

"The poor little thing hasn't eaten for hours," he thought, glancing at her covertly, as he returned with a basin of water, a soft towel and Miss Campbell's private bottle of eau de cologne. When she had finished eating, he made her stretch out on the divan while he gave her face and hands and wrists an aromatic bath. Never before had Phoebe been ministered to and waited on. She smiled at the doctor with dumb gratitude.

"When people are hungry and tired and discouraged, they have a pretty hard time holding on to their faith, Phoebe," he said. "Even when they haven't anything to worry about, it's hard enough. You go to sleep now and I promise you we will start on the search for your father at once."

Phoebe raised her eyes gratefully to his. In those clear brown depths she read strength, gentleness and sympathy. She felt she was looking into the face of an angel with a shiny bald head and shaggy red-gray eyebrows.

"I believe God sent you," she said, and in a few moments dropped off into a deep exhausted sleep.

After luncheon or dinner, whatever that meal might be called in camp, Percy got out his motor cycle and proceeded to the Antler's Inn to ask for news of Phoebe's father. Ben took the trail to Indian Head and Billie and Dr. Hume went down to the village in the motor car to drum up a search party or find guides to help them scour the mountains. In neither attempt were they in the least successful.

On the way down the mountain, Billie decided to unburden herself of something that had been on her mind for a long time.

"You have never seen Phoebe's father, have you, Dr. Hume?"

The doctor shook his head.

"Have you ever heard of a case like his? I mean forgetting one's past."

"Oh, yes. I have seen a number of cases. The patient usually loses his memory altogether in time and goes insane."

"But he's not insane, doctor. He's not even going insane. Really and truly, except about always trying to find a physician, his brain is as clear as anybody's."

The doctor smiled. He liked this earnest, enthusiastic girl who was always doing things for other people and modestly disclaiming credit. There was something masculine in her disregard for small things and the largeness of her views.

"A very nice man has instilled her with extremely big ideas about life," he reflected. "She is furthermore a wholesome, healthy young creature with a high order of intelligence and a very warm, tender heart."

So much engaged was he in his diagnosis of Billie's character that he had almost forgotten the subject of the conversation when she spoke up again rather timidly.

"What I'm driving at is this, doctor, and I've been thinking about it for days. Don't you think you could operate on Phoebe's father, put a silver plate on his skull or lift whatever's pressing on his memory bump? Don't you think you could undertake it, doctor? I know you are a famous surgeon. Papa wrote that to me long ago, but I knew it before he told me. I could tell just from seeing and being with you that you were a great man."

The doctor laughed over these artless compliments.

"Are you a mind reader, Miss Billie?"

"But you will undertake it, doctor?" she urged.

"We must first catch our man, my child, and then have a look at him. A good many things would have to be considered: whether he would consent himself; whether he would be able to stand the shock of a serious operation, and whether he may not have some disease an operation wouldn't help; paralysis or softening of the brain."

"At any rate, you will undertake it?" cried Billie joyfully.

"Do you wish it so much?" he asked, watching her face as she guided the car down the steep road.

"I do, I do! Think what it would mean to Phoebe to have this mystery cleared; think what it would mean to him, too!"

"I was thinking of it," answered the doctor gravely. "That's just the point. Suppose Phoebe's father would not thank me for bringing his past back? Suppose, after all, he would be happier in this state than with his memory restored. Do you realize that a man like that, a man of education and refinement, I mean, must have had some very good reason for hiding himself away in these mountains? That he may have been flying from something?"

The enthusiasm died out of Billie's face.

"Oh, Dr. Hume," she began, "I hadn't thought of that. Indeed, I couldn't connect anything of the sort with Phoebe and her father. They are not a bit like that."

"You never can tell. The people who have given way to some wild impulse that will cause them everlasting regret are not always bad people by any means. His reasons for hiding himself and his wife in a cabin in these mountains of course may have been entirely innocent; or he may have hoped to find oblivion and forgetfulness up here out of the world. If I give him back his memory, providing of course I can do it, I may give him the very thing he is running away from."

"Don't you think he has been punished enough and that Phoebe ought to have a chance?" argued Billie.

"Is there anything to prevent Phoebe's having a chance without knowing her father's past?" asked the doctor.

"Nothing, except there would always be that mystery hanging over her. Don't you think it would be very unpleasant not to know who you were or even your father's name?"

"I am a living example to the contrary," said the doctor with a laugh. "My father and mother were really my adopted parents. They took me out of an orphan asylum when I was a little lad about five years old. I remember it vividly. Afterwards they had other children, but they always treated me like a beloved eldest son. I never knew any difference and I never bothered my head about my real parents. Whoever they were, they had died or shuffled me off on an institution. My adopted mother was the finest woman I have ever known and if Hume isn't my real name, it doesn't matter. I shall do everything I can to make it an honored one."

"You are a wonderful man, doctor," exclaimed Billie, quite overcome by this bit of confidence about his past. "It was because you were so fine that they were good to you. Perhaps God picked you out from all the other orphans to have a good home because he saw what fine material there was in you."

"No indeed, my dear young lady," laughed the doctor. "It was just a matter of chance. The little orphans were like the two women sitting in the market place. The one was taken and the other left. If they chose me for anything, it was solely and entirely because I had brown eyes."

"You may say what you please," protested Billie. "They looked deeper than that, I am certain."

"Simply luck, Miss Billie. I have always been lucky. The fellows at college called me 'Lucky Bill.' But to return to the original subject of the discussion: I don't want to disappoint an unselfish, fine young woman like you, -- you see I can pay compliments, too, --  -- " he added, watching the flush of pleasure mount to Billie's face; "I don't want to make any promises about this man I can't carry out, but I promise this much: I will do what I can."

"Thank you a thousand times, Dr. Hume," said Billie gratefully. "I would just like to shake hands with you if I could, but you see I have to guide the 'Comet.' It will be a wonderful thing to give a man back his senses after eighteen years."

"Maybe so; maybe not," answered the doctor as the car turned into the village street.

They stopped in front of the only hostelry in the place, a cheap two-story wooden house with a horse trough in front of it. Here usually could be found several guides for camping trips and driving parties, and here Dr. Hume looked for help in rescuing Phoebe's father.

The owner of the house, a thin sallow-faced man with pale shifting eyes came out to speak to them.

"You ain't meanin' it's old crazy Frenchy you're after?" he asked. "I don't wonder he's lost if it's him."

"That's the man," answered Dr. Hume, "but I don't understand what you mean."

"I guess he's got wind he's suspected of settin' Razor Back Mountain on fire and he's vamoosed. He ought to be shut up anyhow. He's a dangerous character runnin' around the country."

Billie was shocked and angry.

"He is not," she burst out. "I know Mr. -- Mr. French quite well --  -- "

The man broke into a loud rasping laugh.

"Mr. French!" he repeated.

"He's incapable of setting a mountain on fire and he is as gentle and courteous as possible."

There was another laugh. This time it came from within the house and Billie and the doctor recognized the voice of Mr. Lupo.

"You're a friend of Lupo, I see," remarked the doctor looking very hard at the man.

"I guess that's none of your affair," answered the other angrily. "And nothin' agin' him nor me either, for the matter o' that."

The doctor lifted his eyebrows.

"I'd like to hire two or three guides. Are there any about?"

"There ain't no guides connected with this here establishment goin' to go huntin' for crazy Frenchy," announced the man roughly, "if that's what you're wantin' with them. Most of 'em is fightin' the flames anyhow."

The doctor sat silently for a moment looking at the mountaineer, whose eyes shifted uneasily under his steady gaze.

"I would advise you and your friend, Lupo, not to meddle too much in this affair," he said, as the inn keeper with a snarling laugh shuffled back into the house.

Billy turned the automobile and they went slowly down the street.

"If we were in the Kentucky or the Virginia mountains, I should call this a feud," remarked the doctor, "but up here there is something more than a revenge for a quarrel two generations old that creates a situation of this kind. That man has got some ugly reason for withholding his guides. He's a sinister looking wretch, and no man with a shifting pair of eyes can be trusted around the corner."

"But what are we to do?" asked Billie.

"If we can't get guides, -- we'll just go alone," answered Dr. Hume. "I think we'll have to find your Mr. French, Miss Billie, seeing that a lot of cut-throats are trying to keep us from doing it."



Chapter XIV.

Chance News.


Billie and the doctor were indeed in something of a quandary as to what to do about Phoebe's father. It was evident from further inquiry that the tide of general opinion had been turned against Crazy Frenchy; not one soul could be interested in the search for him, not even after an offer of liberal pay.

"He ain't no good anyhow," one man said. "He and his daughter holds themselves above common people even when they don't have enough to keep body and soul together. They lives on property that ain't theirs by rights, and they don't belong in this section of the country. The father's crazy and the neighborhood will be glad to git rid of him."

"An' I'd jes' like to mention," added another man, "the people as takes up for 'em ain't goin' to find it no ways a easy proposition."

Certainly Lupo had enlisted the sympathies of the entire village in his own behalf.

"I told your friend at the hotel a moment ago," said the doctor, "that he and Lupo had better be careful how they meddled in this business. If you don't want to engage yourself to me to find this unfortunate man, you have a perfect right to refuse. It's only a common act of kindness at any rate. But I would warn you that if you and your friends intend to make trouble, you will get into trouble. That's all."

The mountaineer scowled.

"We can prove he set Razor Back on fire," he said. "He was seen in the neighborhood prowling about with a can of oil yesterday morning."

"At what time?" demanded Billie quickly.

"I don't know the exact hour, lady, but it was some time in the forenoon."

"Well," ejaculated Billie angrily, "that shows how much evidence you have to go upon. There's not a word of truth in it and you have no right to spread that wicked report founded on a falsehood. Mr. French was at Sunrise Camp just about that time and he couldn't have got anywhere near Razor Back Mountain in hours. We have a witness to prove what we say."

"It may not have been forenoon, come to think of it," said the man doggedly.

"Nonsense," exclaimed the exasperated Billie, as the "Comet" dashed away with a contemptuous honk-honk, leaving the defeated mountaineer standing in the middle of the road.

Only one person was awake in all the camp when the doctor and Billie returned: Alberdina, busy ironing pink-tinted clothes in the lean-to. Miss Campbell and the girls were napping on the upper porch and Phoebe still slept on a couch in the living room, while Ben and Percy had not returned from their search for news of her father.

"Miss Billie," remarked the doctor, "if you will be kind enough to fix me up a lunch, I think I'll pack my knapsack and start on the road again. I can't say how long I shall be gone, but you mustn't be uneasy if I don't get back for a day or two. The boys will look after you and if you have any real trouble, you had better telegraph your father. If possible, try and keep Phoebe right here. Those men will go no further than threats in regard to us. They know we are too powerful for them, but I couldn't say the same for that poor girl and her father. I suppose jealousy and Lupo's treachery are the motives behind it. The father does better work than any of them can do and the mountaineers resent the difference between them, whatever it is, birth, breeding, education. But we can't judge them by the usual standards, of course. They have never had any chances, these people, shut in by this wall of mountains. There is not much inspiration to be charitable and kind, living in one of these little shanties during the long cold winters. It's a pretty fine nature that doesn't get warped and narrowed by the life."

"Phoebe's didn't," thought Billie, while she sliced bread for the doctor's lunch.

After he had departed with his staff and his telescope and his knapsack, Billie sat down in a steamer chair under the trees and began to think. She lifted her eyes to the wall of mountains now mystical and unreal under their mantle of blue shadow. How could treachery and hatred and jealousy exist where there was so much beauty? It seemed to her that she had only to look about her to be inspired and uplifted; but Billie was too young to realize that it takes more than scenery to furnish that kind of inspiration.

"I am not tired and I am not sleepy," she thought. "Must I sit here all the afternoon waiting for the others to wake?" She glanced at her watch. "Only a quarter to three. Why can't I take a walk? It's against the rules as laid down by papa for women members, but that was only a joke anyhow and I shan't go far."

Billie chose a trail they often took after supper for the reason that it was brought to an early finish by the bed of a creek dry in summer, though probably a brave stream in the spring after the thaws. But it was a pretty walk, tunneled through the forest, carpeted with dried pine needles and bordered on either side by ferns.

Strolling along, Billie thought of many things; of the mountain on the other side of Indian Head on which fires had started and where bands of men were now fighting the flames. That was a dreadful thing to do, to set a forest on fire; a crime against nature as well as against man. She thought of Phoebe's father, perhaps injured, or worse, who could tell? Then with a mental leap she thought of Richard Hook and his sister Maggie; the charm of their personalities; their simplicity; their joy in living. Billie wondered if she could be happy if she were poor, really quite poor. It was rather fun cooking, with Alberdina to clean up after them. It was only for a little while and it was just a sort of game.

"It would be a dog's life to keep up forever," thought Billie, "but Richard and Maggie Hook would never admit it. They make the best of being poor and pretend that living like Gypsies is the most delightful way of spending one's vacation. I think they are just fine. There is Phoebe, too. How well she has got on without anything, education, money, friends. She is wonderful."

Who was Phoebe? Who was her father? Were they not mysterious people? When the veil was lifted at last, Billie felt convinced that it would disclose no ordinary identity. They had the marks of distinguished people in exile. There was a look of family about them both that no ragged attire could disguise.

Toward the end of the trail, Billie saw an old woman hobbling toward her, leaning on a stout stick. She looked remarkably like one of the aged forest trees unexpectedly come to life. A gnarled, brown, weather-beaten old creature she was, who reminded Billie of a dwarfed apple tree she had seen in Japan, a little old bent thing said to have been over two hundred years old. Attached to the woman's waist was a pocket apron bulging with herbs, camomile and catnip, wood sorrel and sassafras root.

"Now, if Mary were here," thought Billie, "she would at once make a story of this: 'The Princess and the Old Witch.' I am sure Mary would call me a princess," she added modestly.

When the young girl and the old witch met, they paused without exactly knowing why. The herb gatherer had a strange, small, yellow face, crossed and re-crossed with wrinkles.

"Good afternoon," said Billie politely, not knowing what else to say.

The old woman waved aside this greeting with her stick.

"You come from Sunrise Camp?" she asked in a voice as cracked as her face was wrinkled.

Billie nodded.

"I bring message. You look for somebody?"

"Yes," replied Billie eagerly.

"You not find him now. Too much enemies."

"Where is he?" she demanded.

No answer came to this question.

"You will not tell me?"

"No tell," answered the old creature.

"Is he ill or hurt?"

The herb gatherer touched her forehead.

"He safe," she answered. "But people not safe who look for him. Too much enemies."

After that not another word could Billie get out of the obstinate old creature.

Who had sent her? Who was looking after Phoebe's father, if he were hurt or a prisoner? Could not Phoebe see him? Nothing would she reply to all these questions.

The old woman waved aside this greeting with her stick. -- Page 212.

"I'm much obliged for that much anyhow," said Billie at last. "You must be tired and hungry. Won't you come back to the camp and let me give you --  -- " she paused to consider. What could an old stunted apple tree like? Somehow it didn't seem as if she could live on real food. "Will you drink a cup of tea?" she added hastily.

The wrinkled face remained inscrutable.

"Or coffee?"

"Coffee?" repeated the old soul, and suddenly without the faintest warning, smiled and Billie smiled back.

"I can make delicious strong coffee," announced the girl proudly. "You will come, won't you?"

"I come," answered the herb-gatherer. "Coffee? I come!"

They walked briskly back to camp, this ill-assorted couple, and it was not long before Billie had established her companion in a chair under the trees and the coffee pot on the kerosene stove, where it was soon sending out a fragrant aroma.

"Don't you get very tired gathering herbs on the mountains?" asked Billie, by way of making conversation.

"When I tired, I rest," answered the other briefly.

Presently Billie brought out a tray with a cup and saucer, sugar and cream and some thin slices of buttered bread. From the upper gallery there came to her the low hum of conversation. The sleepers had awakened and were getting bathed and dressed.

"Do you know Phoebe?" she asked, while she poured the coffee.

The herb-gatherer smacked her lips and sniffed the air expectantly. "I've seen her."

"Don't you feel sorry for her to lose her father? She is very unhappy."

"No sugar," exclaimed the old woman, ignoring the question. "Good!" she exclaimed. "Fine coffee!"

Presently Billie poured out another cup and finally another.

"You like coffee, don't you?" she said.

"This fine coffee."

"We send away for it. The village coffee is not good."

"I never tasted the like before."

"If you will answer me a question," said Billie suddenly, "I will get my father to send you enough of this coffee to last all winter."

The old woman picked up the coffee pot and drained it to the last drop.

"If I tell," she said, warmed and stimulated by the hot drink, "it make lot trouble."

"Trouble for whom?"

"Much trouble for all."

"All I am to say to Phoebe then is that her father is in good hands and she is not to look for him?"

The herb-gatherer nodded.

"How soon will he be coming back?"

She shook her head and seizing her staff, rose to go.

"Are you a friend of the Lupos?"

There was no answer. Billie tried again.

"Did Mrs. Lupo ever go back to her husband?"

"Lupo very angry. She not go back."

"She needn't stay away on our account. My cousin forgave her long ago."

"I go now," announced the old woman, not taking the slightest notice of Billie's remarks.

"I am very much obliged to you for the news of Phoebe's father. Every time you bring us any news, you may have coffee, and if you show us where he is, -- quite secretly, you know, -- you shall have a great deal of coffee and money, too."

"I go now," repeated the strange old creature, pretending not to understand Billie's offer, and she promptly took her leave without another word.

Billie gathered up the tray and the coffee things and carried them into the kitchen.

"It looks like rain, Alberdina. I think we had better eat indoors to-night," she said.

Something, perhaps the east wind charged with wet, had made her feel dispirited and uneasy. She was homesick for her father and she wished that Dr. Hume had not gone away. She almost wished they had never set eyes on Phoebe and her father at all. How complicated life had suddenly become! They were just a party of well-meaning campers taking a summer holiday on the mountainside, meaning no harm to anybody on earth; and having done a little kindness to a poor girl and her half-crazed father, they had obtained the enmity of an entire village. How cruel and ignorant these people were! How warped and uncharitable!

"Have Percy and Ben got back yet?" asked Nancy, appearing at the door of the lean-to in a fresh blue linen dress, her hair all dewy from her bath, her eyes bright and clear from the long rest.

"Heavens, Nancy, you make me feel like a dusty old shoe," exclaimed Billie, realizing for the first time that she was tired and hot and crushed. "No, no one has come and Dr. Hume has gone to look for Phoebe's father." Then she told Nancy of the experiences of the afternoon.

"If the old woman spoke the truth all we have to do is to lie low and say nothing, like Br'er Rabbit," said Nancy.

"Do you know what I intend to do, Nancy," announced Billie, glancing through the open door at Phoebe in the distance on the divan. "Phoebe's awake. You see she's sitting up. I am going to set her fears at rest about her father first. Then I'm going to take her upstairs and after she's bathed, I'll dress her in some of my things. She shall swallow her pride. Cousin Helen shall ask her to visit us until her father is able to come back, and to-morrow I mean to take her down to the village in the 'Comet.' She shall wear my best and only pink linen. Won't she be stunning? I'm glad I took your advice and brought it along now, and we'll just show these people that Phoebe is not a poor ragged mountain girl."

"Take anything of mine you want," said Nancy generously. "Phoebe's taller than I am, but she can wear my 'undies,' I suppose."

"I think I have plenty," replied Billie, "that is, if Alberdina Schoenbachler ever gets through ironing the pink wash."

Phoebe was a good deal cheered by the message of the old herb gatherer.

"Oh, yes, I know her quite well. She likes me. Once when I had a fever she came and nursed me for several days and gave me herb tea."

Phoebe also submitted to being dressed up, after a good deal of persuasion.

"You know we are under a great obligation to you and you must give us a chance to get rid of a little of it," Billie said. "Besides, Dr. Hume said that on no account were you to leave the camp. You wouldn't like to disobey him, would you?"

"No, no," Phoebe answered, and finally permitted herself to be led to the women's quarter of the camp, where for the first time in her life she bathed in a porcelain bath tub, with scented soap and toilet water and sweet smelling talcum powder and violet ammonia and all kinds of women's luxuries at her service on a hand shelf by the tub.

When Billie proudly led Phoebe downstairs that evening, the others, already gathered around the supper table, were filled with amazement. Instead of the ragged, disheveled mountain girl, they saw a beautiful young woman in a white duck skirt and a muslin blouse. Her throat rose like a slender column from the lace yoke of the blouse and her soft hair was rolled into a loose knot on her neck.

"I know now she is a princess," said Mary.

Ben and Percy, returned from their search, had brought no news.



Chapter XV.

A Warning.


The next day Billie had much difficulty in persuading Phoebe to put on the beautiful pink linen.

"It is not right," Phoebe kept saying, although her eyes shone with a new luster when she gazed at the pretty frock. "I am very grateful for what you have done but you must not do too much. I am sure my father would not approve of my accepting so many favors."

"Nonsense," exclaimed Billie. "Can't one girl lend another a few clothes without its being called 'favors'? I shouldn't hesitate to borrow from you, Phoebe, if I were -- well -- in your situation. And it seems to me that this dress would be very becoming to you. It suits your complexion better than mine because it matches your cheeks. I usually wear blue but I was over-persuaded by Nancy-Bell to get pink."

In the end, Phoebe was induced to put on the pink dress. It had been wonderful enough to wear a neatly fitted duck skirt and a lace-trimmed blouse, but in this embroidered linen frock the color of wild roses Phoebe was in a dream.

"Oh," she exclaimed, glancing at her flushed image in the mirror, "I never understood that clothes would make so much difference. I feel like someone else." She looked down at her white canvas pumps, which were, as a matter of fact, a shade too long for her, although she had run barefoot over the mountains. "And my feet look really small."

When Billy placed on her head a white Panama hat trimmed with a broad band of black velvet, Phoebe's eyes filled with tears.

"Am I Phoebe?" she ejaculated. "Phoebe without a name, who lives in a log house? Oh, Miss Campbell --  -- "

"Not Miss Campbell," interrupted Billie. "You must call me Billie. Aren't you my guest and almost the same age? Besides, I never recognize myself with 'Miss' tucked on before my name."

"Billie, then," went on Phoebe, blushing because she had never known a girl before to call by the first name. "Do you think it is right that I should dress up so beautifully when -- when my father is hidden away somewhere?"

"But I feel perfectly sure he is safe," said Billie. "Perhaps someone has told him it would be safer to keep away for a while."

"But why? He has never injured anyone in his life."

"It is all Lupo's doings and that is one reason why we want you to go with us down to the village and show yourself, so that they can see you have a number of very good friends to look after your interests."

The girls all left off their khaki camping clothes and attired themselves in light summer frocks that morning. There was a reason for this unusual "hike" as Percy called it, and it pleased Nancy extremely, who took that opportunity to wear her best blue batiste and her prettiest hat. Billie wore no hat. It annoyed her when she drove the car, she said; but as a matter of fact she had lent her only hat to Phoebe.

From time to time, as the car went down the mountain road, Miss Campbell glanced admiringly at the mountain girl beside Billie in front.

"Dear, dear," she exclaimed in a low voice, "what clothes will do for one. And how well the child wears them. She might have been accustomed to pretty things all her life."

"She puts us all in the shade," whispered Nancy.

If Billie had intended to create a sensation in the village, she succeeded beyond her wildest hopes. At first Phoebe was not recognized, but at the village store where everything was sold from groceries to Indian moccasins, a man loafing at the door exclaimed:

"By golly, that there's Phoebe from up on the mountains!"

Phoebe blushed scarlet and then smiled.

"I suppose it will be a surprise to them," she said.

They waited some time at the general store for purchases and letters, and by the time the "Comet" had borne them slowly onward to the small hotel, the news had spread down the street. At the water trough, they came to a full stop. They had no errands at the hotel, but Billie pretended to examine the "Comet's" interior mechanism with careful interest. Pretty soon, nearly two dozen people had gathered at the trough. The innkeeper himself appeared, pale-eyed and sly; and Lupo made bold to show his face.

"Look at Crazy Frenchy's gal diked out in all them duds," one of the company exclaimed.

"She do look good, crazy or no crazy," remarked a swarthy-faced guide eying Phoebe with admiration.

The young girl seemed entirely unconscious of all the attention she was attracting. She looked straight ahead down the village street and never even glanced at the group of rough men gathered near the car.

"How do we know but she didn't aid and abet Frenchy?" burst out the innkeeper. "How do we know but she didn't help him start them fires on Razor Back? The two is always together, 'ceptin' now when he's a-hidin' and she's put on fine clothes to drive around with her rich friends."

Phoebe turned her startled gaze on the man. Her lips parted.

"Don't answer them," whispered Billie, and with a grand flourish she swept the "Comet" around in a circle and turned his nose up the street.

"Do they accuse my father of setting Razor Back on fire?" asked Phoebe, tremulously.

"They tried to, but they couldn't prove it," answered Billie.

"My father loves the mountains," protested poor Phoebe. "He loves the forests. He wouldn't harm even one tree. How cruel these people are! Always they have hated us and we have never injured any of them. Oh, Billie, I feel that I must go to my father. I know he needs me."

"You remember the doctor's message," answered Billie; "that it would be dangerous for you to leave camp. I am certain he knew what he was saying. Besides, didn't you say the old herb woman was a friend? She would not have deceived you, would she?"

"No," answered Phoebe, half smiling. "Once I pulled a thorn out of old Granny's foot and washed and bound it, and she has been good to me ever since. The time she nursed me, she never left me day or night until I was well."

"So you see," said Billie, "it would be foolish for you to start out to hunt your father when you know old Granny can be depended upon and Dr. Hume, too."

Phoebe was not the only one who felt restless in camp that afternoon. All of them had the sensation of waiting for something. Only Alberdina seemed placidly content. Having been forgiven the pink clothes and having had her stolen money refunded, she went about her work, singing and yodelling in a melodious voice, and for lunch surprised them with a German cinnamon cake she had made during their absence in the village.

"Why, you can cook, Alberdina?" exclaimed Billie, on whom cooking was beginning to pall.

"I can a leedle coog."

"Then you shall cook the dinner," announced Billie firmly, and Alberdina, who had not mentioned cooking in the bond, quailed before her stern gray eye and consented.

The afternoon dragged slowly along. It was very hot and the women members of the camp lay on their cots in kimonos reading and napping. Percy, underneath, snored lustily, and Ben chopped wood and piled up the logs scientifically for a fire that evening.

Alberdina's supper was distinctly German in flavor, but it was good and Billie and Nancy enjoyed freedom from the bondage of cooking the evening meal. After supper the wind freshened and it grew much cooler.

"It's going to be a dark night. There's no moon," remarked Ben, wistfully. "Shall I light the camp fire? And then we can sit around and tell stories and sing songs," and because no one either assented or objected, owing to the peculiar restlessness that possessed them, he put a match to the pile of logs and presently the clearing was illuminated. The camp house stood out in bold relief against the background of the mountains. Little clouds were scurrying across the sky like schools of fish, and an occasional flash of heat lightning lit up the mountains and valley with strange distinctness. Elinor had brought out her guitar and they had just begun one of the old familiar songs, when a ragged boy appeared in their midst so suddenly that he might have sprung up full grown from the earth.

He faced Ben without looking at the others.

"The doctor wants both gem'man to come. I show the way. Quick."

Phoebe sat up very straight and looked at the boy.

"I don't know you," she said. "Who are you?"

"I come from that away," answered the boy, pointing with his thumb toward Indian Head. "The doctor said you would know it was all right by this here," he added, unbuttoning his coat and taking out the doctor's well remembered cane. "An' he don't want none of the ladies to come. Jes' the men."

"But I will go," exclaimed Phoebe. "My father --  -- "

"Is your father Frenchy?"

"Yes," answered the girl, lowering her eyes.

"The doctor says Frenchy's gal was not to be skeered. Frenchy is safe and well."

"Are you sure?" demanded Phoebe.

"So help me," answered the boy, raising his hand to heaven.

"But what does it mean?" broke in Miss Campbell. "I don't like the sound of it at all. Why has the doctor sent for both of you boys? Why should we be left alone? It's not like the doctor at all."

"They ain't got to go no distance much, lady," the boy assured her. "They'll be back inside of fifteen minutes," and being the prince of liars and an actor of precocious ability, he succeeded in persuading them that Ben and Percy must follow him without delay.

The girls were still gathering up the rugs and cushions preparatory to going into the house, when there came another interruption that frightened Miss Campbell so much that she gave a little cry and seized Billie's arm.

"It's only old Granny, the herb-woman," Billie assured her. "What is it, Granny?"

"Phoebe! They gona' tar and feather Phoebe an' her father if they can find him. Go, quick. Lupo an' his men comin' up mountain. Hurry and shut house."

"But I don't want to bring this danger on my friends," exclaimed Phoebe. "I will go with you, Granny."

"No, no, too dangerous," answered the old woman. "Lupo, he see in dark."

"Indeed, you shall not go," broke in Miss Campbell indignantly. "You'll stay right here and they shall not tar and feather you or anybody else. The low wretches!"

"Shut up house, quick," was Granny's last piece of advice as she melted away in the darkness.

Nobody paused to beat down the camp fire or gather up the rugs and cushions. Into the house they scurried and lost no time in drawing the great iron-bound winter doors across the openings into the living room, and bolting them. The doors to the sleeping porches were all carefully closed and locked from the inside. Then they sat down in the immense vaulted room and waited.

Phoebe, sitting apart from the others, seemed very quiet and calm in the face of the danger which threatened her, and Billie knew she was calling on the faith which had never failed her.



Chapter XVI.

The Attack.


They were filled with hot indignation over the situation. They felt sure now that Ben and Percy had been lured away, but they were not uneasy for their safety. Billie had told them what Dr. Hume had said: that the mountaineers would not dare injure any of the campers. But all of them realized that Phoebe might be treated with cruel indignities. Only a few weeks before, Billie had read an account in a newspaper of how a pretty young school teacher had been tarred and feathered by a mob of people who were jealous of her beauty and refinement. If Lupo could persuade the villagers that Phoebe and her father were responsible for the forest fires, Billie felt certain they would have a very unreasonable lot of visitors to deal with that night. She wished with all her heart that someone with an eloquent tongue would appear and address these narrow, stupid men, someone who understood their natures and knew how to deal with them. She believed that violence would only aggravate their rage. Someone would have to talk to them.

The other Motor Maids sat on a divan whispering together, and Miss Campbell, calm as was her wont in the presence of danger, paced up and down the room, examining the bolts of the heavy shutters. Alberdina, with her little iron bound trunk beside her, sat grumbling in a corner.

"Is it for thees I haf gome?" she murmured. "I to New Yorg return to-morrow. They will keel me already yet."

"You are perfectly safe, Alberdina," said Miss Campbell, "and you are not to go back to New York to-morrow. You are to stay with us and see this thing through. I shall telegraph Mr. Campbell in the morning and have the law on these people. I am sick and tired of their savagery and injustice. The cruel wretches! I --  -- "

A long shrill whistle interrupted her outburst. It penetrated the stout walls of their fortress so unexpectedly that it brought them all to their feet with low exclamations.

"There they are," whispered Mary.

Alberdina groaned, "Mein lieber Gott," and sank upon a couch with the expression of a condemned man about to be executed.

It was some moments after the whistle before the enemy made its next advance. That also was unexpected and terrifying, -- loud knocks on the wooden shutters of the large entrance.

Nobody moved or spoke. Again the knocks came and a voice called:

"We want that gal and her father. You ain't got no right to shelter criminals. Open in the name of the law. I reckon a sheriff will make you listen to reason."

"Break the door down, Lupo," said another voice. "The law's in its right to git what it wants. They ain't nobody that kin refuse the law without payin' for it."

Although they were so confident of the law, the girls felt sure the mention of a sheriff was a blind, and that the mountaineers were not going to do anything so incriminating as to break in the doors. Then there followed a period of consultation outside. Footsteps could be heard along the galleries; the stout shutters on all the openings were shaken and pounded upon; but Sunrise Camp was indeed as strong as a fortress when it was closed. Storms had beaten against it in vain, and unless the mob outside resorted to hatchets and saws, it would not be easy to break in.

At last the voice of Lupo spoke from the front gallery.

"Ladies, I'm only askin' justice. You got two dangerous people in this here house. The law wants 'em. We don't mean no harm to you an' we'll leave peaceable if you'll hand over the prisoners. I'm goin' to give you five minutes to decide in an' if you don't open the door, we're goin' to break it open with this here axe."

"You'll do nothing of the sort, Lupo," cried Miss Campbell, her voice ringing with indignation. "And I warn you that unless you wish to serve a long term in the penitentiary, you'd better leave this place at once with your friends. Mr. Campbell would never stop until he saw all of you well punished for this night's work. You've already broken into the house and robbed our maid --  -- "

"Who said I did?" shouted Lupo. "It was Frenchy done that, too. He's a dangerous man to live in a peaceable place. We've been puttin' up with him and his daughter for too long, and we citizens ain't goin' to put up with 'em no longer. They gona' be punished first, and then they gona' give up that there home that ain't theirs by rights and leave this here part of the country forever."

Miss Campbell decided not to reply to Lupo's outburst. It only excited him and it was evident her arguments had no effect.

And now, after what seemed an interminable time, the door resounded with the blows of a woodman's axe.

"Go up into the gallery, Phoebe," ordered Miss Campbell, trembling in spite of her determination not to be frightened.

Phoebe rose and walked to the middle of the room. Her face was transfigured and she looked almost unearthly.

"I am not afraid," she said. "I believe that I will be saved from my enemies. God is sending someone to save me."

But the Motor Maids and Miss Campbell had no such faith to bolster up their faltering courage. During the long, lonely evenings on the mountainside when Phoebe had read aloud to her father from the New Testament, which he seemed to like best, there had grown in her mind a belief as strong as it was simple. There had never been any people to shake her convictions with arguments, nor books to suggest doubts. And now in her soul she had called for help and she believed it would come even at the eleventh hour.

Billie, whose faith in prayer was not unmixed with a desire for action of a very vigorous and immediate variety, seized an old rifle hung from a nail on the wall. She had no idea whether there were any loads in it, but she had made up her mind to use the butt-end on the first man who entered the room. In the meantime, the axe had crashed through one of the thick, hardwood panels, making a slit broad enough to see through.

"I'll shoot any man who comes into this room," called Billie. "Keep out."

An eye was placed at the hole in the door. Billie felt instinctively it was Lupo's.

"That there old rusty gun ain't got no loads in it, Miss. You kin shoot all you like."

There was another pause, and the blows began again. Alberdina gave evidence of wishing to speak, but Miss Campbell interrupted her.

"Never mind, Alberdina," she said impatiently. "You may go up into the gallery if you like. You are quite safe. They only want Miss Phoebe."

But Alberdina would not be silenced. Perhaps somewhere in the remote history of her ancestors there had been a warrior who had ranged the German forests dressed in the skins of wild beasts, his helmet decorated with a pair of fierce upstanding horns. Who knows but a drop of his fighting blood had come down through the generations to stir this sluggish descendant into action just at this particular moment when something had to be done?

"Come," she called, with unexpected energy. "I asg you, come. We will a high wall mag already. You will see. Hein?"

Again the axe crashed through the door and without a word they followed her into the gallery, Billie carrying the rifle and Elinor the breakfast horn. Alberdina hurried into the locker room and presently returned with a trunk hoisted on her shoulders. This she placed at the top of the stairs.

"Good," exclaimed Billie. "Why didn't we think of that before? It will keep them off for a little longer, at any rate."

Alberdina did not listen to these honeyed words of praise, however. She never paused until she had piled three trunks, one on top of the other in a very effective barricade. At the far end of the gallery, Elinor and Mary appeared to be very much occupied at a little window placed in the roof for ventilation, but now closed. Finding the bolt rusty, Elinor took off her slipper and broke a pane of glass. Mary, her lieutenant, then handed her the breakfast horn. It was like Elinor to wipe off the mouth piece carefully with her handkerchief before she placed it to her lips. But the blast she blew must have startled the mountaineers outside, for the blows on the door ceased for a moment. Again and again she signaled, always the same long agitated note.

"I think anybody would recognize that as a call for help," she said, pausing for breath; and while the axe crashed through the door, she continued to blow the bugle with all her strength.

Billie, however, felt fairly certain that a trunk barricade and a bugle blast for help would not keep off the savages long.

"We need some kind of ammunition, Nancy," she said. "If only this rifle was loaded."

"Did you look through the barrel?" asked Nancy, slightly more experienced with firearms than Billie. She seized the rifle and held it up before a lamp that Alberdina had set in a corner of the gallery, cocked it and looked through with one eye professionally squinted.

"Why, it is loaded," she announced. "It only has two empty what do you call them -- chambers?"

"Must I shoot at somebody?" asked Billie.

"You could try and I could try," answered Nancy, "but I don't think either one of us would hit an elephant."

Just then Miss Campbell put out the light. At the same moment the axe made a breach in the door and a man crawled through. Billie lifted the rifle and, taking a long breath, aimed at his foot. The man was looking about him in a bewildered way. It was the innkeeper, second leader of the gang. Billie pulled and pulled, but nothing happened, and in another moment a dozen mountaineers had crawled through the opening. The one lamp cast a small circle of light near the fire-place. The rest of the room was in darkness. In the gallery the anxious watchers were invisible to the band of men, but the watchers themselves could see the outlaws plainly now gathered in a group in the center of the room, rather uneasy after breaking down the door of Sunrise Camp.

"Ladies, I'd advise you to give up the prisoners," called Lupo, addressing the darkness. "We ain't goner touch none of you, but we wants them two furriners right away."

"Git some torches," ordered the innkeeper, who seemed really to be the boldest man in the lot.

Several men disappeared and in a moment returned with pitch torches which cast a lurid, flickering light through the room. It was a weird scene, looking down from the gallery. All of the men wore masks except Lupo and the innkeeper, who were boldly undisguised. They peered about the room. Suddenly Lupo's eye caught a corner of the staircase at the far end.

"They're upstairs. Come on, men," he called.

Billie raised the shotgun to her shoulder.

"I'll shoot the old thing off this time if it flies to pieces," she said, and pulled the trigger with all her might.

"Bang!" went the gun, and down she sat very hard, not knowing where she had aimed. There was a great confusion of voices below and she thought she heard someone cry out with pain.

"Could I have shot anyone?" she asked herself tremulously as she picked herself up from the floor. Her shoulder ached and her finger was bruised, but she put the gun into position again.

"I'll shoot any man who comes up those steps," she called.

The outlaws had gathered under the gallery now, holding their torches high and gazing with some curiosity at the women grouped above them. Miss Campbell stood with her arm around Phoebe's waist. Elinor and Mary were still at the window. Nancy was with Billie, and Alberdina crouched behind the barricade.

Lupo fell back angrily.

"I guess you ain't got but one load in your old shotgun," he called. "Come on, men. We'll make a run for it."

Billie turned the gun straight on him. She felt almost more afraid of the unwieldy thing than she did of the man himself.

"If it jumps again," she thought, "it'll break my shoulder. And it's so undignified to have to sit down every time I shoot it off."

The innkeeper made a leap for the steps and Lupo followed him. Billie ran to the other end of the gallery so as to get a better aim, and pulled at the trigger. The trunks were swaying and Alberdina had rushed from behind them.

"Oh, Nancy, I can't make it go off," Billie sobbed under her breath.

"Give it to me," whispered Nancy, seizing the gun and leveling it with trembling hands at Lupo.

"Look out, Lupo," called a man below, as the barricade went down with a crash.

But Lupo was in no mood to listen to warnings. Bounding over a fallen trunk, he wrenched the gun from Nancy's hand.

At this moment, a man walked into the room and marched straight up to the group of mountaineers.

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," he said in a voice loud enough to be heard by everybody, "is this Sunrise Camp?"



Chapter XVII.

The Force Of Eloquence.


Phoebe gazed at the newcomer as if she were seeing a visitor from heaven. All the women in the gallery experienced enormous sensations of relief and Alberdina smiled down at him broadly.

"Mein lieber Gott, helb has gome already yet," she exclaimed.

They hardly seemed to comprehend in their relief that one man had to deal with a dozen or more.

"Who are you?" demanded Lupo, roughly, coming to the top of the stairs.

"My name is Hook, at your service. May I ask if you are giving a performance of private theatricals? The scene is a good deal like a band of highwaymen attacking a number of helpless women."

"We're in the rights of the law," put in the innkeeper.

"Why wear masks then?" asked Richard Hook.

There was no answer to this pointed question and three of the maskers slunk toward the door.

"We've come here to git two criminals hiding illegally in this here camp," burst out Lupo.

"Have you a warrant for their arrest?"

"We don't need no warrants in these here mountains."

"Oh, yes you do," insisted Richard politely. "Law and order must be respected just as much on the mountains as in the valleys. People who don't respect them soon find out what happens."

Two more men slunk toward the door.

"I think," went on Richard, "that you had better follow your friends out quietly and go to your homes. I am certain most of you have wives who would be glad to see you again after this dangerous little adventure. Jail isn't a pleasant place, you know, especially to people who are in the habit of breathing mountain air."

Only six men remained now of the original number. Even Lupo had been silenced, but at the mention of wives he flared up again.

"They have taken my wife away from me," he cried, shaking his fist at the women in the gallery. "They have given her money to leave me. I ain't so forgivin'."

"Do you want to know the real reason why your wife left you?" said Richard in a tone of such conviction that Lupo was deceived into thinking this perfect stranger knew all about him. "She was afraid of you and your lawless ways. When you have been drinking, as you have to-night, you're a dangerous man. You begin by breaking into private houses. You're disorderly and violent. Men like you end in the penitentiary. You hide yourselves perhaps for a while, but these mountains are difficult to hide in nowadays. You would be caught sooner or later, and do you think you'll get much sympathy with the court after one of these ladies, perhaps, has told the history of to-night's work? Fifteen years would be a short sentence. Your wife is right, I think. You're not a very safe companion."

Lupo looked about him bewildered. Only one of the band remained: the watery-eyed innkeeper.

"I was in the rights of the law," exclaimed Lupo, half-crying as he crept down the gallery steps.

"I am afraid not," said Richard gently. "But you take a little trip to another county and get some good honest work, and you will soon find out how much happier and safer it is to be within the limits of the law. Decidedly more agreeable than being hunted through the mountains by a sheriff with his bloodhounds, sleeping out in the cold, going hungry, slinking around the edges of villages when everybody is asleep for a chance piece of bread. Earning honest money with your wife happy beside you is heaven in comparison, I assure you."

Lupo hung his head until his eyes were hidden by the brim of his felt hat.

"I'm goin'," he said sullenly. "I guess your argyments is too good for the likes of me to try an' answer. I wants my wife back more'n I wants to git even with Frenchy and his gal. They done me a injury once, but I'm willin' to call it square if you are."

"Call it square," said Richard, and the two mountaineers slunk out of the room and disappeared in the night.

And now the ladies of Sunrise Camp and Richard Hook found themselves quite alone in the vast living room. The danger was over and the last and most impious of the outlaws departed. Miss Campbell and her girls standing in a row in the gallery looked down into the whimsical face of their deliverer. Billie recalled that only a little while before she had wished for someone with a persuasive tongue to appear and address the outlaws. Phoebe, too, had believed that God would send a deliverer. Whose prayer had brought the young man to Sunrise Camp in the nick of time? Hers or Phoebe's, Billie wondered. Perhaps it was their combined wishes. She understood little about the psychology of wishes. At any rate, here they all stood, safe and sound, and presently they found themselves laughing at the ludicrous thing that might have turned into a tragedy but for Richard Hook's persuasive tongue.

Already Alberdina was removing the barriers.

"Whose idea was that? Yours, Miss Billie?" asked Richard.

"No, no. We really owe our temporary safety to Alberdina, there. She thought of it herself."

The German girl was well pleased over the fame the one intelligent act of her life had brought her. She smiled broadly at Richard as she cleared the way for the ladies to descend.

"Before we settle down to talk," remarked the young man, "suppose we open the doors and windows and light the lights. This room is fairly close and it would be a good idea to illuminate for the sake of your friends who might happen to be returning. By the way, where are the criminals?"

"Here is one of them," answered Miss Campbell, smiling. "This is our friend, Miss Phoebe -- " she hesitated, "Miss Phoebe French. Does she look like a criminal?"

Phoebe, who all this time had been watching Richard with a sort of rapt expression, was startled out of her dream. She blushed and looked down at the floor. The girls had never seen her so shy.

"This is Mr. Hook, Phoebe," continued Miss Campbell. "I think we ought all to offer him our united thanks for his courage."

"I do thank you, sir, with all my heart," said Phoebe fervently, timidly offering her hand.

Richard stretched out his left hand.

"I -- I ask your pardon for giving you my left hand," he said, and for the first time they noticed that his right arm was hanging limply at his side.

"Oh, Rich -- Oh, Mr. Hook," cried Billie, as red as a beet. "What have I done -- I shot you -- Oh, dear, I am so sorry!"

"Don't you worry, Miss Billie. It's just a coat sleeve wound. The bullet cut through the cloth and scratched my arm. It's lodged there in the wall now, I suppose, as a memento of your nerve."

"Why, boy, your sleeve is soaked in blood," exclaimed Miss Campbell. "And you're as white as a ghost. Sit down here quick. Alberdina, a basin of water. Billie, some bandages. Hurry, all of you. Why are you standing around like a lot of wooden images?"

Phoebe was too inexperienced to join in the general rush for bandages, peroxide of hydrogen, absorbent cotton and witch hazel: all the first-aid-to-the-injured the camp afforded. She stood at the foot of the couch and watched Richard Hook with large innocent eyes. His own eyes, very dark gray, wide apart and extremely intelligent, returned her gaze with a kind of amused admiration.

In the meanwhile, Miss Helen Campbell snipped up his shirt sleeve with a pair of small scissors and Billie, overwhelmed with contrition, stood ready to bathe the wound, which was more bloody than serious.

"I call this pretty nice," remarked Richard, glancing at the circle of anxious faces leaning over him. "It's worth being shot to have so many ministering angels about one; and a Seraph with a flaming sword at the foot of my couch to guard me," he added, glancing again at Phoebe, now holding a lamp high with a perfectly steady arm, so that the others could see to work.

Having washed and bound the wound, they propped his head on two pillows and drew their chairs about the couch. Never was a young man so coddled before.

"You haven't explained to us yet, Mr. Hook, how you happened to drop down from the skies," said Miss Campbell.

"I dropped up and not down, on the contrary, Miss Campbell. The van isn't so very far away. The girls wanted to put up for the night at the foot of the mountain, but I was stubborn for once and we worked old Dobbin until his limbs refused to go any farther. After they had got settled for the night, I thought I'd take a stroll. I supposed you would all have gone to bed but I had a feeling I'd like to see Sunrise Camp by starlight. I wouldn't have found it, however, if I had not heard the calls for help on the bugle. There wasn't a light to be seen from the road."

Elinor felt a secret pride at this statement. It was she, then, who had brought the rescuer! Billie felt sure it was her own strong wish that had drawn Richard to them in their great need, while Phoebe, filled with the conviction of her faith, believed he had been sent in answer to her fervent prayers.

If Richard had been consulted about this and had spoken the truth from his heart, could he have explained the irresistible impulse that had urged him to climb the steep road up the mountain on that dark night?

At this juncture, Ben and Percy, more dead than alive from running, almost fell into the room.

"Great Caesar's ghost," Percy ejaculated in a weak voice, "but we have had a fright about you, and here you are giving an evening reception!"

"Nothing has happened, then?" Ben managed to gasp.

"That little arch fiend led us into a jungle and lost us," went on Percy. "We heard the bugle calls for help. Gee! But we have had a run."

"And you're all right? You're safe?" cried Ben, counting them over. "And Mr. Hook has been protecting you? Thank heavens for that."

"My dear young man," observed Miss Campbell with some irritation, "will you please to turn around and look at that front door or slide or whatever you call the thing? I wish you to know that we have had one of the most exciting evenings of our lives. This house was attacked and broken into by a dozen ruffians and if it hadn't been for Alberdina, there, who has the mind of a general and knew exactly how to build a barricade with trunks, Phoebe would certainly have been tarred and feathered, even before Mr. Hook came to our rescue --  -- "

"He heard my bugle," announced Elinor.

"I wished for him," thought Billie.

"I prayed for him," said Phoebe in a low voice.

"If Richard Hook had not appeared and permitted himself to be shot by Billie without uttering a sound --  -- "

"Oh, I let out a yell," broke in Richard.

"We would have all been murdered, like enough."

"But where are your sister and Miss Swinnerton?" asked Ben.

"I suppose I had better be getting back to them," said Richard, who had quite forgotten that he had left two unprotected maidens asleep in a traveling van on a ledge half a mile below.

Percy and Ben offered to go back for him, but he would not consent, and Billie, solicitous and full of contrition for her reckless shooting, had the "Comet" out in a jiffy although Richard had asked to be allowed to walk. They found the van dark and quiet. Evidently the girls had heard nothing of the rumpus on the mountain and had felt no uneasiness about Richard, who was accustomed to taking strolls at untimely hours.

It did not take long to bring the motor car back to camp and before midnight a peaceful calm had settled over the log hut.

Phoebe, stretched on her cot in the living room, lay staring up into the darkness of the unceiled roof. She tried to think of her father somewhere out on the mountain, but always her thoughts reverted to the new young man with the kind, smiling eyes. Once she chanted in a low voice:

"'How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings!'"



Chapter XVIII.

The Morning After.


Miss Campbell felt no ill effects from the visit of the mountaineers. She had not even thought of ill effects, in fact. Somehow, the presence of Phoebe, unruffled and calm through all the danger, had had its influence on all of them. Even Alberdina's emotions had been hushed by contact with that peaceful nature.

It was well past six o'clock before the exhausted household awakened next morning at Percy's trumpet call. Hurrying down before the others, Billie was amazed to see the traveling van drawn up in a clearing at the edge of the grove. Old Dobbin, tethered to a rope, stood nearby peaceably munching his breakfast from a wooden pail. Amy Swinnerton was seated in front of an easel sketching the log cabin and from inside of the van came the crisp voice of Maggie Hook, singing:

"'I loved a lass, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen; She was indeed a rare one, Another Sheba Queen: But, fool as then I was, I thought she loved me, too: But, now alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo!'"

"Good morning!" cried Billie, running over to the van. "You must have muffled old Dobbin's feet to have crept in so quietly. How is Ri -- Mr. Hook?" she added, all in one breath.

Maggie popped her head out of the front of the van. She reminded Billie of a little bird peeping from a bird house.

"Not 'Mister,'" she called, smiling brightly. "Remember, Billie, that we brothers and sisters of the road never use titles."

"Oh, yes, I mustn't forget that I'm one of the fraternity," answered Billie, smiling.

"' -- Gypsy blood to the Gypsy blood Ever the wide world over,'"

called Maggie, with much animation, from the top step of the van.

"You'll have to know her better to understand her dual nature, Billie," observed Amy Swinnerton, glancing up from her easel. "After she's been a good housewife and got things shipshape and free from the dust of the road she loves so much, she's ready to turn Gypsy and muss them all up again."

"I never mussed anything up in my life," broke in Maggie. "I only clean up other people's musses."

"But how is your brother Richard?" persisted Billie. "You see I feel some natural anxiety because I was the one who shot him last night. Has the wound been dressed?"

"Shot him?" repeated the other girls.

"That was why he made me drive old Dobbin this morning," said Amy.

"And to think he never told," broke in Maggie, "and he's gone off now, goodness only knows where."

"And he didn't tell you about the attack and how he saved us?" demanded Billie.

"Not a word."

Billie gave them an account of what had happened the evening before. It was exciting enough to tell about and the girls listened breathlessly. Richard's courage and tact with the outlaws when all the time his sleeve was soaked with blood from the wound in his arm, fired her with unusual eloquence.

"I don't think they intended to harm any of us," she finished. "It was Phoebe they wanted, and her father, who is hiding somewhere on the mountain. But we shall be thankful to him all our lives for what he did. Why didn't he tell you?"

"It's too like him," said Maggie. "I don't know whether it's modesty or indifference, but he never, never tells stories where he figures as a hero."

"Do you wish us to stop here now after so much excitement?" Amy asked. "I don't think it's any time for outsiders to intrude in spite of Maggie's rhymes about Gypsy blood and brothers of the road."

"Indeed, we wouldn't think of letting you go," cried Billie hospitably. "You are not strangers to us, I assure you, after all your kindness. But I do wish I could find your brother. The place on his arm bled a lot last night. I am certain a wound like that should be washed and dressed every few hours. Do you think he could have gone very far away?"

"Oh, dear," exclaimed Maggie. "Richard is incorrigible. He does make me so uneasy sometimes."

"There is nothing to do but wait patiently until the spirit moves him to come back," put in Amy calmly. "He is so strong and well that perhaps his wounds don't have to be dressed as often as other people's. There seems to be a special Providence that looks after him anyhow. It would be foolish to worry."

Nevertheless, Billie did worry considerably in her heart, and even Phoebe, who presently joined them and was introduced to the girls, looked startled and uneasy when she heard that Richard Hook, her deliverer, had gone away without having his wound dressed.

The caravanners were greatly interested in seeing Phoebe, whose history they had heard.

"She is very beautiful," Amy observed, "but she doesn't look human, somehow. She has the expression of a person who sees visions, air pictures invisible to other people."

"She is very religious," Billie replied. "Not like the religious people we know, but -- well like people in the time of Christ might have been. You see she got it all herself without any outside teaching. She just learned it out of the New Testament mostly, and she practices it all the time. It's part of her life. Sometimes, I think it would be a pity to interfere with it."

"How can you interfere with it, Billie?" asked Nancy.

"By taking her back to wicked West Haven with all its temptations," laughed Billie.

"But shall you?" they asked in a chorus.

"We can't leave her in this wild place."

"And her father?" put in Mary.

"You'll have to ask Dr. Hume about that," answered Billie, and not another word would she say on the subject.

That morning the "Comet" conveyed a load of young people down to the village. Miss Campbell ordered a telegram to be sent to her cousin, demanding his immediate presence at the camp. Also a carpenter was secured to build a new door for the living room. This time the village street was singularly empty. No faces peeped from the half opened doors and no crowd gathered at the town pump. The rickety old wooden hotel was closed and the blinds drawn at every window. Evidently Richard Hook had frightened Lupo and the innkeeper very effectually.

"I don't think they will ever trouble us again, Phoebe," Billie remarked as they circled the pump and started home.

"They are sorry," said Phoebe compassionately. "They are like children, and Mr. Hook understood that when he spoke to them as children. He is very wonderful and very good."

"He is indeed," agreed Billie. "He is a very remarkable young man."

Phoebe seemed about to speak again, but kept silent. It was difficult for her to carry on a conversation.

"I love him," she said at last, so simply and innocently that Billie smiled in spite of the earnestness of Phoebe's expression.

"You love everyone, do you not, Phoebe? It is what you have learned by yourself up here in the mountain."

"I cannot do that," answered Phoebe. "I have tried but I cannot. But I love Mr. Hook. May God protect him always and reward him for his kindness."

Billie looked away abashed. She had never heard anyone speak like that before outside of a church. She, too, hoped that God would protect Richard, but she would not have said it for worlds. She hoped also that Richard would be waiting for them at Sunrise Camp when they returned. He was not there, however. Miss Campbell, with Nancy and Percy, had looked for him in vain.

"No, he has not come back," said the little lady. "And neither has Dr. Hume. Where is that foolish man? He shouldn't have left us without news all this time."

"Richard should remember that he is a guest and not an independent traveler," exclaimed Maggie Hook. "I don't think he has any right to go off and stay like this."

"Now, Maggie, you are worrying and it's very foolish," put in practical Amy Swinnerton. "You know perfectly well he'll be back by nightfall."

Nobody felt quite in the humor to do anything. The day was exceedingly hot and the sun on its downward course in the heavens was like a red ball. Most of the party scattered for naps and letter writing and did not meet again until sunset.

That afternoon as they gathered around the supper table, Alberdina brought a note to Miss Campbell, written in a strange, old-fashioned handwriting on a scrap of paper. It read:

"Do not be uneasy. I have gone in search of Mr. Hook. Phoebe."

Miss Campbell groaned as she read the message aloud.

"Really, Billie," she exclaimed reproachfully, "you and your father between you induced me to come to this place for peace and rest --  -- "

Billie's eyes filled with tears.

"Never mind, child," added the distracted lady. "It's not your fault."

"It all came about," remarked Mary, who was fond of tracing things to their beginnings, "because Billie bought a pail of blackberries from Phoebe one morning and Mrs. Lupo was angry."

This might be considered an interesting and perfectly true statement, but nobody heard it, because they were busy organizing a search party. A few moments later Billie and Ben went down to the village in the motor car for guides, and this time guides were forthcoming.



Chapter XIX.

The Mills Of God.


It was not often that Billie lost a night's rest from anxiety, but that night her eyes refused to close and she lay staring into the darkness, straining her ears for sounds in the forest. Even Richard's sister, Maggie, was not so abjectly miserable as Billie. She tried to explain to herself that it was all because she had been the one to shoot the young man in the arm.

"I'd much rather have shot that horrid Lupo," she sobbed under her breath. "Suppose I've killed Richard? The wound may be much worse than we thought it was." She wiped her eyes on the sheet and lay very still listening. Away off on the mountain somewhere a dog began to howl. The weird sound made her shiver and hide her face in the pillow.

"Oh, God protect him," she whispered, and then blushed furiously. "I suppose I have a perfect right to pray for a friend?" she thought in reply to some unspoken thought.

Besides the anxiety she felt, all sorts of new and unusual sensations were disturbing her peace of mind that wakeful night. She experienced a kind of irritation against Phoebe, which she could not explain to herself.

"He'll think she's lots braver than I am," she thought, naming no names, "because I wouldn't dare go out in the woods alone at night to hunt for him. She is braver and better than I am. She is wonderful and -- and so beautiful. I -- I wish my hair wasn't so straight," she added to the pillow into which she had poured these girlish secrets.

At last when the first gray streaks of dawn appeared, Billie rose and, quietly dressing, crept downstairs.

"How silly I have been," she was admonishing herself, irritably, when she saw Phoebe run around the side of the house and stand looking up at the sleeping porch.

Billie dashed across the clearing.

"Phoebe, have you found him? Is he all right?" she demanded, grasping the girl's shoulders and shaking her in her impatience.

"Yes. I found him and took him to my home," answered Phoebe proudly. "He was lost in the marsh just as you were. His arm was bleeding and he was very weak."

"He is very ill?"

"No, no. It was from losing so much blood, they said."

"They?"

"Old Granny and Dr. Hume. My father is there, too." Phoebe clasped her hands. "Oh, God is good to me," she cried. "That I should find my father and Mr. Hook on the same day."

Billie felt strangely irritated, and then reproachful of herself.

"And your father, Phoebe," she asked kindly. "What happened to him?"

"On the day he came to the camp, he said, the language of the German girl stirred up something in his mind. After he went away he must have been very confused and he only remembers walking for a long time and then falling. You would not guess who found and has cared for him all this time? Old Granny and Mrs. Lupo. They brought him to Granny's cabin, where Mrs. Lupo has been hiding. Then the doctor came, and they got a wagon and moved him down the mountain to our home. That was yesterday."

"I am so glad," said Billie, endeavoring to be sympathetic, but feeling really much more relieved over the safety of Richard Hook.

"The doctor has sent you some written messages," went on Phoebe, giving Billie a little note book. "They are inside."

*    *    *    *    *

"My dear Miss Billie," the note read, "not long ago you asked me to restore the sleeping memory of our friend and I told you it was sometimes best to let sleeping memories lie. Since that time I have become deeply interested in the personality of Phoebe's father. He is a gentleman, undoubtedly, in birth and breeding. He is perfectly aware that he has lost his memory and has discussed the mystery of his identity with me so intelligently that I may say I feel it my duty to do what I can. Even his illusion regarding the physician is more in the nature of a deep and lasting impression evidently made just before he took the plunge into forgetfulness. I have mentioned that to him, too. He has never talked to people before on these subjects because there has never been anyone to talk to, but I have suggested the operation and he is keen to have it done. I must confess I am filled with curiosity about him. Who knows what distinguished niche he may have occupied once somewhere? I may be restoring -- well, never mind. There is no use making guesses now. In spite of his broken leg, he is in good physical condition and I am going to have the thing over with. I am therefore asking you to send the telegrams you will find further over, to two young surgeons I know who will be interested enough in the case to put up with the inconvenience of the place. I would not risk exciting this mysterious person by moving him to a hospital. Mrs. Lupo appears anxious to make amends and will remain to cook and help generally. I think you had better bring over the 'Comet' to take back your friend, Mr. R. Hook, who seems strangely eager to return, although I have done my best to entertain him. I wonder if it could be a princess disguised as a beggar girl or a princess undisguised, who has so stirred young Richard's soul. I need not say which princess has stirred mine.

"Faithfully, William Hume."

*    *    *    *    *

Now, what did the doctor mean by all this nonsense, Billie asked herself. It was true that Phoebe, when she had gone in search of Richard had put on her old faded gingham, and certainly Richard owed a great deal to the beggar maid in disguise, but she -- Billie -- did wish the doctor wouldn't tease.

Billie blessed the "Comet" that morning from the bottom of her heart. It was a busy time and the swift, faithful machine enabled them to accomplish in a few hours what with a horse and wagon might have taken them at least a day to do. After breakfast he carried them down to the village, where Dr. Hume's telegrams were sent, and where something happened that set Billie wondering about the identity of Phoebe and her father.

While Ben sent the telegrams and Maggie Hook and Mary looked over the souvenir post cards in the general store, Billie sat on the steps outside reading a letter from her father. Only Phoebe, once more attired in the white blouse and duck skirt, remained in the car. A big touring car containing two men and a chauffeur drew up alongside the "Comet," and while one of the men went into the store, the other paced up and down outside. He was a man about Mr. Campbell's age, tall and foreign looking with a soldierly bearing. Billie glanced at him only once and went on reading her letter. Presently she noticed that he was standing in front of her, his hat in his hand.

"Will you pardon me if I interrupt you?" he asked in good English with an accent. "May I take the liberty of asking you a question?"

"Oh, certainly," answered Billie politely.

"May I inquire the name of the young lady in the motor car, if it is not too great an impertinence? I ask not from curiosity, but because I perceive a strong likeness."

"Her name is 'Phoebe,'" Billie answered.

"And her surname?"

Billie hesitated. After all it was absurd to assert that Phoebe's last name was "French."

"You do not know her last name?"

"Well, -- you see -- she hasn't any," Billie stammered. "She -- her father has forgotten who he was."

"So?" ejaculated the stranger. "And they live?"

"They live on Indian Head Mountain in a little cabin."

"Will you pardon me if again I seem inquisitive? The young lady -- you say she lives in what you call a cabeen and yet she seems not to be poor -- that is, in appearance, I mean."

Billie flushed again. It did seem very much like gossiping to answer all these questions, but this stranger was commanding, -- rather elegant in his manner.

"The young lady has friends, perhaps? People who have helped her?"

"Yes, that is it," said Billie.

"Another question and I shall not trouble you further. Where is this -- er -- cabeen?"

"It is on a ledge over 'Table Top' on 'Indian Head Mountain,'" answered Billie promptly, having good reason to remember that location. "Take the road to the right at the end of this street and it takes you straight there. It's called 'Indian Head Road.'"

The stranger took a notebook and pencil from his pocket and wrote down the names. When he closed the book, Billie saw that it was of Russian leather with a coat of arms in dull gilt embossed on the back. The pencil fitted into a flat gold case on which also was the coat of arms. She glanced quickly at Phoebe and her heart gave a leap. It was not difficult to connect coats of arms and grand things with Phoebe. Billie could easily picture her in the midst of fine surroundings.

"She is a princess," she thought wistfully. "And beautiful and good."

The stranger also was watching Phoebe. His face worked with emotion and he said something in German in a low voice.

"And her father?" he asked suddenly. "Where is he?"

"At the cabin," answered Billie.

"You are indeed very kind," and the stranger, making a low foreign bow, joined his companion in the touring car and in two minutes the great machine was lost in the distance.

Billie's mind was filled with conjectures on the journey to Phoebe's home a little later. When they left the car to climb the path to the cabin, she lingered behind the others, thinking deeply, although she had seen Richard from below standing on the very edge of a rocky shelf scanning the road with the doctor's telescope.

With a shy obstinacy new to her candid nature she pretended not to notice him or to mind that Phoebe with ingenuous joy had run ahead to speak to him first.

"I've been waiting for you a long time, Miss Billie," he exclaimed, having left the others and run down the path to meet her.

"We had to go to the village first," answered Billie.

"No, no. I mean it has seemed an infernal long time since the 'Comet' pulled up down there in the road and you lagged behind."

"Not ten minutes."

"I guess it would have seemed long to you if you had been sitting here since eight A. M. watching every vehicle that passed. Not long ago a big black car stopped down there and I was pretty sure it had come to fetch me."

He gave her one of his ingratiating smiles.

"Who was it?" asked Billie.

"I don't know. They saw the doctor for a minute and then went on. But I don't want to talk about them. Why didn't you hurry?"

"I always heard that sick men were children," laughed Billie, "and I can see that you are quite ill because you are such a child. We shall take you home now and feed you up on cream and eggs, providing we can get any."

Billie was glad to see Dr. Hume again. They clasped hands like old comrades. There was a peculiar radiance in his brown eyes as he looked at her.

"You've had a great honor paid you, Miss Billie," he said.

"What in the world?"

"The gods have chosen you to turn their mills a while and you are turning them pretty fast, I can tell you."



Chapter XX.

A Long Sleep.


The song of the "Comet's" motor broke the stillness of the afternoon some ten days later as he cheerfully pushed upward on the Indian Head road. Mr. Campbell was at the wheel and beside him sat Billie, glancing up at him from time to time with eyes full of loving devotion. On the back seat was Phoebe, silently contented beside Richard Hook, and the other occupant was Alberdina Schoenbachler, that absurd little hat perched atop her big smiling face.

There had been many days of anxiety and suspense for the people at Sunrise Camp. It was impossible not to feel deeply interested in the strange things that were transpiring in the little cabin on Indian Head. The two young surgeons had arrived; a tent had been pitched alongside the cabin, and one morning early the operation was performed. Since that time the patient had lain in a stupor. And now Dr. Hume had sent Mrs. Lupo, tamed and domestic, to take Alberdina's place at the camp, and Alberdina was to come at once to the cabin. Mrs. Lupo could give no reason; that was all the message stated, except that the patient was doing well.

The doctor went down the path to meet them, when the car stopped under the brow of the hill. He shook hands with Richard Hook, patted Phoebe on the cheek, and said:

"Hang on to your faith, little girl. It's a wonderful reservoir to draw on."

Then he grasped hands with Mr. Campbell, whom he had met several times now and liked immensely, nodded to Alberdina, and drawing Billie's arm through his, marched on ahead.

"Anybody might think my little girl was a consulting physician," remarked Mr. Campbell, amused at the earnest conversation the young girl and the great surgeon had plunged into, -- and proud, too, that it should be so.

"Oh, they have lots of secrets from us, Mr. Campbell," replied Richard Hook. "Miss Billie is confidential adviser to the doctor. I don't believe he takes a step without consulting her first."

"Wise man," answered Billie's father. "He'll get some good sound advice, if not entirely professional."

In the meantime, Billie was saying:

"Oh, doctor, what has happened? Is he conscious? Has he spoken? Does he recognize anyone?"

"How could he, child, when there is no one for him to recognize? Recollect that in coming to, the man has taken up the thread of his life of eighteen or twenty years ago. I would not trust him to see Phoebe at this point. Only the faces of strangers are safe for him for the time being."

"And the stranger never came back who inquired about him that day?"

"No. I told him two weeks would be safer. There is no doubt the man was a personage of some sort. His companion said, 'Yes, Excellency,' as they went down the path. I suppose he's got some kind of a title."

"Did he seem excited?" asked Billie.

"I could hardly say excited. He appeared a good deal moved by the story of Phoebe and her father. He asked me if any money was needed."

"Of course you said 'no'?" observed Billie.

"I did. It's my turn now. His turn may come later. I explained to him that any excitement or sudden recognition immediately after the operation might prove fatal or disastrous, and he took himself off. But I consider that Phoebe's father is practically identified."

"Is he conscious?" asked Billie with subdued excitement.

"Not only conscious, but, my dear child, what do you think? Speaking German; not English."

Billie gasped.

"That's why you wanted Alberdina."

"Yes, I needed someone who could speak with him, and a servant would be excellent; better, really, than an educated German. Just now the man's mind is in terrible confusion. He is back in another country somewhere, but he is holding his own, and if he can get over the shock which must come when he links his past with his present, I believe we need have no fear for his reason; but it will be a pretty ticklish moment."

The doctor looked down into Billie's eager, earnest face, and his eyes were filled with admiration.

"Oh, doctor," she exclaimed, "you are so wonderful. Next to Papa, the most wonderful man I have ever met. Richard and I --  -- "

"What!" interrupted the doctor, smiling, "do you mean to say that that young whipper snapper, with his Gypsy notions and his clever tongue, has already photographed himself on your mind? I should never have bathed and bound his wounds if I had guessed it."

"You know you would," laughed Billie, blushing a little. "But he's only a comrade."

The doctor looked into her eyes again.

"That's what they all should be, Miss Billie," he said. "Comrades. And if I were only fifteen years younger, I should be looking for just such a comrade as you."

"But I am your comrade," protested the young girl. "Just as much as Richard's. I'm proud to be. It's the greatest honor that's ever been paid to me."

"Oh, to be young again," sighed the doctor with a humorous lift to his eyebrows. "Oh, to be young, like young Richard, there. But I must remember that I am a very busy middle-aged person with an extremely interesting patient to pull through. I trust he'll thank me for the job."

"Don't you honestly believe he is some distinguished person?"

"I couldn't say, little comrade, but I could guess that he's no ordinary one."

They had reached the cabin now. The others had come up, and they all stood outside talking in low voices. After a brief word with Alberdina, Dr. Hume conducted her into the little room where the Motor Maids and their friends had once found refuge. From the doorway, Billie could see the silver candlesticks on the mantel shelf. Mrs. Lupo had kept them brightly polished and they lent a strange charm and refinement to the bare apartment. Phoebe crept in and knelt outside her father's door.

"Now, Alberdina," said the doctor as a last caution, "you understand that you are not to speak unless the gentleman inside asks you a question in German. Answer him in three words if you can. Then come out quietly. If he calls, you may go back."

Alberdina laid aside her comedy hat and followed the doctor into the sick room. The others gathered noiselessly outside the window and listened. There was a long silence. Then the man on the bed spoke in a low, weak voice. It was only a mumble of sounds to Billie and Richard, but Mr. Campbell understood German and listened intently.

Alberdina replied not in three words but in a long voluble speech.

They held their breath.

"Come out," called the doctor softly.

The sick man had begun to speak again. He seemed to be giving orders.

At the door Phoebe was weeping softly. Her father, restored to himself, was a stranger who spoke in a foreign tongue. Billie was fairly shaking with excitement.

"Do you suppose he's forgotten English?" she whispered to Richard, who made the most absurd reply that had nothing whatever to do with Phoebe's father and lost memories.

"I think the doctor had better take you in hand," said Billie.

"I have an incurable disease," answered the young man, not in the least ashamed.

Mr. Campbell had joined the doctor and Alberdina at the other end of the house where their voices could not be heard in the sick room. The young surgeons were also in the group. When Billie and Richard came up, the German girl was saying:

"I cannot from the German English mag. He is a German already yet?"

"Of course," answered the doctor impatiently, "but what did he ask you?"

Alberdina broke into German.

"No, no. In English."

"He very sig yet ees --  -- "

The doctor gave poor Alberdina a withering glance.

"I think I can tell you most of the conversation, Doctor," put in Mr. Campbell. "The patient asked Alberdina if she were one of the maids at the palace. She answered at great length that she was laundress at Sunrise Camp. 'This was not a palace,' she explained, 'but a hut.'

"'I have been in an accident?'" the sick man asked, as Mr. Campbell translated it.

"When Alberdina acquiesced, he told her to call Franz or Karl.

"Seeing her shake her head, he said:

"'The Baron von Metz is here?'

"'No,' answered Alberdina.

"'None of the household?'"

Then he gave her orders to telegraph the Baron von Metz at an address in Dresden and sign it A. J. Mr. Campbell had failed to catch the telegram, although he distinctly heard the second telegram to a "Miss Phoebe Jones," at an address in England. It said she was not to worry. He had been detained by illness. Twice he made the blundering maid repeat the telegram, and finally exhausted with the mental effort, dropped into unconsciousness.

Was it not strange and terrible to take up the thread of one's life where it had been so ruthlessly snapped off some two decades ago?

Richard and Billie, seated on a rock out of hearing distance of the cabin, discussed the anomaly together.

"It's like Rip Van Winkle," Billie observed, "only worse because there have been so many inventions."

"Yes, there are motor cars, for instance. They were only on trial then; and flying machines."

"And hobble skirts," added Billie with an inward laugh, remembering Nancy's.

"It's very interesting," said Richard, "a good deal like missing the middle act of a drama."

"Don't you imagine that Phoebe's father belonged to a noble family? Perhaps he was a younger son, and fell in love with a pretty English girl named Phoebe Jones. They eloped to America and hid themselves in the mountains, and the old Archduke or Prince or Baron who was the father perhaps gave it out that his son was insane. They always do that, you know."

"Very romantic," said Richard, "but why has he been speaking only English all these years?"

"Don't ask me anything so scientific, please."

"It would go hard with me," pursued Richard, "if I got a blow on the head over my English-language bump, because I wouldn't have any other to take its place."

Having arranged the history of the sick man to their own satisfaction, and as a matter of fact, to the doctor's and Mr. Campbell's also, they returned to Sunrise Camp, leaving Alberdina and Phoebe behind them.

Poor Phoebe had watched Billie and Richard together from the doorstep of the cabin. Then she had folded her hands with a gesture of resignation and closed her eyes. Something had hurt her. She still felt the pain and not all her faith nor prayers could ease it.

That night the campers gathered around the fire and discussed the mystery of the "Prince in Exile," as they had named Phoebe's father. They told stories of similar cases, of men with double identities who had been lost for years, of men who had made new lives for themselves and even earned fortunes.

"I knew he was a prince the first time I saw him," Mary exclaimed.

"And now Phoebe will be a princess and perhaps very rich," observed Elinor.

"Think of stepping from a cabin to a palace," went on Amy Swinnerton. "From being a barefooted girl selling blackberries on the mountain to being a noble lady with a retinue of servants."

And so they all talked and discussed and enjoyed themselves immensely until a motor horn interrupted them. A car had evidently stopped in front and someone now hurried over to the group around the fire.

"Well, children," called Dr. Hume, "I daresay you'll be interested in the news I am bringing you."

"Wasn't I right?" cried Billie.

"He was a prince?"

"Or a duke, perhaps?"

"Even a baron is pretty good."

There was a long pause.

"You are wonderful guessers," said the doctor. "He lived in a palace."

"I knew it," cried Mary.

"Would it disappoint you very much if I were to tell you that the gentleman without a memory who lived in a palace was not a prince, nor a duke, nor a baron, but at one time a clergyman?"

"Oh!" they exclaimed in varying tones of surprise and disappointment.

"Then how the palace?" asked Maggie Hook.

"The Rev. Archibald Jones, a highly educated English gentleman of no means to speak of, was tutor in a noble family in Germany."

"But his wife? She was a princess?" cried Mary, almost weeping.

"Every woman is a princess, my dear young lady," replied the gallant doctor.

"But a real one, Doctor? One who lived in a palace?"

"She lived in the palace, yes. She was attached to the household as English governess. The tutor and the governess met, as well they might even in a grand castle, and being in the same boat as regards teaching and birth, they fell in love. The lady was very beautiful, I understand."

"And then?" demanded the chorus.

"Then they came to America where the field was larger even than in a palace with the noblesse. The young wife fell sick and the young husband, having saved a bit of money, brought her up into the mountains. The night Phoebe was born he tried to take a short cut down the mountainside to get a doctor who was stopping at a hotel now in ruins --  -- "

Percy bowed his head.

"I recognize the spot," he said.

"And the young tutor husband not of the nobility fell and hit his head against a rock. He was brought back insensible by an old Indian grandfather of Mrs. Lupo. The beautiful young wife only lived a few days, and when the father was better and the baby stronger the Indian took them and their belongings across the valley to Indian Head, where they have lived ever since."

"Poor things," exclaimed Miss Campbell. "What a pitiful, sad story!"

"And the wife's name was Phoebe Jones?" asked Billie.

"Wrong again," replied the doctor. "Would you have a Jones marry a Jones?"

"Then who, pray, was Miss Phoebe Jones?"

"Aunt of the Rev. Archibald. For some reason he remembered the name and I suppose gave it to the child."

"Then who was the German gentleman who recognized Phoebe?"

"Now you are getting down to real romance," replied the doctor.

"He was the young noble for whom the Rev. Archibald acted as tutor." Here the doctor spoke slowly and impressively. "He loved the English governess and when she married the poor tutor, his noble heart was broken and never has been mended."

"And he never married another?" piped up Mary's small voice.

"Oh yes, my dear. The nobility always marries. Singleness is against the rules. He married and has a family of six."

"And is that the end of the story?" asked Billie.

"No, there is a sequel. It seems that when the Rev. and Mrs. Archibald Jones disappeared from the stage of life without explanation only one person, after a decade or more, still clung to the belief that they were not dead. None other than Miss Phoebe Jones herself, spinster, living in Surrey, England. She recently died leaving her property to her nephew, his wife or possible heirs. It seems that the gentlemen who just now dropped me at your door --  -- "

"The disappointed lover?"

"Yes. The broken-hearted noble with a wife and six children, knew about this will because the lawyers in trying to trace Mr. Jones and his wife had got into communication with him."

"And so they won't be poor," said Nancy. "I'm glad of that. Phoebe looked beautiful in good clothes."

Everybody laughed, and then the doctor remarked:

"And so the story has a plain ending, after all. Phoebe is not a princess and you are all disappointed."

"No, no, no," they protested, but the doctor knew better.



Chapter XXI.

Comrades Of The Road.


Already the scarlet sumac lit the road with its flaming torch, and here and there on the mountainside a flash of scarlet like a redbird's wing appeared among the masses of foliage. Autumn was at hand, the autumn of the Adirondacks, when the evening air is nipped with the hint of frosts to come and the sky is a deeper blue than ever it is at mid-summer.

Summer comrades of the road may not linger in the hills at this enchanting season. There is work to be done in the valleys where the busy people live. In a few days now the shutters of log cabin camps will be closed and traveling vans will be sent to winter quarters.

The boys and girls who have lingered around the campfire, singing songs and telling stories under the great harvest moon, all comrades of the road, must turn their thoughts to soberer things than roasting apples and school day reminiscences. The grown people, too, stretched out in their steamer chairs, have been idling away the hours. Vaguely, as in a mist, a great surgeon recalls that there is a hospital somewhere he has been neglecting for weeks. An engineer is thinking of his tunnel only just started through the heart of a mountain. A little old spinster, fair and fresh as a rose, recalls with a start that for many weeks she has been sleeping under the stars and eating strange food on a bare deal table; and down in the valley her beautiful old home, filled with memories of her girlhood, is waiting to shelter her.

Near the spinster sits a tall man with a delicate, nervous face. He sits with folded arms, his eyes fixed on the back wall of mountains across the valley. He is thinking not of the future of the little home in Surrey that awaits him, but of the twenty black years behind him, as blank and empty as the years of a prisoner spent in solitary confinement. Sometimes, with a curious, startled gaze, he turns his eyes toward his daughter, seated in the circle with the young people.

While we have been taking this leisurely view of our friends, Alberdina has approached, smiling broadly over a great tray of cakes and ginger ale. Mrs. Lupo is hovering in the background.

"It was that skirt of the young lady's that brought me really back to my senses," Mrs. Lupo had confessed to Miss Campbell. "I thought the young lady had sunk in the mire. The misery that come to me then made me see things different; that and the prayer you taught me. Lupo, he's workin' now in the valley and when the camp is broke up, I guess we'll forgive and forgit."

Miss Campbell, glancing at Mrs. Lupo now in the background, wondered if that awful memory of the carving knife was not a dream.

"Papa," Billie called from her place near the campfire, "you mustn't forget to send pounds and pounds of really good coffee to old Granny, the herb gatherer, enough to last her all winter."

"I'll make a note of it, daughter. Are there any other old parties you wish to pension off with coffee or tea this winter?"

"No, papa. But I'd like to keep old Granny in coffee for the rest of her life because she loves it so."

"Ladies and gentlemen," called Percy, rising and flourishing an apple on the end of a long stick, "I made a discovery this morning through a letter from a friend, and I've been saving it until this moment to spring it on the Motor Maids and company."

"About whom is this discovery?" asked Richard uneasily, raising his eyebrows and blinking his humorous eyes.

"It's about two impostors who travel around in a little wooden house on wheels and live like Gypsies --  -- "

"Oh, dear," cried Maggie, "now what have you been finding out about us, pray?"

"I know," said Richard. "You've found that we are really Gypsies and only pretending to be amateurs."

"Nothing of the sort. I've discovered that you have been traveling under a disguise --  -- "

"My name is certainly 'Hook,'" put in Richard.

"And mine is Maggie," piped his sister.

"Maybe so," went on Percy. "That's not the disguise. You've been wearing the cloak of poverty, when you are really as rich as cream, the pair of you, with an old grandfather in England who has a title and castles and much pleasing property; and every now and then the old grandpapa sends for you and you have to give up Gypsying and fly."

"And he's your boss who's always interfering with your vacations?" interrupted Billie.

"And you just pretend to be poor for the novelty of the experience?" asked Nancy. "I wish I could pretend to be rich in the same way."

"But we are Gypsies at heart," put in Maggie, "and I do love to scrub and cook. Grandpapa's is so dull."

"And where does Grandpapa think you are now? Not in a traveling van, I'll wager," said Miss Campbell.

Maggie laughed.

"We are supposed to be visiting Aunt Lucretia. She's our American aunt, Papa's sister, who brought us up, before Grandpapa decided to recognize us. You see Mamma would marry Papa, who was poor then, and came from Maine. He looked just like Richard and I don't blame her. Grandpapa lets us come every summer to visit Aunt Lucretia now."

"And where does Aunt Lucretia think you are?"

"Why, visiting Amy Swinnerton."

Who could keep from laughing over this brother and sister who loved the life on the road and the campfire?

"Thank fortune, I'm not in line for the title," Richard whispered to Billie under cover of the conversation of the others, "and Grandpapa or no Grandpapa, I shall buy that farm, -- do you guess where?"

"I can't imagine," answered Billie.

"In West Haven. I've never seen it, but that is the place you like best, isn't it?"

"I think I like the traveling van best," answered Billie irrelevantly, -- "that is, next to the 'Comet,'" she added with a sudden feeling of loyalty toward the faithful motor car.

"The traveling van would be a part of it and the 'Comet,' too, for that matter."

Then he calmly slipped his hand over hers under the folds of her scarlet cape.

"Shall we be comrades of the road?" he whispered.

"Some day, perhaps," Billie answered, not taking her hand away, but glancing shyly at her father, who was watching her face in the fire light.

Then she smiled at Richard. After all, she was past eighteen and Richard, -- well, Richard was the most delightful person she had ever met in all her life.

Let us take leave of our young people before they go back to the valleys where work is waiting for them. Brown and strong and happy, they sit in a circle talking and laughing, as boys and girls will, under the light of the harvest moon.

While they are still comrades of the road, we will bid them good-night.

Good-night, little Mary, calm and sweet, watching the stars twinkling through the tree tops. Good-night to you, Nancy, dimpling and smiling, while Percy whispers in your ear; and Elinor, too, talking quietly and happily to Ben. And now a last good-night to Billie, best of comrades, kindest and truest of friends.

<eob>

Gritli's Children

By

Johanna Spyri



Volume One


Chapter I.

At The Country-House On The Rhine.


The golden sunshine of a glorious June morning flooded the roses of the beautiful garden that surrounded a handsome stone villa on the banks of the Rhine. A thousand sweet perfumes borne upon the gentle breeze mounted like incense to the open windows, and sought entrance there. From a great basin in the middle of the garden, a slender shaft of water rose straight up into the blue sky, and then fell plashing back, sprinkling the flowers and the grass with sparkling moisture. Gay butterflies fluttered hither and thither, sipping sweets from the honey-laden flowers. Under the trees stood marble statues gleaming white through the shadows; and seats in sheltered nooks invited the loiterer to rest and listen to the concert of the myriad birds that made their happy homes in this paradise of summer beauty.

At the closed window of one of the upper rooms of this delightful house sat a little maiden, pressing her pale face against the wide, clear glass, as she peered out with longing eyes over the roses, toward the wavering fountain, and into the depths of the trees, whose graceful branches stirred in the light breeze. Her gaze passed over the shining flowers and the green terraces of the sunny garden, and rested far away on the glistening waves of the fast-flowing Rhine, that ran past the foot of the garden, bathing caressingly the long over-hanging branches of the old linden trees as it passed along. The rich foliage of the trees by the river-side was visible from the windows of the house; but not the stone bench which stood in the cool shade, so close to the water that one could look from it directly down into the eddying waves, and watch the drooping branches dip and rise again and again, as if in pure delight. What a spot for summer dreaming and castle-building! The pale child at the window knew the place well; and as her eyes turned in that direction, the expression of longing grew more and more painful as she gazed.

"Oh, mamma!" she cried presently, with tears in her voice, "may I not go out soon into the garden, and down to the seat under the lindens by the river?"

An hour before, the mother had brought her suffering little girl into this room, and placed her in her favorite resting-place in the window-seat, and her anxious gaze had scarcely left the pale little face, with its big eyes full of pain, that looked so longingly into the beautiful garden, which the poor child could not enjoy in any other way.

"Dear child," she said now, in a voice which trembled with anxiety and affection, "you know that you are too tired to go out in the morning; but this afternoon, perhaps, we will go down to the river. Will not that be better, my darling?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so," sighed the child; but though she said no more, she did not turn her eyes away from the blooming roses and the waving leaves below her.

"Oh, it is so beautiful down there! Do let me go out, mamma!" she exclaimed again a little while afterwards. "Do let me go!" and her mother could not resist the beseeching tones. She arose, and at that moment an elderly woman entered the room -- a woman who looked so exquisitely neat that one would have thought that she had no other business in life than that of keeping in perfect order her gray hair, with its snow-white cap, and her simple, spotless dress; but, on the contrary, she was the house-keeper, and had the whole charge of the big house, with all its complicated domestic arrangements. Both mother and daughter exclaimed on seeing her, "Oh, Clarissa, how glad I am that you've come!" And both began to ask her opinion as to the visit to the garden, which the invalid so longed for, but which her mother hesitated to grant.

Clarissa was a person of rare character, and a tower of strength in this household, where, from the lady of the house down to the lowest servant, her word was followed as law and obeyed with affection; and one took into the clear depths of her honest, loving eyes explained the secret of her power: they were "Mother's eyes."

"Say 'yes,' Clarissa, and let us go," begged the child, pathetically.

"The air is soft, all the birds are singing and calling us: why should we not try it to-day, dear Mrs. Stanhope?" said Clarissa.

"Yes; if you think best, we will," answered the mother. And Frederic, the tall footman, was summoned to carry the little girl down the long staircase and out of the house. Then, once out-of-doors, the two women, supporting the child tenderly between them, led her through the sunny garden.

"Nora, are you happy now?" asked the mother, tenderly.

"Yes; it is beautiful here," replied the child; "but I should like to go down to the stone bench by the river-side, where the branches dip into the water."

So they went on over the green terraces to the water-side, down to the seat almost hidden under the lindens, among the clusters of whose pendent, sweet-smelling blossoms the bees were busy, mingling their deep murmur with the song which the Rhine sang in passing. Nora's eyes followed the dancing waves that seemed like living, happy sprites.

"Oh! how I wish that I could leap and dance so, mamma! away! away! but I am so tired; I am always tired. I long to hop about as the birds do up in the trees there, and sing and be merry; but I am always so tired."

"My darling, when you are stronger you will dance," replied her mother, in a cheerful tone; but her looks belied her voice, for she was far from feeling the confidence which she tried to give.

"The doctor is coming to-day, and we will ask him what we can do this summer to make you stronger. Now we must go back to the house, Nora; you look pale and ill, my child. Is anything more than usual the matter with you?"

Nora assured her mother that she was only tired. After any unusual exertion, her face always grew paler and her expression more suffering. She reached the house with difficulty, and, when Frederic had carried her up to her bed-room, she lay on the sofa a long time without moving, thoroughly exhausted.

The doctor came towards noon, and declared that a complete change of air would be the best thing for the little Nora, who certainly seemed to be losing strength daily. He would write to a physician, a friend of his in Switzerland, to find a suitable place for her, and would come again as soon as he received an answer.

Towards evening, Nora sat once more in the window, gazing wearily at the long slanting rays of the setting sun that fell across the greensward in golden radiance, and lighted up the rose-leaves till they shone like lamps among the flowers. Clarissa sat at her work-table by Nora's side and from time to time, she raised her head and looked sadly at the frail form that lay so motionless in the window-seat.

"Clarissa," said the child, presently, "will you repeat the old song of Paradise to me?"

Clarissa laid aside her work.

"We will sing it together again some day, dear child, when you are strong enough; now I will say it to you if you wish" and she folded her hands and began: -- 

"A stream of water, crystal bright, Flows down through meadows green, Where lilies, shining in the light, Like twinkling starlets gleam.

"And roses blow, and roses glow, While birds in every tree Are singing loud, are singing low, 'In Paradise are we.'

"Here, gently blows the soft, sweet wind; Bright flowers grow all around; Men wake, as from a dream, to find They tread on holy ground.

"In blissful happiness they rove, At peace with each and all; United now in bonds of love, Freed from the grave's dark pall.

"All want and weariness are o'er, All sorrow and all pain; Their rapture gathers more and more; The sick are well again."

After Clarissa had finished her recitation, no sound broke the stillness for a long time; Nora seemed lost in thought. "Clarissa," she said at last, "that is a beautiful poem, and makes me long to go."

"Yes; go willingly, go gladly, dear child," replied Clarissa, with tears in her eyes. "Then you can wander joyfully among the bright flowers, and sing:

"'Our rapture gathers more and more; The sick are well again.'

"And we shall soon join you there, your mamma and I -- "

At this moment the mother entered, and Clarissa stopped suddenly; for she knew well that Mrs. Stanhope could not endure the thought of losing little Nora, even though her child were called to heaven; but the mother had heard enough of what had been said, and looked at the child with renewed anxiety. Nora certainly looked very pale and weary; and, at her mother's request, she let herself be carried at once to bed in Clarissa's strong and tender arms.

Later in the evening when Mrs. Stanhope sat alone with her old friend, she began anxiously to question the suitableness of talking to the child upon such topics.

"Surely there is no need of dwelling on such mournful things, Clarissa. Nora is not so ill that we need think the worst, much less talk about it."

"Nora likes to hear me repeat her favorite poem," replied Clarissa; "and, dear Mrs. Stanhope, let me say one thing to you. If our darling is to live only to suffer through long years of pain, can you wish for life for her? Why should we wish to keep her here, where she cannot enjoy the smallest part of the wealth and beauty about her, rather than let her go to that heavenly home, where there is no more sorrow nor pain?"

"I cannot bear the thought of parting from her; it must not, it cannot be. Why may not all yet go well, and Nora get strong again?" said the poor mother; and the heart within her was heavy with grief. She could say no more, and withdrew in silence to her own room.

The great stone mansion was soon wrapped in stillness; and as the light of the summer moon shone down upon it, whoever had seen it standing there in stately beauty, its high white pillars gleaming through the dark trees, would surely have thought:

"How beautiful it must be to live there! No care nor sorrow can reach the inmates of that lovely dwelling!"

Mrs. Stanhope occupied her paternal home on the banks of the Rhine. She had married an English-man when very young, and had lived in England until his death, when she returned to the home of her childhood, unoccupied since the death of her parents, bringing with her two little children, the brown-eyed Philo, and his delicate, fair-haired sister, Nora. The faithful Clarissa, who had taken care of Mrs. Stanhope in her childhood and who had accompanied her to her foreign home, loved these children as if they were her own. The little family had now lived several years in this beautiful house on the Rhine; a very peaceful and regular life it was, one day like another; for the children were delicate and could bear no exciting pleasures. Two years ago a heavy sorrow dropped its dark shadow over the household. Little Philo closed his dark eyes forever, and was laid to rest under the old linden-tree in the garden, where the roses bloomed all summer long. Nora, who was only a year younger than her brother, was now in her eleventh year.

In about a week after his first visit, the doctor came again. He had heard from his friend, the physician, who had willingly offered to find a house for Mrs. Stanhope near his own, in the little village of Buchberg, among the mountains. Mrs. Stanhope might set out as soon as she pleased. He would answer for all being in readiness to receive her.

In a few days they were ready to start. Clarissa was to remain behind to put the house in order, and only a young maid-servant went with them. As the carriage rolled away, bearing Mrs. Stanhope and her little daughter on the way to Switzerland, Clarissa gave them many a God-speed, and, turning back into the empty house, she wiped away the tears she could no longer repress, saying softly to herself:

"'Their rapture gathers more and more; The sick are well again.'"



Chapter II.

In The Doctor's House At Buchberg.


The kitchen-garden is the especial delight of the true German housewife; that is, of one who lives in the country where such a luxury is possible. The flower-garden is a source of pleasure to the whole family; but the vegetable-garden is her own, so to speak; she cares for it herself; she watches each little plant with her own eyes, and removes each encroaching weed with her own hands. Now this year the cauliflowers were of unusually fine promise, and they excited the hopes of their owner that a wonderful harvest would before long reward her care; not a trace of a noxious worm was as yet to be detected.

"Good evening," said some one from the other side of the hedge; "your vegetables are always the best and the most forward of any in the neighborhood; they show the care you take of them."

The doctor's wife came nearer to the hedge, and over the low barrier Heiri, the day-laborer, stretched his hand, stained and knotted with work, to clasp that of his old friend and schoolmate. How often had he been to her for counsel and aid since those school-days, and when had that willing and helpful hand ever failed him?

"How are you all at home, Heiri?" she asked heartily. "Have you plenty of work? Are your wife and children well?"

"Yes, yes, thank God!" replied Heiri, as he lifted his heavy tools from his shoulder and set them on the ground. "There is work enough; I am just taking these tools to be sharpened. I have to keep hard at it, for the family is growing big."

"The three little boys look finely; I saw them go by yesterday with Elsli," continued the doctor's wife. "But Elsli herself looks quite too pale and delicate. Do not forget how her mother died, Heiri. The little girl ought not to have too much to do; she is not strong, and she is growing too fast. Do take it in time, Heiri; you know by sad experience how rapidly disease gains ground when it has once got hold of a young girl."

"Yes, yes, I can never forget that. It was terrible to see how quickly Gritli sank, -- and she so young, so young! Marget is a good wife and an industrious woman; but nothing will ever make me forget my poor Gritli"; and Heiri wiped away a few tears with his hard hand.

Tears were also in the eyes of the doctor's wife, as she said, "Neither can I ever forget her, nor how gladly she would have lived for you and the children, nor how quickly it was all over. Elsli is the very image of her mother, Heiri, and I cannot help fearing that she is working beyond her strength."

"She's a poor, thin little creature, to be sure," said Heiri; "and it strikes me, now and then, that she is delicate; but usually she is so quiet that I don't take much notice of her. Now, the boy is much more like his mother; he's always busy about something, especially about keeping things clean. He can't abide dirt, any more than Gritli could, and he is always at the little ones to make them come and be washed at the spout. Of course the little boys won't stand that, and they set up a scream, and then out comes their mother, and there's a grand row! I scarcely ever come home at night that Marget doesn't come complaining of the boy for plaguing the younger children. She wants me to punish him, but when the little fellow stands up before me, and looks straight into my eyes with such a look of his mother about him, I cannot bring myself to strike him. Then Marget is vexed and begins to scold, and I do not like to vex her, for she works hard and means all right. I have often thought that perhaps you, Mrs. Stein, would speak a word for me to Marget about punishing the boy; for anything from you would have great weight with her."

"Certainly I will, with pleasure. But tell me about Elsli; is Marget kind to her?"

"Well, this is how it is," -- and Heiri drew a little nearer the hedge and spoke in a confidential tone -- "the little girl is more like me, and gives in easily and is not obstinate about having her own way, as her poor mother was. She does what she is bid, and never answers back when Marget scolds, nor ever complains, though she has to work from the time she gets home from school till she goes to bed; always carrying the baby, or doing something about the house."

"But you must not let her do too much, Heiri," said Mrs. Stein seriously. "I am very anxious about her. Ask Marget to come over and see me: tell her I have some clothes which my children have out-grown, and I should like to give them to her if she will come for them."

"Thank you; I will certainly send her. Good-night I hope you will have good luck with the cauliflowers"; and, with another shake of his good friend's hand, Heiri went off to the smithy.

The doctor's wife stood lost in thought for several minutes. She was looking towards her vegetables, but she was thinking of neither beet nor cauliflower, though her eyes were resting on the neat rows before her. This talk with Heiri had brought the old days of her childhood forcibly back to her memory. She saw the pretty Gritli with her big brown eyes, as she used to sit weaving forget-me-nots into pretty wreaths with her skilful fingers; always putting a few into her belt and into her hair. Gritli was the child of poor parents, but she was always neatly dressed, and, though her clothes were of the coarsest stuff, yet there was a peculiar look of daintiness about her, which, with the bit of color in flower or ribbon that was never wanting in her costume, gave the impression that she had just been dressed by an artist, as a model for a picture. Many criticised this daintiness and many laughed at it, but it made no difference to Gritli; for indeed it was only the instinctive expression of the girl's natural longing for the beautiful.

At eighteen, Gritli married Heiri, a good-hearted fellow who had long loved her. But after five years of married life she died, of a rapid consumption; leaving two children, Stefan and Elsli, four and three years old. It was not long before Heiri found that he needed help in the care of these little ones, and, taking the advice of friends and neighbors, he married Marget, who was recommended to him as specially capable of looking after his house and children. She proved indeed a good house-keeper; but for ornaments and flowers she had no taste, and she did not see the use of being over particular about neatness either, so that Heiri's household soon lost the air of refinement which had been noticeable during Gritli's life.

Marget's three children did not get by any means the nice care that Fani and Elsli had received from their own mother, and Gritli's children retained an air of distinction that was ineffaceable, and that marked them as quite different from the younger set.

The memories that passed almost like a vision before the eyes of the doctor's wife, as she stood apparently studying her kitchen-garden, were rudely dispelled by a piercing scream that resounded from the house; and presently an eight-year-old girl came running round the corner, pursued by her older brother; a big lad, who held a huge volume under his left arm, and had something tightly clutched in his right hand.

"Rikli! what a fearful noise! come here to me! what has happened now?"

The girl screamed louder and hid her face in the skirts of her mother's dress.

"Now, just look at the innocent cause of this ridiculous disturbance, mother," said Fred. "Only this pretty, dear little froggy, that I caught, and was holding out for Rikli to admire. Just let me read you this description, and you will see how exactly it agrees with Mr. Frog himself. Look, mamma, look!" and Fred opened his hand and showed a small green frog.

"Stand still, and be quiet, Rikli," said her mother to the crying girl, "and, Fred, why do you persist in showing the silly child these creatures, when you know how much she is afraid of them?"

"She was the only person near," answered Fred. "But do listen to this, mamma." Fred opened his book, and began to read: -- 

"'The green or water frog, esculenta, is about three inches in length, grass-green, with black spots. His eyes have a golden color, and the toes of his hind legs are webbed. His voice, which is often heard on warm summer nights, sounds Brekekex! He passes the winters hidden in the mud and slime. He feeds upon' -- "

At this moment a carriage was heard approaching. "It is the lady with the sick child," said Mrs. Stein, putting Fred aside rather hastily, for he tried to detain her. He followed her, crying out: -- 

"Do listen, mamma; you do not know what he eats. He eats -- "

The carriage was at the door. Hans came from the stable, and Kathri, in her best white apron, from the kitchen, to lift out the sick girl and carry her into the house. Fred and Rikli stood back by the hedge, as still as mice, watching the proceedings.

First, a lady alighted from the carriage, and beckoned to Kathri, who came forward, lifted out the pale child, and carried her up the steps into the house. The lady followed with Mrs. Stein.

"That girl is a great deal bigger than you are, if mother did say that she was only eight or nine years old," said Fred to Rikli. "She is more nearly Emma's age, and what do you suppose she would think to hear you screaming as you did just now? I don't think she'd like you for a friend."

"Well, at any rate, she wouldn't always have centipedes and frogs and spiders in her pockets, as you have, Fred," retorted Rikli; and she was about to add some farther excuse for her screams, when Fred opened his hand to see how his frog was getting on, and lo! the little creature made one big jump right towards Rikli's face! With a piercing cry, the child flew into the house, but was instantly stopped by Kathri, with:

"Hush! hush! When there is that sick little girl in there, how can you make such a noise?"

"Where is aunty?" asked Rikli; a question that the maid answered before it was fairly uttered, for it was asked hundreds of times in that household every day.

"In the other room. The sick girl is in here, and you mustn't go in, your mother says. And as for screaming like a pig, you mustn't do that either, in a respectable house," added Kathri, on her own account.

Rikli hastened into the room where her aunt was, to tell her about Fred's horrid frog, and how it had jumped almost into her very face. Her aunt was listening to Oscar, the eldest brother, who was talking earnestly.

"You see, aunty," he was saying, "that if Feklitus does not object, we can put the two verses together; then ours could go here, and the other there, and both would be used. Won't that do?"

"Yes, that will be very nice indeed," said his aunt in a tone of conviction; "that will remove all difficulties; and the verses are really very suitable, as such verses ought to be."

"You will help Emma with the embroidery, won't you, aunty? You know she will never finish the banner by herself. She is always up to so many pranks, and she cannot keep at one thing half an hour at a time."

His aunt promised her assistance, and he ran off, well pleased, to tell his friends of their new ally. Rikli thought her chance had come now, but before she could begin her story Emma rushed in, crying, almost out of breath: -- 

"Aunty! aunty! They are all going to gather strawberries -- a lot of boys and girls -- may I go too? Say 'yes' quick, for I can't get at mamma and they won't wait."

"Strawberries to-day, violets yesterday, and blueberries to-morrow; always something or other; that is the way with you, Emma. Well, go, but do not stay out too late."

"I want to go too," cried Rikli, and started after her sister.

But Emma, clearing the steps in two jumps, called back: -- 

"No, you can't go into the woods; there are red snails there and beetles and -- "

But Rikli did not wait to hear more; she was reminded of the frog, and turned back to tell her story, when she saw Fred coming in with his book under his arm. He seated himself by his aunt and opened the book.

"How nice it is to find you, aunty," he began, "Mamma couldn't wait to hear the end of this description; and it was a pity, for I had found such a perfect specimen. But I'll find another to-morrow to show you."

"No! no!" cried Rikli. "Say 'no,' aunty; it will jump right into your face, and it has yellow eyes like a dragon's."

Fred had doubled up his fist as if he had something in it, and now he suddenly opened it into his sister's face. She sprang back with a cry, and away through the door.

"Now we can have a little peace," said Fred, well pleased at the success of his trick; and he began to read.

"'The green or water-frog, esculenta' -- "

At this moment the house-door was opened, and they heard footsteps and voices in the passage-way.

"Come," said his aunt, "let us look out at the little sick girl who is going away; then we will come back to the frog."

They went to the window and looked out. A sad expression came into the good aunt's face as she saw the little girl lifted into the carriage.

"How sick and pale she looks, poor little thing! or, rather, poor sorrowful mother!" she said, as her eyes fell on the face of the lady who was at this moment pressing Mrs. Stein's hand, while tears were running, unheeded, down her cheeks.

The carriage rolled away. Fred returned to his book; but he had no chance to go on with the description of the frog, for his mother, greatly excited over the sight of the suffering child and the anxious mother, came to talk it over with her sister, with whom she consulted about everything that took place in the family, so that the household would have been as much at a loss without "aunty" as without father or mother. Fred saw that this was not his opportunity; so, exacting a promise from his aunt that she would give him a chance with his frog just before bed-time, he took himself off.

Then Mrs. Stein told her sister all about her painful interview with Mrs. Stanhope. The child, she said, was so pale and transparent-looking that she seemed already to belong more to heaven than to earth; but the mother would not believe it, and had eagerly explained, in a burst of tears, that it was only the fatigue of the journey which made Nora look so ill, and that she was sure that the mountain air would soon restore her darling to health. Was she trying to deceive herself?

While Mrs. Stein was speaking, the sound of a horse's hoofs was heard, and she hurried out to meet her husband and to tell him of Mrs. Stanhope's arrival. The doctor hastened away on foot to pay a visit to his new patient. Not until late in the evening did he return; long after the children were safe in their beds. Fred, by the way, had persevered till he had secured his aunt long enough to give her a thorough account of the appearance of the "green or water-frog." It had been no easy task, for each of the children had some special need of her that evening, and his mother, too; and even Kathri asked for "one word"; but Fred was not to be cheated, and he came out triumphant at last.

The doctor sat down hungry at the supper-table, and not one word did he speak to his expectant wife and sister, until he had satisfied his appetite. He shook his head doubtfully, in answer to their questions about Nora.

"There is nothing to build upon," he said; "the little plant has no strength. It is not a case of failing health, but of utter want of vitality from the very beginning. If our mountain air can work a miracle, we may see her restored; if not, there is no hope."

His wife and "aunty" were grieved at this reply, though they had expected nothing better; but they tried to take a more cheerful view.

"While there is life, there is hope," they said, "and our mountain air does certainly work wonders."

"I should like to have Emma go to see the little girl, and try to amuse her now and then," said the doctor presently; "Emma has too many schemes in her head; perhaps she will drop some of them if she gets interested in this child, and I am sure it would be a good thing; for her projects almost always end in some kind of mishap. Nora will be rather astonished, probably, at some of her suggestions, but it will do no harm to the poor child to have some new and interesting ideas introduced into her restricted life, and there is no chance of her being enticed into joining in Emma's wild pranks. It will be good for both of them to be together."

Mrs. Stein was pleased at the idea of a friendship between the girls. Nora's gentleness and delicacy might have a softening influence on her impulsive little daughter, while, on the other hand, Emma's active, happy spirits could not fail to attract Nora, and to draw her out of herself.

Later in the evening, while the doctor was busy with his arrangements for the next day's work, his wife and her sister sat together, as usual, over the great basket that stood always well supplied with mending and sewing of various kinds. They talked over the experiences of the day, the conduct of the children, and the general affairs of the household, and took counsel together for the day to come. This was the only time in the twenty-four hours that they could call their own, and they could hardly have got along without it; for their lives were so closely interwoven that they needed this interchange of thoughts to help each other and themselves. Naturally, the children were first discussed, with their varied joys and sorrows, wants and wishes; next, the doctor's patients, who came to the house from far and near; and last, the many calls for sympathy and advice that reached their ears and their hearts from all the country round about; for many were those who brought their troubles of all kinds to this hospitable house, where they were always sure of help and encouragement, of support in word and deed. So the two sisters, on this, as on many another evening, had so many things of interest to discuss and decide, that, under their busy hands, the heap of unmended stockings in the work-basket melted away unobserved, while many a neighborly plan and kindly conspiracy were hatched by their warm hearts and busy heads; and it was very late when at last they separated to their well earned rest.



Chapter III.

In The Village And In The School.


The village of Buchberg consisted of several scattered farms, and of groups of houses and cottages that peeped out from among thriving fruit trees. Only a few houses stood near the church; the school-house, the sexton's house, the substantial old-fashioned dwelling of the mayor of the little community, and two or three peasants' cottages. Dr. Stein's house stood quite by itself at a little distance from the others, on a slight elevation, quite surrounded by trees. The biggest buildings in all Buchberg stood on the principal street of the town; these were the fine house and the enormous factory of Mr. Bickel, who had built them both.

Between the street and the dwelling lay a sunny flower-garden; not a tree nor a shrub was planted in it, lest the grandeur of the mansion should be concealed in the least from public view. Here lived the wealthy manufacturer, with his wife and their only son. The family occupied only the lower floor; upstairs the six great splendid rooms were always closed and their shining green blinds always drawn down. No one ever entered there except Mrs. Bickel, who now and then came up to air and to dust and to admire them. Her little boy was allowed to go with her sometimes; but he had to leave his shoes at the door; and he stood just inside, half awe-struck in the gloom; staring at the unused chairs and the stiff furniture. Mr. Bickel was a very important person in the village, for in his factory he employed a great many persons, both young and old; he was very clever at finding out what people were good for, and knew just how much they could work, and what they could do best, and how much they were worth to him. It was said that whenever a child was born in Buchberg, Mr. Bickel began at once to calculate how many years would pass before it would be old enough to be put upon his pay-roll. And almost all the children knew that their future destiny would surely bring them under Mr. Bickel's management, and they learned early to stand respectfully aside when he came along the street, with his thick gold-headed cane, and his shining watch chain with the bunch of seals, that shook and glittered and jingled majestically from afar.

From this fine house every morning came young Feklitus, Mr. Bickel's son, and through the sunny garden and up the street he went on his way to school. Over his back was slung a leather satchel, wondrously embroidered with the big initials "F.B.," surrounded with a garland of beautiful roses; a Christmas gift from his mother.

"Feklitus" was only a nickname, and this is the way it originated. His grandfather was a tailor by trade; a person of very small stature and obscure position; altogether a very humble personage to be the father of a great man, such as his son afterwards became, and, because he was so diminutive in every way, he went, in the neighborhood, by the nickname of "Tailorkin." His only son was christened Felix, and as the common nickname of Felix is Fekli, the boy became universally known as "Tailorkin-Fekli." This was very displeasing to Felix, who early in life determined to make something of himself, and who soon began to rise and grow rich. The Buchbergers, however, were not disposed to drop the name which amused them, merely because it vexed the owner; so even now, although when they met the great man they always addressed him with due respect as Mr. Bickel, yet behind his back he was still Tailorkin-Fekli. He suspected this underhand familiarity, and was not a little disturbed by it.

When, after he had become a great man, and had built himself a splendid new house, he had a son born to him, he determined to find a name for the child which could not be tampered with as his own had been; and he delayed the baptism as long as possible, while searching for one to suit his purpose. It so happened that about this time he was called upon in his capacity as School-Inspector to be present at the yearly examinations at the school-house; and he heard the teacher explain to the children the meaning of the name Fortunatus. No sooner did this name reach Mr. Bickel's ear, than he was struck with its appropriateness to his son. Was not the boy destined to be the fortunate heir to his father's wealth and position? He went home full of satisfaction and announced to his wife that the long-sought name was found, and the child might be taken to church for baptism. So Fortunatus he was christened; and Mr. Bickel felt sure now that the hated nickname would be dropped and soon forgotten.

Not so; for as soon as the boy went to school, his playmates decided that Fortunatus was far too long and pretentious a name for common use; so they peremptorily shortened it to "Tus"; then, adding it to the father's appellation, it became "Tailorkin-Fekli-Tus." The first word of this lengthy and awkward combination was soon dropped off, and the other two were combined into one word and became Feklitus. With this the critics were satisfied, and long usage fixed the name so completely on the boy that at last very few recalled the fine name Fortunatus, and almost every one supposed that he had been christened Feklitus.

Oscar Stein and Feklitus Bickel both sat at the head of the sixth class in the village school. This odd arrangement came about in this way. When, six years before, both entered the school together, Oscar seated himself at once at the head of the bench; for he was a boy born to lead, and never thought of being second anywhere. But Feklitus came and stood in front of him, saying "That is my place"; for his father had told him that the first place was no more than his right. Oscar would not yield, and the case came before the teacher, who, finding that Oscar was the senior by two days, decided in his favor. Feklitus, however, was not to be put down so; he would not sit below Oscar, so he took the first place on the next bench, and, as the class was so large a one as to occupy both benches, the teacher allowed the affair to be settled so, and so it had continued ever since. And thus both boys were first.

Oscar was well pleased with this arrangement, because it brought next him a boy whom he much preferred to Feklitus; Fani, the son of Heiri, the day-laborer. Fani was a lively and courageous fellow, who was always ready to join Oscar in any undertaking he might have in view, no matter how bold it might be. Oscar even thought Fani far better looking than the broad-shouldered Feklitus; who, in his fine cloth suit with the high collar that made his short neck look as if it was no neck at all, was boxed up so stiff and tight that he could hardly move; while Fani was slender and nimble as a lizard, and, though he wore all summer long nothing more than a shirt and linen trousers, yet he looked so slight and so graceful that no one noticed how sparely he was clad. When with both hands he tossed his long dark brown locks back from his forehead, and looked about with great shining expectant eyes, then instantly some new plan of comradeship darted into Oscar's busy brain; some new play in which Fani would be of use, either in the rôle of Artist, or Noble Bandit, or Tragedy-King. Oscar was always planning the establishment of something grand; a Club, or Association, or Band of Fellowship of some kind; and he needed for carrying out his numerous and complicated projects, a skilful, intelligent, and enthusiastic assistant like Fani.

Feklitus, on the other hand, was nothing but a hindrance to these schemes, because he would go into a thing only if he was allowed to take the principal part in it, and he always behaved as if he had devised the plan himself as much as Oscar. Still, it was necessary to take him in, and ensure his favor; as otherwise he would take his whole party into opposition, and ensure the failure of the enterprise. For the class was divided into two nearly equal parties, and indeed this party-spirit had spread so far that the whole school, even down to the primary class, was divided into two camps, the Oscarians and the Feklitusians. Oscar had on his side all the independent fellows, all the sons of well-to-do peasants, all the sons of mechanics who were to follow in their fathers' footsteps, and all those whose future vocation was decided on, from the coachman to the teacher.

All the other boys were followers of Feklitus; for he had a terrible phrase, which he used with great effect, when he wished to press them into his ranks; it was, "Just you wait till you come into our factory!" It was curious to see how this would work like a charm with the wavering boys; for the very indefiniteness of what would happen when they came to the factory, lent a mysterious force to this dark threat. But no threat, no promise, no hint had the slightest effect upon Fani. He was to enter the factory the coming Easter, at the close of the school-year; and this he knew very well; but he adhered firmly to Oscar's side, and when Feklitus would angrily call out to him, "Just you wait," he would turn on his heel, and answer laughing, "Oh yes! I'll wait! I'm not in the least hurry"; an answer which did not lessen Feklitus' anger, and which made him long for the time when the boy should be "in the factory," when he promised himself that things should not go too easily for him.

Still, in spite of all these little jealousies, the two parties generally worked peaceably together; for it was important for Oscar to be on the right side of Feklitus, as his plans required large numbers for their successful execution. Just now they were on a most cordial footing. Oscar had started the idea of a grand Musical Festival. Every one in the school who wished might take part, and after all necessary preparations they were to have a grand celebration. The assistance of Feklitus had been secured by giving him a prominent place in the arrangements for the great occasion. The embroidered banner, which was to be a salient feature, was sure to be ready, since Oscar's aunt had undertaken it, which was quite a different thing from being dependent on Emma. Fani was to be the bearer. To-day the motto must be selected for it, and at the close of school several of the boys were stationed at the door, to summon the others, as they came out, to a meeting for the decision of this important matter. On a knoll in a field near by, the boys assembled; and then Oscar announced that he had found a pretty couplet, suitable to the occasion, which he proposed as a motto for the banner, and he read in a loud voice: -- 

"Music the truest pleasure gives, So sing we merrily."

But Feklitus did not approve. He said that he had often been present on occasions of this kind and had seen many prettier mottoes than this. He could recall one which he thought ought to be chosen.

"Our Fatherland shall ever live; May freedom never die!"

Oscar said that this motto would do very well for some patriotic occasion, but was not exactly the thing for a musical festival. Feklitus would not yield, and called on his followers to stand by him and his motto. Then followed loud discussion on both sides, which soon grew into an uproar. The Oscarians and Feklitusians screamed so loud that not one word could be distinguished from another. Presently Oscar seized Feklitus by the arm, and drew him aside out of the mob.

"Don't you see, you mar-plot, that this hubbub is all your fault? and that you are very provoking? What do you gain by it? Nothing. What do you lose? Everything. But to show you that I am not like you, I propose to you to put the two couplets together, and use both. Luckily they rhyme. See how this will do: -- 

"Music the truest pleasure gives; So sing we merrily --  'Our Fatherland shall ever live, And Freedom never die.'"

Feklitus was pacified; which was fortunate, for nothing would have induced him to give up his verse, whose great merit in his eyes was just that it was his; he had remembered it, repeated it, proposed it; so it was naturally better than any other could be. The meeting was informed of the compromise, applauded it, and immediately adjourned, dispersing in all directions, and making the quiet summer evening resound with their merry shouts. Oscar alone went his way with an air of deep depression, and with anger in his heart. Fani had again disappeared directly after school, as he had often done before, and had not waited for the meeting, though he knew how much Oscar cared to have him there. Fani certainly took everything too lightly, Oscar thought; it was his only great fault; he went too easily from one thing to another; and Oscar knew too who aided him in this changeableness, and had indeed just the same failing herself; and that was his own sister Emma. Indeed, the girl was the worse of the two, for she was continually proposing new schemes, and urging Fani to help her carry them out. Oscar knew all this, and was very much vexed with Fani for yielding so easily to Emma's persuasions. And to think of his disappearing so this afternoon, when he had relied on his support at the meeting! It was too provoking!

As Oscar drew near home, he came suddenly upon his brother Fred, who was kneeling down in the vegetable garden and digging in the earth with both hands, as if seeking a hidden treasure.

"Where is Emma?" asked Oscar; adding hurriedly, "Oh, don't touch me with those hands!"

"Well, I should scarcely mistake you for a grub, and that's what I want to 'touch' with these hands," said Fred, rather scornfully. "As to Emma, I don't know where she is; but one thing I do know, and that is that one of you two has carried off all the paper again, so that when a fellow wants to do his exercises he may whistle for it! I know that much."

"I haven't used any," said Oscar; "but Emma is getting up some new scheme; I am sure of that, and I suppose she has taken the paper. I don't know what will happen if somebody doesn't put a stop to her carrying-on!"

With which negative kind of a prophecy, Oscar went into the house.



Chapter IV.

Farther Proceedings In Buchberg.


Oscar's suspicions were correct; as soon as the school-house door was opened, the nimble Fani had slipped out among the very first; and had joined Emma, who at once claimed his attention by saying: -- 

"Come, Fani, I know of a splendid tree for you to draw, and I have the paper and everything all ready."

Fani was more than willing; and off they scampered, first down the road, and then by a path across the meadow to a small green hill, known as Oak-ridge. As they slackened their pace in the ascent, Emma explained her plan. A short time before, the two higher classes in the school had begun to take drawing lessons, a new experiment. Emma and Elsli were in the fifth class, and so was the studious Fred, who, though more than a year younger, was so much in advance of those of his age that he had quite outstripped the fourth class to which he properly belonged, and was, indeed, more clever than most of the members of the fifth. Not in drawing, however. In that, Fani led the whole school, and he was, indeed, so successful with his pencil that the teacher often said to him: -- 

"Now, Fani, just see what you can do, if you only try! You could do far better than this, even, if you would only take pains, and not be so indifferent and light-minded."

On this very day the teacher had said that he should like to have the children sketch something from nature; a tree or a flower, perhaps; and he assured Fani that he copied trees remarkably well, and that he would, probably, succeed out-of-doors. Emma was very much interested in Fani's drawing; and he had made several pictures especially for her, which she used for book-marks; a rose and a bunch of strawberries, a fisherman, rod in hand, seated by a stream under a tree.

So now Emma told Fani how excited she was when she heard what the teacher said, and how she instantly bethought herself of a splendid oak-tree that she had noticed a few days before when walking with her mother in the meadow, not far from the village; and how impatient she felt to carry Fani off, the moment school was over, that he might set to work that very day to copy it. Talking thus, they reached the top of the ridge and the tree was before them. It was, in truth, a magnificent sight, as it stood on the brow of the hill, and threw its heavy shadow far out all round on the short meadow grass. Fani stood gazing with wonder up into its rich foliage.

"Oh, how beautiful!" he exclaimed. "I'm so glad, Emma, that you thought of it; it is splendid to draw! I'll begin directly; not exactly here, but a little farther off." And Fani stepped slowly back till he had reached the right point of view. There he sat down on the ground, and Emma, placing herself at his side, drew out from her satchel a perfect wealth of paper and pencils.

"There's paper enough there to make a great many sketches," said the boy, as he looked with longing eyes at all this fine material.

"I will give you a lot of it to take home," said Emma. "I thought I would bring a good deal, because you might have to try several times before you got a good picture. Now pick out a pencil, Fani."

It seemed to Fani a wonderful mine of wealth; all this fresh paper, and such an assortment of pencils to choose from. He selected two pencils, and then, spreading a sheet of white paper before him, he began his sketch. Emma watched every stroke with silent intentness. But, as the picture grew under the boy's fingers, she could not control her excitement.

"Oh! oh! Now it looks exactly like the real oak! How nicely you make the branches and all the dear little twigs! Oh! it is the very best thing you ever did, Fani! How pleased the teacher will be! I'm sure none of the others will do anything half so good! How can you do it, Fani? I never could in the world."

"I only just copy what I see," said Fani, whose eyes constantly moved back and forth between the tree and his paper, while his cheeks glowed and his eyes sparkled with excitement. "How lovely those twigs are! and then the leaves! I don't think any leaf is as handsome as an oak-leaf, and just look up there! see how perfectly round the shape of the tree stands out against the sky, as if it had been marked by a pair of compasses. Oh, I wish I could sit all day long drawing this tree; there isn't anything more beautiful in the whole world!"

"I know something!" cried Emma, suddenly; "you must be an artist, Fani. That's the way a painter begins, I'm sure; no one else would ever think of saying that he could sit all day long drawing one tree."

"It's all very well to say that I must be an artist," said Fani, sighing; "but next spring, when I leave school, I shall have to go into the factory and just work hard from morning till night; I couldn't learn to paint then, if I wanted to ever so much, could I?"

"But you do want to ever so much; don't you, Fani? Think how glorious it would be! Wouldn't you do anything in the world for the sake of being a painter?"

"Of course I would, but what can I do? How could I possibly manage it?"

"You just wait; I'll think and think till I can invent some way. Only imagine how fine it will be when you are a famous painter and have nothing to do but to paint and draw all the time. Won't that be just the very best thing you can think of, Fani?"

Emma's enthusiasm was infectious. The pencil dropped from the boy's hand, and he gazed up into the sky as if already looking upon the future canvases which he should cover with pictures when he was a great painter.

"Do you really believe it, Emma? Do you really think that I can ever do it? I should like to begin directly; I feel as if I couldn't wait. But what can I do? How shall I begin?"

"I can't think exactly, but I'm sure I shall get hold of some plan; don't be in too great a hurry," said the girl; "I dare say I shall have something to propose when I go to school to-morrow. But now come; hurry up and finish the oak, and then take the paper and pencils home with you and do something else. You know your drawings will be shown at examination, and will need nice paper and pencils; you have nothing but brown paper; so take this."

Fani was delighted with the gift; it was for want of material that he had not drawn at home, and now there was nothing to prevent him from working to his heart's content. As he put the finishing touches to his sketch, while Emma looked on and admired, the sun went down, the shadows began to fall, and reminded the children that it was quite time to return home.

Fred had meanwhile finished his researches for grubs, and stood outside the hedge, looking up the road, in the hope of seeing his sister Emma, with whom he wished to have a very plain talk on the subject of the paper. On the inside of the hedge, in the garden, stood Oscar, with the same intentions, but in a more seriously displeased state of mind, for had not Emma robbed him of his friend? and just now, too, when he was so important to Oscar; for the preparations for the Festival could not go on without Fani.

Feklitus was of no real assistance, for he was so slow-witted that it was impossible to get an idea into his head; while Fani took every suggestion like a flash, and had things at his finger-ends in a moment. As Oscar thought and fretted over his injuries, his anger with Emma grew apace; he was sure that she had in hand some project, such as she was famous for; it was a shame, and he was determined to ferret it out, and spoil it for her; he would punish her for taking possession of his useful friend; and so on and so on, while Oscar, in growing excitement, paced to and fro with hasty steps.

In the meantime, Fred was peering into the twilight, and along the road, awaiting the coming of the culprit. At last, he saw some one coming along the sidewalk; but it could hardly be Emma, for it was too wide, it took up the whole width of the path. He ran forward, and found that it was Elsli, who was toiling along, her brother Rudi hanging to her skirts on one side, and Heili on the other, while in her arms she was carrying Hans, a solid child of two years. The poor patient girl was quite weighed down under the burden of her three brothers.

"Oh, put that big boy down on his own feet!" cried Fred, who was shocked at the sight of such needless labor, "you are not fit to carry such a load."

"I can't put him down; he begins to scream as soon as I do, and he gets so naughty," said Elsli, as she walked painfully along.

"Are you going to our house?" asked Fred, following her.

"Yes, I am going to fetch something; I have brought a bag to put it into," and Elsli lifted her arm a little and showed a large bag hanging from it.

"You can't carry anything more; do put that fat child down; he will break you in two," said Fred indignantly.

By this time they had reached the house.

"Now I shall have to put you down a minute, Hanli," said Elsli wearily, "for my arm aches so that I cannot bear it any longer." With these words she put the child upon his feet; but he forthwith set up a shriek that brought all the women out of the house with a bound; Mrs. Stein and her sister and Kathri were on the spot in an instant.

"I should like to give you something to scream for!" cried the maid, suiting a significant gesture to her words with the open palm of her hand, as she turned away into the house again. Elsli snatched up the child hastily, and tried to quiet him.

"Mamma, do tell that big cry-baby to stand on his own legs. He'll kill Elsli at this rate; he is far too much for her to lift." Fred spoke in great excitement.

This made the child cry louder than ever, and he clung to his slender sister with such increased force, that she staggered a little and seemed about to fall.

"You really ought to put him down, my child," said the mother; "he would soon get used to it. Come here!" and she tried to take the child from Elsli's arms. It was harder than she expected; for the little fellow clung tight with arms and legs, and kicked with his feet and pounded with his fists, and when at last Mrs. Stein succeeded in detaching him and placing him on the ground, he flung himself upon his sister's skirts, and screamed so lustily that she took him up again, saying resignedly: -- 

"It's of no use; he's a very naughty little boy; and begins to call to me to carry him as soon as I get home from school."

"Such a big boy as Hans ought to be able to go alone by this time, and then there is the baby besides; how do you manage to do it all, Elsli?"

"Oh, Hans is in a dreadful way if I take the baby; he screams and kicks as hard as he can, and then his mother hears him, and she comes running in, and says that she can't have such a noise, and I mustn't let the children scream so. So I have to put the baby into the cradle to quiet Hans, and then I rock the cradle with my foot to quiet the baby."

"Come into the house, Elsli," said the doctor's wife; "you look very tired. Hans, if you will get down and come into the house yourself, you shall have a piece of bread and an apple. Come."

"If you won't come," said her sister, "you can stay here, while Rudi and Heili come with me and get bread and apples. They can walk, without hanging on to Elsli's skirts and tearing her to pieces. Come, boys!"

The two boys did not need urging, but followed their kind friend into the house. And even obstinate little Hans understood what bread and apple meant; when his sister put him down on his feet, he made no resistance, but, taking her hand, stumped along into the house without a word. Fred followed them, switching a willow wand, as if to suggest the most efficient method of teaching Hans to walk by himself. When they reached the dining-room, the boys opened their eyes wide to see the big loaf from which Mrs. Stein cut each a slice, and they were not slow in setting their teeth into the rosy apples, of which each had one for his own. Elsli too had an apple and a slice of bread.

Elsli explained that she had come to get the clothes which Mrs. Stein had told her father to send for.

"You cannot carry them, my child," said Mrs. Stein, "it is enough for you to take the boys home. Tell your mother that I have something to say to her; and when she comes to see me, she can carry the clothes home."

"Don't you care to eat the bread and apple, Elsli?" asked the aunt, noticing that the girl put the apple into her pocket, and held the bread in her hand.

Elsli blushed, as if she were guilty of a breach of good manners, and said, timidly: -- 

"I should like to take them home to Fani; he will not get any supper to-night."

"It is very nice of you to take it to him," said Mrs. Stein kindly, "but why will he not have his supper?"

"We have done supper at home, and we ate up everything, all the sour milk and potatoes, for there was not a great deal; and father said those who are not there at supper-time are not hungry, and can go without But I know that Fani is hungry, only he is busy about something, and forgets that it is time for supper."

"Where is he? Does he never help you with all these heavy children?"

"No, he is never allowed to help with the children. Mother says he's of no use; he only makes the children naughtier, and he'd better keep out of the way. So he does keep out of the way, and half the time doesn't get any supper, and I can't keep any for him. But he is always good and kind to me. When he does come home he writes my exercises for me; for I never can get time for my lessons, I am so busy all the evening, till mother comes and takes the lamp, and I go to bed."

"It's Fani's own fault if he doesn't come home in time for supper," said aunty. "And you never will learn anything, my child, if he always does your lessons for you."

Elsli turned very red, and her big blue eyes filled with tears.

"I know it. I am the stupidest and most backward scholar in the whole school."

"No, you're not stupid at all," cried Fred eagerly. "It is only that you never know the things that we have to learn by heart. And, now that I know why, I should just like to catch any one laughing at you again! They'd better try it!"

Elsli was seldom merry and lighthearted, like other girls of her age; she was too much weighed down with care and hard work. She looked gratefully at Fred for his kind confidence; but no real joy came into her worn face. She stood up presently and took up her burden again, for Hanseli had given several signs that he was ready to start for home, and wanted her to carry him. The two ladies stood at the door, and watched her as she walked away with slow and weary steps.

"Ah! how I wish that some ray of sunshine could come into that sweet girl's lot!" exclaimed the doctor's wife, and her sister was responding with the same thought, when the sound of noisy voices was heard, which became louder and louder, as Emma came running through the garden, a brother on each side, and both accosting her in vehement tones.

"What made you carry Fani off again?"

"What have you done with all the exercise-paper?"

"What are you and he up to now?"

"It's all your fault if we can't do our lessons."

"Where have you hidden him, so that he doesn't keep his promise and come to the meeting?"

"Where have you put all the paper; I haven't even begun on my exercises!"

The angry questioners, with Emma between them, came up the steps. Their mother was just then called away; their aunt exclaimed: -- 

"Be still, boys; how can Emma answer either of you, if you both keep up such a fire of questions?"

Emma darted to her aunt's side, and eagerly whispered in her ear what she had done with the paper; adding: -- 

"Do help me, aunty; you know if Oscar knew that, it would only make him more angry."

Her aunt could not find it in her heart to blame Emma for the use she had made of the paper.

"Come in, boys," she said, "and learn your lessons, and be quiet for a while; I'll give you plenty of paper"; adding, as a farther argument, "your father will be at home directly, and you know he will not want a noise in the house."

They came in quietly enough, and soon the four brothers and sisters were industriously at work over their lessons, around the table; even Oscar forgetting Fani for the time, in the interest of his studies. It seemed as if peace and quiet were ensured for the rest of the evening. But suddenly the silence was disturbed by a harrowing cry from Rikli, who pushed her chair back from the table, and ran out of the room into the passage-way, as if some monster were after her. All looked up from their work and looked around in alarm for the cause of the outburst.

"Here, here!" cried Emma, pointing to the table, where a shining green gold-chafer was gravely walking over the white paper, evidently an escaped prisoner from the pocket of the indefatigable collector.

"Oh, Fred! you shouldn't carry live creatures about in your pockets," said his mother, gently. "You have plenty of boxes for them. Just see what discomfort you give your neighbors, to say nothing of yourself and the poor little animals."

"Fred is nothing but a wandering menagerie-cage; and no decent person is safe anywhere near him," said Oscar, returning to his book.

"At any rate, my collections are not all the time falling through and coming to nothing, like your clubs," retorted Fred. "And see here, mamma, what a handsome and useful little fellow this is; let me read you what it says about him"; and Fred opened his book, which was always close at hand: -- 

"'The gold-chafer, Auratus, with its arched wing-coverings, and its strong pincers, lives upon caterpillars, larvae, and other injurious insects, and thus makes itself very useful. But instead of being protected on this account, as it deserves to be, it is everywhere persecuted and trodden upon.' So you see, mamma."

"We will not persecute your chafer, Fred; but his place is not in your pocket, nor on the study-table, my boy; take him away," said his mother; and at the same time his aunt called to Rikli through the open door: -- 

"Come back, dear little girl, and don't behave as if a little beetle could eat you up alive! If you go through life shrieking out over every trifle, you will some time or other be punished for it; for no one will pay any attention to your screams, even when there is something really the matter."

Rikli came back into the room just as Fred was carrying the beetle out, and, as they met in the door-way, Fred said: -- 

"I'll make up a poem about you. You are the musician with the sweet tones of your voice, and I am a brother-artist, a poet"

"Yes, yes! a lovely piece of poetry can be made about your pockets full of long-legged creatures, that come crawling out and stretch their horrid long legs all over the table!"

"Of course there could," said Fred stoutly, and went off to lodge his useful persecuted gold-chafer in his cabinet.

When the children were clearing away their work, before going to bed, their mother said: -- 

"To-morrow afternoon is a holiday, and I want you, Emma, to go and visit the little sick girl, Nora Stanhope; and it will be well for you to go every holiday and Sundays too. She will be very glad to see you."

"It will be a good thing for Emma to have a friend of her own; then perhaps she'll let other people's friends alone," said Oscar, in a tone of satisfaction.

Emma made no reply, but went quietly to bed; she had not the least idea of giving up her friendship for Fani, to please anybody.

As they were all going upstairs in a little family procession, -- first Oscar, then Emma, then the aunt, and last the two younger children, -- Fred turned to Rikli and said: -- 

"Haha, Rikli, this goes capitally!" and he sang in a loud voice to a tune of his own making: -- 

"Hanseli is a cry-baby, Rikli is another; She is so much like him, He must be her brother."

Rikli was breaking out into an indignant cry at this unflattering comparison, but her aunt turned and took her by the hand, saying: -- 

"Not again to-day, my dear, nor yet to-morrow, I hope. Show Fred that he is wholly wrong in likening you to that spoilt child."

It often happened, as to-night, that the mother was prevented by other duties from going up with the children to see them safe in their beds; and then the aunt had to go the rounds alone, and the children often came near quarrelling over her, for each one thought that the others had more than their fair share of her time and attention. To-night Fred was the unlucky one, and when his turn came, at last, he said quite earnestly: -- 

"I wish, aunty, that you could be divided in two and then multiplied by four, so that we could have two of you apiece; and then we should all get our rights."

Aunty was all ready to give Fred his full rights now; but at that moment came Kathri with imperative need of her in the kitchen, so she had to rob him of his share to-night; but she promised to make it up by giving him a double portion before the others to-morrow night.



Chapter V.

On Oak-Ridge.


When Dr. Stein received from his medical brother on the Rhine a letter, asking him to look out for a suitable summer lodging for Mrs. Stanhope and her little invalid daughter, he naturally turned the matter over to his wife, who of course took her sister into consultation. The first thing that suggested itself was the unused second story of Mr. Bickel's great house. The doctor's wife immediately went to make inquiries, but she met with no encouragement. Mrs. Bickel declared that she could not spare any rooms; in the first place, she needed them herself; and then she wondered how any one could think of such a thing as that she should let strangers into her beautifully furnished apartments, which no one had ever yet occupied. Mrs. Stein hastened to apologize; she only asked for a friend, and meant no harm by asking; but it was so difficult to find lodgings in Buchberg, and this was a case of great need. Mrs. Bickel could not get over it, however, and long afterwards from time to time she would break out to her husband, "Do you suppose that doctor's wife thought we built this house to let?" and Mr. Bickel, equally indignant, would add, "And to people that we know nothing whatever about; nor even whether they would pay their rent!"

Mrs. Stein, disappointed in her first trial, bethought herself, as she turned away from the Bickel mansion, of a certain new house that had just been built on Oak-ridge by a man who occupied only the lower floor; the upper story standing empty, waiting for the owner's son, who was to be married in the autumn. There was a wonderfully beautiful view from the windows out and far away over the green hills, with a background of snow-covered mountains, and westward down the wooded valley, through which rushed the waters of a mountain stream. Mrs. Stein immediately turned her steps towards the Oak-ridge; and in a few moments' interview all was happily arranged, to the satisfaction of both parties; and in a few days, with her assistance, the rooms were nicely furnished and stood ready for the reception of the lodgers.

Mrs. Stanhope and her daughter had now been settled in these lodgings several days, and no one but the doctor and his wife had yet visited them; for Nora had been very much fatigued by the journey and could see no one. But to-day the doctor had promised that Emma should come to see her, and Nora was seated at the window that looked towards the west, her favorite view; for there she could see the foaming brook as it poured from the mountain-side down through the valley; and there too the sunset-clouds were painted each evening by the setting sun, and made glorious pictures that delighted her sick and weary eyes.

Presently Nora saw a young girl coming up the hill-side towards the house. Could it be Emma? Nora saw with amazement how she came springing up the steep path without once pausing to take breath. It was inconceivable! She would surely fall from sheer exhaustion! But the next moment there was a knock at the door, and in came Emma with bright red cheeks, and in her hand a bunch of red and blue wild-flowers, which she held out to the pale little invalid, displaying by the gesture a brown, well-rounded arm. Mrs. Stanhope greeted her kindly and gave her a seat near Nora, who took the flowers with grateful thanks. No two girls could have offered a greater contrast to each other than these two, as they sat side by side. Emma, glowing, active, hearty, her every movement speaking of healthy energy; and Nora, pale, languid, like a broken lily, that would be wafted away by the next passing breeze. Mrs. Stanhope looked at them for a few moments, and then, as the tears rose to her eyes, she hastened away into the other room.

"Where did you find those beautiful flowers?" asked Nora.

"In the meadow, as I came along; it is full of them; red and white marguerites and forget-me-nots, such a quantity! you ought to see them! As soon as you are well enough, we will go and pick forget-me-nots, and later will come strawberries and then bilberries."

Nora shook her head. "I should not enjoy it."

Emma did not know what to make of this, for she could think of nothing more delightful, but immediately she bethought herself.

"Oh, of course you don't know how pleasant it is, because you don't have such flowers where you live, and strawberries don't grow wild there; but you will enjoy going out to pick them; you can't help it, it seems as if you could never pick enough; it's such fun that you hate to have it time to go home."

"Yes, I always think it must be beautiful to be out-of-doors," said Nora thoughtfully. "But when I go it tires me terribly, and there's not a bit of fun when I'm all tired out."

Emma looked at her companion as puzzled as if she were speaking in a foreign tongue. "Tired" was a word unknown to Emma's vocabulary. Her greatest sorrow when evening came, was that the day was done and she must go to bed. No day was long enough to tire her nimble feet, and her only regret was that she ever had to stop walking and running and climbing. She stared at Nora a moment, not knowing what to say, and then the very face at which she was gazing put a thought into her head, and she said cheerfully: -- 

"I see now what you mean, but that is only because you are not strong and well; pretty soon you will be well, and then you will feel very differently; you will be like me, and I am never tired."

Nora shook her head. "I shall never be like you. I was always so, always tired. I can't bear even to think about running; the very thought tires me. I shall never enjoy it."

Emma began to feel very much worried.

"Oh, but there must be something that you enjoy doing; you must have something to think about at night that you are going to do the next day; some plan, some game, some fun or other! Oh, my father will make you well and strong, and you must believe that he will, or else you won't be happy and will grow worse and worse."

"I do have something that I love to think about and to look forward to. When I see other children jumping and running easily, as you did when you came up the hill just now, I think how much more beautiful it is in heaven than it is here; and how I shall not be sick or tired there, but can run about as much as I please among the beautiful flowers that grow there; roses and lilies that never fade. Sha'n't you be glad to go to heaven?"

Emma was nonplussed. She knew that it was beautiful in heaven, to be sure; but she did not want to go there now; the earth too was beautiful and she was happy enough here; she had not half exhausted the pleasures and delights of her life. Nora seemed waiting for an answer, and Emma stammered out: -- 

"I never thought about it at all!"

Nora looked disappointed.

"Oh! that is too bad that we cannot talk about heaven. There is no one but Clarissa whom I can speak to about it, and she did not come with us; I don't mention it to mamma, because she begins to cry directly. I thought when you came you would like it; I'm sorry you don't."

Emma did not answer. She was trying to think of something which Nora would like to talk about instead of heaven. A gleam of hope came to her.

"I know one thing you will enjoy," she said; "very soon they will begin to cut the grass on the meadow, and they will pile it into beautiful soft hay-cocks, and we will go and lie down upon them all day long; it cannot tire you to lie in the hay, and it's perfectly lovely."

But Nora only shook her head again, and said nothing; she had no belief in the power of hay to make her well again, and the prospect was not to be compared to the pleasures of a heavenly garden. Emma thought it time for her to say good-bye. Mrs. Stanhope came in, and begged her to stay a while longer; her mother knew where she was, and there was no reason for her hurrying away. Nora, however, did not second her mother's efforts, and Emma was anxious to go. It was getting late, she said, confusedly. She had better be at home; and she hastily took her leave. As soon as she stood outside the house, she made one big spring, and never stopped running, downhill and then up, till she stood on her own door-step; and then she suddenly reflected that she was not expected to come back so soon, and that her brothers were sure to make some unpleasant remarks on her quick return; so she tried to think what she could do with herself for a while. "I'll find aunty," was her speedy decision, "and I'll tell her all about my visit, and how different it was from what I expected, and how I had to come away because I couldn't think of anything more to say to Nora. Aunty'll understand, and she won't let the boys laugh at me."

She ran into the house, and at her aunt's door she ran plump into Fred, who was coming out.

"Oh, ho! what happened over there between you and your new friend, Emma? Something has gone wrong, or you wouldn't be at home so soon!" cried Fred, far too cleverly.

Emma did not answer, but went into the room, where her aunt was alone, sewing at her work-table. Emma sat down as close as she could to her, to show that she was in possession, and no one else could have aunty now.

In the kitchen, Marget was standing; Mrs. Stein offered her a chair and gave her a cup of coffee steaming hot, saying: -- 

"Do take a moment to rest, Marget; I've been for some time wanting a chance to talk with you. I sent for you not only to give you the clothes, but to talk with you a little about Elsli. I am worried about that child; she looks so pale and thin. Hanseli is far too heavy for her to carry, and then the other two boys are always hanging about her and pulling her down. She will soon break down at this rate; you must see for yourself how miserably she looks, and you ought not to let her be so overworked."

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Stein, it's very easy to say that," interrupted Marget; "but what can people like us do? I have all I can do from morning till night to get the children clothed and fed; and how could I do it if I had to have all the little crybabies round me all the time? There's nobody but Elsli to help me with them. That big Fani might help her to be sure, but he always forgets; he means well enough, but he's thoughtless. Elsli does have to work pretty hard, I know; but she may as well get used to it, for it'll only be harder by and by."

"But, Marget," resumed Mrs. Stein, "I tell you Elsli will break down and be sick, and then where will you be?"

"Where shall I be? God only knows. Such as us can't afford to stop and think what's going to happen; it's all we can do to get along to-day, without thinking about to-morrow. All I know is, I can't spare Elsli from the children, and the older she grows the harder it will be for her; for she'll have to go into the factory as soon as she can earn wages, and that's harder work than looking after the children. Fani will go first Old Cousin Fekli has his eye on him for Easter, and has said to me two or three times that he wanted the boy as soon as possible. Cousin Fekli wouldn't want him if he didn't think he could make something out of him; he doesn't forget to look out for his own profits."

"Are you really related to Mr. Bickel?"

"To be sure I am; we had the same great-grandfathers, so we are second cousins. He doesn't care to acknowledge us, but when he passes me, I always say distinctly, 'Good-day, cousin'; and I don't mind if he does look rather askance as if he didn't know who I was -- that's his look-out. I'm glad he knows Fani and has his eye on him; if the boy can earn a trifle by working for him, it will be something to help keep the pot boiling."

Mrs. Stein now brought the bag which Elsli had left behind, which she had filled with clothing for Marget's children.

"Do try to remember about Elsli," she said. "I will do all I can to help you, if you will only spare the child as much as you can."

"Well, as much as I can, yes," said the woman. "But you must understand that I have my work to do, and the boys must be kept from under my feet while I am at work, and there's no one but Elsli to see to them. We are all well now; and yet I have to use both hands to keep things going, and feed all these mouths every day. How can I make things easier? If sickness comes, it will be time enough then to change our ways. It comes hardest on me, after all. No one knows what poverty is but those that have been through it; but I can't help thinking sometimes that the Lord God loves some of his children better than he does others."

"Try not to think that, Marget," said the doctor's wife in her kindest tones, for the hard lot of the poor was a sad trial to her tender heart. "There are many sufferings besides poverty, and some which are much harder to bear. Our Father in heaven knows why he sends them to us. Still, I know how hard poverty is, and it is a great grief to me that I cannot help the poor as I should like to."

Marget took up the bag and went away. Mrs. Stein went back into the sitting-room with a heavy heart; for she was fully convinced that Elsli's fate was to succumb under the heavy load that poverty pressed down upon her delicate frame; and, sighing deeply, she sat down by her sister's side, intending to lay the case before her, and see what impression Marget's words would make upon her; for aunty had always a cheerful word to say and she took a bright view of possibilities. But, before Emma could get through her confidences and give her mother a chance to speak, Kathri put her head into the room with: -- 

"Here's another woman wants you; will you come out into the kitchen again?"

"Another? who is it now?" asked her mistress in a weary tone.

"Oh, as if I could pronounce or remember such an outlandish name!"

"It can't be Mrs. Stanhope that you've left standing out in the kitchen!" asked aunty, anxiously.

"Yes, that's it," said Kathri, adding impatiently: "If she'd only call herself hop-stand or hop-pole or something sensible, I could remember it; but to twist it upside down so, it's just nonsense."

However, Kathri thought she should never make a mistake in that name again; for the picture of a hop-pole standing upside down would always come up when she thought of it.

Mrs. Stein hastened out and asked her visitor to come into the parlor. Mrs. Stanhope had come to inquire if it would be possible to find a child to come between school-hours, twice a day, to do errands and small household chores, such as the maid-servant could not find time for.

In a moment Elsli's pale face came up before Mrs. Stein's mind's eye, and she thought how much better off the girl would be going on errands for Mrs. Stanhope than carrying her big little brother about in her arms. And she thought that if Marget could be sure of a little ready money every day, she would manage to let Elsli go.

"I know of a very neat, respectable young girl, who would please you, I am sure," she said; "only I am not quite sure whether her mother will let her go, because she needs the child so much at home."

"Promise her good pay," said Mrs. Stanhope, eagerly. "I will give the mother whatever she asks, if she will let me have the girl."

Mrs. Stein was so delighted with such a prospect for Elsli that she started out immediately to see what Marget would say to it, accompanying Mrs. Stanhope for some distance on her way home, and then turning off on the lane that led to Heiri's cottage. Marget was alone, at the wash-tub. It did not take much persuasion to obtain her consent, for of course the money was a great inducement.

"It will not be for long," she said, "and the children must manage to get along without Elsli." So it was settled that Elsli should go the next day, at eleven o'clock, to Mrs. Stanhope's, to begin her new duties.

Late that evening, when the two sisters sat down at the work-table together, after the children were in bed, aunty repeated Emma's confidences to her mother; how the visit to the sick girl had been a complete failure, for Emma was sure that Nora did not care to have her come again, any more than she herself cared to go; for she couldn't think of anything to say, and Nora didn't want to talk either, and they didn't like the same things at all.

Mrs. Stein was surprised and disappointed. Emma's stock of conversation had never been known to give out before, and her mother had been confident that her merry talk would be a real pleasure to the sick child, and help to pass happily many a tedious hour of her long day; and, on the other hand, she relied much on the benefit which her romping little girl would receive from the refined and gentle Nora. She saw, however, that there was nothing to be done about it, and that she could only trust to time, which often works wonders when things seem hopeless.

"By and by, perhaps, they will come together. Children often do, just when you least expect it," she said.

Her sister shook her head. "Emma and Nora were not made for each other, any more than fire and water," she said; and then they quitted the subject, and talked about Elsli's prospects, and rejoiced at the thought that the days of servitude to her burdensome little brothers were over, at least for the present.



Chapter VI.

Aunty Is In Demand Again.


On the following day, at eleven o'clock, Elsli entered the house at Oak-ridge as quietly as a little mouse; so quietly that Nora did not hear her come into the house, and was startled when she suddenly saw her standing just inside the door of the sitting-room. Elsli had brushed her light brown hair carefully back from her forehead, leaving only a few soft curls to wave about her eyes. Her mother had allowed her to put on a fresh white apron and a bright kerchief, as she was going among the gentry. The little pale face had a somewhat anxious look, and her big blue eyes had a timid expression as she glanced toward Nora, doubting whether she ought to come into the room or not.

"Come in," said Nora; "are you the girl who is coming to do our errands?"

Elsli answered in so gentle a voice, and her whole air was so winning, that Nora felt instantly drawn towards her, and she stretched out her hand, saying, "Come here, and sit down by me, and let us have a little talk. Isn't your name Elsli?" she continued; "mamma has some errands for you this morning; sewing-silk and pencils and eggs to get; but can't you sit down and talk with me a little first, or will that give you too little time for them, so that you'll have to hurry and so you'll get tired."

"Oh, no, the errands will not tire me," replied Elsli. "I get tired at home, because I have to carry the little boys about so much."

"Then you do know what it is to feel tired, very tired?"

"Yes, indeed, I know only too well. I am almost always tired, and sometimes I think I should like to lie down and never get up again. Hanseli is getting dreadfully heavy, and I can scarcely carry him any longer, but he won't walk, and only screams and kicks if I put him down."

"I'm glad to find somebody who knows what it is to be tired; now we can talk about it, can't we? Don't you feel sometimes as if you never wanted to stand up again, and wouldn't you like to have something happen that would make you over new and take all the tired feelings away?"

"But nothing can happen; you only just have to get up again."

"I mean something different from usual; wouldn't you like to lie down and die, Elsli?"

"Why, no; I don't think I should like to die. I never thought of that. What makes you think of it?"

"I suppose you don't know what it will be like. Clarissa told me all about it, and we have talked it over a great many times together. I never talk to mamma about it, because she always begins to cry. But I will tell you, and then you will be glad too to think about going to heaven. I'll tell you the pretty song that Clarissa taught me. Would you like to hear it now?"

Elsli would have been glad to hear the song, but at that moment Mrs. Stanhope entered the room. She was much surprised to see the two little girls already on such good terms, and still more so when Nora said: -- 

"Mamma dear, there is really no hurry about the silk and the pencils, nor about the eggs either; I don't care for any of them just now; it will do as well by and by. I'd rather have Elsli stay here with me."

Her mother was well pleased, and answered, -- 

"Certainly; Elsli can stay with you now; it will be time enough for the errands when she comes in the afternoon."

The two children were equally delighted; Nora at the prospect of pleasant intercourse to enliven her weary hours, and Elsli at the thought of sitting in peace and quiet by this friendly new acquaintance.

As Mrs. Stanhope sat down with them, nothing more could be said about the Song of Paradise, and Nora must put off till another time her account of all that Clarissa had told her about the happiness of the heavenly life. So at first there was silence between them, but then she asked Elsli about her life at home, and Elsli told about her little brothers and the baby, and then about Fani; and once started upon that topic she hardly knew where to stop. She told how kind he was to her, and how clever at his lessons, how he helped her with her exercises, and she did not know how she could live without him. If she was ever so tired and miserable, it always rested her and made her happy to have Fani come home; for he was so full of hope and courage that it seemed as if her burdens were lifted off, and she felt as gay as he did, while he described the delightful things that they would do and see together some day.

Mrs. Stanhope listened with pleasure to the soft-voiced child whose blue eyes grew more and more tender as she talked on about her brother. As for Nora, she did not lose a word of it all, and evidently lived it over in imagination with the deepest interest, and when her mother said: -- 

"Now, Elsli, it is time for you to go; we shall expect you back at four o'clock," Nora added: -- 

"And tell your mother that you will not be at home till eight; you will have supper here."

With a happy heart the little maiden went off to school, and as soon as school was over, she darted off, not even stopping to speak to Emma, lest she should be detained. As she was hurrying along the path towards Oak-ridge, she heard some one calling to her, -- 

"Wait, wait, I say; why don't you stop when I tell you to?" It was Feklitus who was running after her: -- 

"I can't stop, I shall be late," called Elsli over her shoulder, and ran on; Feklitus followed for a while, very angry, and sending fearful threats after her; but he grew soon out of breath, and when he stopped to catch his breath and cough, he saw that she was quite beyond the reach of even his voice, and that farther chase was useless.

As for Elsli, she never drew a long breath till she had reached the house at Oak-ridge. Nora had been watching for her from the window, and she called out eagerly: -- 

"Come in, Elsli; come here and rest; you shouldn't run so hard." She found Nora alone, and Nora told her, with great satisfaction, that her mother had gone out for a walk at her request, and that they were to be left together for the whole evening.

"So now," she added, "I shall have a chance to tell you a great deal that you have never thought about; that is, how delightful it will be when we leave earth and go to heaven. Oh! oh!" she continued, growing more and more excited as she went on, "who can tell how beautiful it will be? Far more lovely than anything we have ever seen; and there will be no sick people there, and no one is tired there; everybody is happy, and there is a river with flowers growing along its banks, and -- but wait; I will tell you Clarissa's song, and then you'll know about it."

Nora's great eyes grew more sparkling, and the red spot in her pale cheeks burned more than ever, as she recited the Song of Paradise; while Elsli listened with growing wonder to her excited tones. It seemed as if she saw the beauty that the song described, and her voice trembled with emotion. When she ceased with the last words, "The sick are well again," Elsli sat silent and motionless, oppressed with awe and with this wholly new experience, while Nora seemed absorbed in her own thoughts.

"Don't you like the song?" asked she at last.

"Oh, yes, indeed!" said Elsli decidedly.

"Wouldn't you like to go with me, where it is so beautiful?"

"Are you going?" asked Elsli.

"Oh, yes, very soon. Clarissa told me long ago about it; and how Philo went, and I should go too. She has talked to me again and again about it; and I long to go, because no one is ever sick or tired there. And, when I go, wouldn't you like to go with me, Elsli?"

"Yes, I should like it," said Elsli, catching the enthusiasm of the beautiful hope which shone in Nora's eyes. "But can we go whenever we want to?"

"Oh, no; the good God calls us when our turn comes. I only want to know if you want to go, as I do, so that we can talk about it together. And perhaps we shall be called at the same time; and how delightful it would be to go together and walk in the bright gardens, and pick the roses and lilies by the shining river, and never be sick or tired any more, but be happy forever!"

So Nora talked on about the heavenly land, and Elsli's eyes grew larger as the glories of the future life were pictured to her, and a wholly new world opened before her. Time flew rapidly by, and they did not notice its passage.

Meantime, in the house of Dr. Stein, life was moving on in a much more lively manner. After school, Oscar, Emma, and Fred had started off, each in a different direction. Each was occupied with his own plans. Fred took the road towards home. He had a very interesting description of a rare little animal to read to his aunt, and he was very glad that the others were bound elsewhere, and he had the way clear before him. When he saw Feklitus running after Elsli in hot haste, he called out, with a sarcastic laugh: -- 

"Hallo, Feklitus! it's a fine thing to have somebody like Elsli to make use of, isn't it?" For he had noticed that when Feklitus couldn't understand anything in his lessons, he always went to Elsli secretly for help, for he didn't want the big boys to know that he couldn't get along without it.

Content with this scathing sarcasm, Fred ran on to the house, where through the open door of the kitchen he saw his aunt standing by the table, stirring something in a pudding-bowl. She was reading aloud from a paper that lay on the table before her. "Take four large eggs, two spoonfuls of flour, and the rind of a lemon"; and she started back as Fred suddenly sprang in with a shout of delight at his good-fortune at finding her alone. "This is splendid, aunty! Now, just hear this!"

He seated himself on a high stool, spread his book upon his knees and began: -- 

"You know that papa once caught a bittern. Well, I want to read you a description of it. The 'bittern, Stellaris,' -- are you listening, aunty?"

"Oh, yes, I'm listening. Go on."

" -- 'is of a reddish yellow color, with spots of black. It makes a strange noise in the night; usually Krawy! Krawy! but sometimes Uplumb! Uplumb! The hen lays four biggish eggs.' Do you know what I am reading, aunty? What was the last thing?"

"Yes, yes, I heard. 'The hen lays four biggish eggs,' -- two spoonfuls of flour, and the rind of a lemon," said his aunt, unconsciously speaking out what was on her mind.

Fred looked up anxiously, for she had spoken quite seriously, without a trace of fun in her tones.

"Oh, I didn't mean that," she said, laughing, as she observed her mistake. "I was only thinking more of my receipt than of your bittern, Fred."

"I'm glad you don't really think that birds lay flour and lemon-peel," said Fred, and went on: -- 

"'The flesh tastes of -- '"

But the description was interrupted. Oscar and Emma came bursting into the kitchen together, and while Oscar stood as close to his aunt, as he could, on the right, Emma pulled her head down on the left and began whispering into her ear. Between the two, she had hard work to keep on with her pudding.

"Only think, aunty," began Oscar, "Feklitus says now that he won't have our motto on the banner, that he has heard another that he likes a great deal better. What do you say, aunty? What shall we do about it? You know how cross he is when he is opposed, and he'll break off altogether."

"Emma, do be still a moment; I will listen to you presently. Now, Oscar, what is this verse that Feklitus proposes; let us hear it and see if it is a good one."

"Liberty, Equality, Fraternity; With song and the juice of the vine,"

repeated Oscar.

"Is that all?"

Oscar nodded.

"Well, we cannot put that on the banner, at any rate," said his aunt decidedly. "Tell Feklitus that there isn't even a verb in that motto, and it won't do. I advise you to ask him to make the speech at the festival, and then perhaps he'll drop the question of the motto."

"What a splendid idea! We never even thought of a speech! that's just the thing!" and Oscar rushed away in a state of great enthusiasm.

"Now, aunty," cried Emma, in a tone of relief as he disappeared, "it's my turn now. Don't you think I am right?"

"I didn't hear exactly what you said, Emma," said her aunt; "I haven't the gift of hearing different things with different ears at the same time."

"What I say is that it's a shame for Fani to have to go to work in that factory, and not have any time to paint and draw. I am sure he ought to be a painter, right away; and if he goes into the factory he can't get out till it's too late."

"But, Emma, it's not such an easy thing to become a painter as you seem to think. And, then, who knows whether Fani has really talent enough; it needs much more than merely to be able to copy nicely at school, you know."

"But, aunty, I only want you to say that it would be much better for Fani to be a painter, if he can, than to go into the factory. Now, don't you really and truly think so, aunty?"

Emma was so pressing that her aunt could not avoid answering her; so she said kindly, "If Fani had any real prospect of becoming a painter, I should certainly think well of it; but I do not see that he has any."

"May I go on now, aunty?" asked Fred; "it seems to me that Emma is talking a vast deal of nonsense, as usual."

But Emma was not to be put off so.

"Aunty," she said, "what is a decorator?"

"A person who decorates; that is, adorns or beautifies. Why do you ask, my child?"

"It means a scene-painter too; a man who paints scenery for the stage," said Fred.

"Yes, that's it," said Emma, and she scampered away.

Fred sat silent for a while, and then he said: -- 

"Aunty dear, did you notice how queerly Emma behaved? Do you suppose she is thinking of going on the stage?"

"No, indeed, my dear boy," said his aunt calmly; "she has no idea of that kind, you may be sure."

"Well, take my word for it, she has something out of the way in her head. She's not often very particular to know the meaning of a word; she's not very keen after knowledge. I'm sure there's something in the wind."

There was no time for more; for a sudden familiar shriek struck their ears.

"A snake! oh, a snake! a snake!"

Fred clapped his hand to his pocket, and then ran out-of-doors.

"Now I can finish the pudding," thought aunty; but another still wilder scream betokened such dire alarm that she threw down her spoon and followed.

It was Rikli, of course, who was standing half-way down the steps leading up to the back door, looking down on a pretty little green snake on the step below, that was wriggling along as fast as possible, trying to make its escape. Fred was seated quietly on the top step, waiting for the noise to subside.

"How absurd you are, Rikli," said her aunt gently; "if you are so afraid of that harmless little creature, why don't you turn round and run away?"

"It will run after me, and catch me! it is a snake!" cried the child, jumping up and down.

"Fred, take the little thing away," said his aunt; "I suppose it belongs to you."

"Yes; I had it in my pocket, and I suppose it crept out while I was reading. But I think Rikli ought to be taught not to behave so ridiculously. I thought I'd wait a little while and see if she wouldn't get over it."

Their aunt agreed that it was high time for Rikli to conquer her foolish fears, but she doubted whether Fred's method was a very wise one. Something must be done about it, but not just this; so she bade Rikli to come up the steps, and Fred to carry off the offender, and let her finish her pudding.



Chapter VII.

What Oscar Founded And What Emma Planned.


Feklitus took very kindly to the idea of making the speech at the Musical Festival, and told his parents at once of the coming event. This announcement made a great sensation in the household of Mr. Bickel, who at once ordered a new suit and a new pair of boots for the boy; and both parents determined to go and hear him speak. A change had come over the boy since this proposal had been made to him. He became very silent and went about with his head bowed and his brows knit as if oppressed with heavy thoughts.

One afternoon he came out of school and made one great spring from the upper step to the ground. It was not from joyfulness of heart that he made this leap, but because the sudden pressure of those who came behind him gave him an irresistible impulse, and he could not stop for the single steps. He did not go on with the other boys, but turned round the corner of the school-house, and waited there till all the girls had passed out, in groups of two and three, and, last of all, Elsli came hurrying along alone; she had been delayed by waiting to write out her exercise for the next day. Suddenly she felt herself seized from behind and held fast.

"Let me go, Feklitus," she cried; "I am in a hurry; Nora is waiting for me."

"I want to ask you something first," said the boy, "and then you may go."

He spoke in a masterful voice, and held fast to the child's frock.

"Tell me this; if you were going to make a speech at a musical festival, how should you begin?"

"What a stupid question, Feklitus! when you know perfectly well that I should never do such a thing!" And Elsli tried to pull her dress away from the boy's hand; but he held her fast.

"I didn't say you would; but suppose you did, -- you can suppose anything, -- how would you begin?"

"I don't know, I'm sure; I never thought anything about it in my life."

"Come, now, if you don't tell me, I'll keep you here till after dark. Come; I'll just make a beginning, to start you. Begin: Highly respected gentlemen and brothers -- now, what next?"

"Let me go; I really ought to go. I have no idea what to say next."

"What an obstinate girl you are!" cried Feklitus angrily; "I'll punish you for this before long; when you come into the factory, you'll catch it; you see if you don't!"

This vague threat frightened Elsli the more from its very vagueness; so she thought for a moment, and then began; -- 

"Highly respected gentlemen and brothers! Now that we have sung together, let us rejoice together; and enjoy a long, long festival!"

As Elsli spoke, Feklitus relaxed his hold of her, as she had hoped he would do; and instantly she darted away like an arrow shot from a bow; and before Feklitus had recovered from his surprise, she had gone beyond pursuit. The boy looked thoughtfully after her retreating figure for a few moments, and then went towards home.

On the next Sunday the great Musical Festival was to take place; and the banner would be ready but just in season. The day before, there was to be a rehearsal of the performance, so that Feklitus might try his speech, and the order of the procession be arranged. A table-cloth tied to a pole was to take the place of the unfinished banner.

It is needless to say that there was but little appetite for dinner at Dr. Stein's table on this Saturday; Oscar rose as soon as he could hope to be excused, and Emma did not remain any longer. She had scarcely taken her eyes from the clock since she sat down, and had answered at cross purposes all dinner-time.

"What are you children about now, that you are in such a tremendous hurry?" asked their father, as they were leaving the room. Emma did not wait to answer.

But Oscar said: -- 

"You will see to-morrow. To-day we are going to put up the stand for the speaker and to arrange the procession. You'll be surprised, I'm sure. Of course you'll come and hear Feklitus speak?"

"With pleasure. Your mother and aunt will go too, I'm sure. Are you one of the company, Fred?"

"No, indeed. I have more important things to interest me. It is of more use to find and to study the smallest common frog than to attend a thousand musical festivals."

Rikli started as if she thought he was going to produce a specimen of frog from his pocket at that moment. Oscar cast a look of pity upon his brother, and left the room.

That afternoon as Mrs. Stein and her sister sat out in the garden, with their work-basket on the table between them, the former said: -- 

"It is singular how things repeat themselves. When the children tell us how Feklitus is constantly running after Elsli, though no one can understand why, it reminds me of times long ago when his father, stout Fekli, used to pursue Gritli, and how she used to run on before him, looking back now and then and calling out with a laugh: -- 

"'Come and catch me if you dare, You big, heavy-footed bear,'" -- 

A piercing shriek broke in upon the laugh which followed the repetition of this long-forgotten couplet, and they both sprang to their feet; but immediately recognizing the voice, they sat quietly down again, and resumed their work.

"It is only Rikli," said her mother; "she is always in a fright about nothing."

"Fred is probably amusing himself at her expense with some beetle or frog," said the aunt. "I can't help being sorry for the child, and it's too bad of Fred; but it's useless to run to her every time she screams."

Just then the sound of singing arose from the other side of the garden, apparently trying to overpower the noise of the child's cry, and they heard the words: -- 

"Hanseli is a cry-baby, Rikli is another; She's so exactly like him That he must be her brother."

"That's Fred!" exclaimed Mrs. Stein. "So he is certainly not with Rikli." And as the little girl's shrieks grew louder she began to think something serious was the matter, and the two ladies started away in the direction of the sound. Poor Rikli was indeed in a wretched plight. She was standing in a ditch, covered quite to her neck in the muddy water, and holding up her arms above her head, in an effort to protect it from the many little green frogs that were sporting about her. Aunty reached her first, and, taking the little girl by the arm, she quickly rescued her from her uncomfortable position. As soon as Rikli found herself in safety, she exclaimed reproachfully: -- 

"Why didn't you come when I called you first?"

They did not stop to answer her, but hurried her into the house, and forthwith into the bath-tub without delay. After the necessary scrubbing and cleansing were over, Rikli put her question again, and the explanation she received was likely to impress upon her the folly of unnecessary alarm, and the certainty that her cries would be unheeded as long as she persisted in uttering them so needlessly.

All this time Oscar was occupied with assembling his chorus in the place chosen for the festival, that the rehearsal might be conducted in due order, except the currant-wine and gingerbread, which naturally were reserved for the festival itself, which was to come off next day. The stage was made of four posts, stuck into the ground, and covered with boards.

The moment for beginning the performance arrived; Feklitus mounted the platform.

"Highly respected gentlemen and brothers! now that we have sung together so well, let us rejoice together; and celebrate the event with a great feast, and all touch glasses together."

With these words, spoken in a loud but rather hurried voice, Feklitus bowed to the company, and came down from the stage.

"Go on, go on with your speech!" shouted every one.

"Why, that's all; and then we must all touch glasses," said Feklitus, who was quite satisfied and elated at having got through so well.

But at his words arose a great uproar; the boys wanted more, and insisted on Feklitus' going on. Oscar alone said not a word; he was transfixed with one thought, that had been suggested by the first words of this brief speech. "Now that we have sung!" To be sure, it had not occurred to him that to have a Musical Festival successful, there ought to be some music. But it was not too late yet to repair the oversight. Controlling his mortification at his blunder, he sprang to the platform, and tried to call the attention of the noisy crowd.

"Here, fellows, listen to me! Be quiet! I want to tell you something important!" and as the noise began to subside, he shouted: -- 

"We must have some singing! Who of you can sing? We'll find a song, and then learn it. Who can sing?"

But no one came forward; no one could sing! Feklitus declared that there was no need of singing; a speech, a procession, a banner, a collation; why did they want anything else? But Oscar was determined to have a song, and suddenly he thought of Fani. Where was Fani? He could sing, and should sing. But Fani was not to be found, and soon the assembly broke up; the members scattered, and the platform raised its head in solitary grandeur.

Oscar ran home in a state of tremendous excitement. What would become of his much-boasted festival if he could get no music for it? His father's jests, Fred's air of superiority, all the mortifying consequences rankled in his mind. Fani must be found, and if only he would lead, the rest must somehow be got to join in.

As he reached the house, he met Emma just coming home.

"Where is Fani?" he asked. "Have you been putting him up to something that has made him desert us and go off with you instead?"

Emma colored, but did not reply; she went on into the house, as if she did not hear a word that Oscar said. As she came into the sitting-room, Kathri opened the opposite door, saying: -- 

"Marget is here, asking if any one has seen Fani? she wants him in a hurry, and has been hunting everywhere for him."

Emma's face and neck became flaming red; she seized her aunt's hand, and drew her out of the room. Mrs. Stein went into the kitchen to see what Marget's haste was. She learned that Mr. Bickel had just been to her house to say that he wanted Fani immediately in the factory; he had a place for him at once. He needn't leave school, but could come in the afternoon and on holidays, and he would earn quite a good bit of money directly. Marget had been trying in vain to find Fani, to come and talk to her cousin; she was very much afraid that the great man would be angry at being kept waiting, and Fani would lose the place.

Mrs. Stein told Marget that she would send Oscar to look everywhere for the missing boy, and Marget went home.

Meantime, Emma had drawn her aunt into her own room, and as soon as they were safely inside, with the door shut, she began in imploring tones: -- 

"Oh, aunty, help me! help me! so that no harm will come of it, and that papa may not be angry with me, and make Fani's mother understand how splendid it is going to be, and that Fani will be a great painter by and by. He has gone to Basel to-day!"

"To Basel! I hope you are not in earnest, Emma!" said her aunt, much disturbed.

"Yes, it is really true, aunty. Do go to Fani's mother and explain to her that it's all right, and don't let her come to papa about it. I'll tell you just how it was, and then you can tell Marget. I saw an advertisement in a newspaper the other day, like this, 'A decorator in Basel wants a lad, about twelve years of age, to do light work and learn the business.' Then the address was given. I showed it to Fani, and we both thought that it would be a good chance for him to learn to paint, and at the same time to earn something, so that he needn't go into the factory. Don't you remember that you said a decorator meant a beautifier, and Fred said it meant a scene-painter? Fani can paint roses and flowers and garlands, and he wanted awfully to go. At first he said he must ask his mother; but then he thought it would be no use, because she said painting was no work at all, but only nonsense. So we planned that he should just go off; and then, if they asked where he was, I should tell them; and as soon as he can, he is to write and tell them that he is going to be a painter."

"This is terrible!" exclaimed her aunt.

"You've done great mischief, Emma. What will become of him, and how will he get to Basel without money?"

Emma said she had given him all her own money, and he could certainly reach Basel, and if only aunty would go and tell his mother about it, all would be right. Aunty lost no time. She went directly to Heiri's cottage, and met Mr. Bickel coming out from the door-way.

"As I have said," was his closing remark, "I will soon put a stop to his loafing; for I will cut off his wages every hour that he idles."

"You can't cut down his wages, Cousin Bickel, before he begins to have any," said Marget to herself as Mr. Bickel marched off with his most important air.

Aunty went into the little house. The outer door opened into the kitchen, and beyond was the living-room. The door between stood open, and through it could be seen two very old cradles, and the wash-tub stood near the door in the kitchen, so that as she stood at her work Marget could watch the three little boys and the baby at the same time. Although Hans was now two years old, he still had a cradle, which served as a bed at night, and as a means of quieting him by day. Whenever he set up his accustomed scream, his mother laid him into the cradle, where, soothed by the rocking motion, he soon fell asleep. The two older brothers, Rudi and Heirli, standing one each side of the cradle, pushed it back and forth with great good-will.

Aunty sat down by the wash-tub, and, after begging Marget to go on with her work, she began gently to unfold her story, winding up with the offer of writing immediately to Basel, to find out how Fani was situated, and on what terms his master had taken him. Then, if everything was not satisfactory, he could be brought home again. In Marget's ears still lingered her Cousin Bickel's threat about cutting down wages. Perhaps Fani wouldn't earn much at the factory after all. If he were in Basel, she should not have his food to provide, and if he could earn enough to clothe himself while learning a trade, it would probably be better than he could do at home, and no trouble to her either. As these calculations passed through Marget's mind, she concluded not to oppose the boy's wishes, and she assured her visitor that his father would be satisfied if the doctor's family thought it a good arrangement, and would some of them look after the boy a little. It was a great relief to Emma's kind aunt that so little blame was likely to attach to the girl for the consequences of her rash advice; and now she concluded her visit with some inquiries about Elsli. Marget's report was favorable. Elsli spent all her time out of school at Oak-ridge, and was very happy in her work. Marget got along very well with the children, and certainly the liberal pay which Elsli brought home every day was a great gain; to say nothing of many clothes which the sick child could not use, and which would clothe Elsli for a long time to come. All this was pleasant tidings, and aunty went home with a much lighter heart. About half-way home she met Oscar coming to meet her. He darted towards her, and at once began to pour out the story of the unlucky musical festival; how he had entirely forgotten that there must be music, and how he dreaded the ridicule he should encounter when the mistake was discovered. He saw but one means of escape; if he could change the name of the festival, so that no music need be expected; then, by altering the motto a little, and changing some words in the speech -- didn't aunty think it could be done?

No; she did not think that idea practicable. "You see, Oscar," she said, "a celebration must celebrate something, an anniversary or some interesting event. As there is nothing of the kind in this case, I really think your only course, since you have no music ready, is to give up the festival entirely for the present, and wait till you have something to celebrate."

Poor Oscar! he was terribly disappointed; yet he could not but acknowledge that his aunt was right, and he followed her into the house, dreading his father's questions and the discovery that was sure to follow. Supper was just ready as they entered the house, so that Emma could not satisfy her eager desire to know the result of her aunt's mission; so that she, as well as Oscar, sat at the table in troubled silence, both absorbed in secret fears, and both hoping, if they did not speak, that they should escape being spoken to. Fred noticed their unusual demeanor, and presently he remarked, slyly:

"There is a bird called the ostrich, Struthio which has a habit of hiding its head in the sand, believing that, in so doing, he conceals himself from the hunter. This bird is sometimes seen in this neighborhood, and his usual food is potato-salad."

Oscar took no notice of this bit of sarcasm, but remained intent on his potato-salad; but his father, who was watching him, laughed and said: -- 

"Is he overpowered by the pleasures of the approaching festival?"

As no farther questions followed, and the supper went on without any inquiries about Fani, both Oscar and Emma rose from the table with easier minds. The danger was not yet over, of blame for Emma and ridicule for Oscar; but they had gained time, and they breathed more freely as they turned again to their aunt for help and advice.



Chapter VIII.

At Sunset.


Elsli continued to go daily to the little invalid, and, from the first visit, she had been a dear friend and companion to the sick girl, who would not hear of her going on errands, but kept her by her own side from the moment she came, till it was time to go home. Mrs. Stanhope, whose only object in life was her little girl's happiness, was more than pleased with this arrangement; and watched with delight as Nora grew, from day to day, more cheerful and even lively in the companionship of a girl of her own age. And Elsli, too, profited by the intercourse; she was of a yielding nature and easily took new impressions, and now that she passed all her time in refined society, she insensibly grew into its likeness; and her voice, her manners, her way of speaking, all seemed assimilated to those of a very different way of life from that to which she had been accustomed. Was it that this new way was really more suited to her nature than the old?

The two girls studied together every day Elsli's lessons for the morrow, greatly to the pleasure and advantage of both. To Elsli especially, it was a new and delightful sensation to go to her class with a perfectly prepared lesson, and to hear the praises which the teacher daily bestowed upon her improvement; while Nora, whose invalidism had long cut her off from her books, found a fresh zest in resuming her studies with her eager friend. After lessons came supper, and then the evening with its long talks. These were generally about the beautiful country, to which Nora hoped soon to go, and where Elsli followed her in sympathetic thought. One regret began to dim Nora's satisfaction at the prospect; the thought that they couldn't go together; and Elsli would say, sadly, "If you should go and leave me here alone, how could I bear it?"

At last September came, with its cool but sunny days. One evening, as the children sat at the window looking across the meadows towards the setting sun; from a dark cloud that hung in the western sky, a great flood of shining light suddenly poured down across the valley, illuminating the trees, the grass, and the shrubs with its dazzling radiance.

"Look! look!" cried Nora, "that is the crystal stream! there it comes rolling toward me! Oh, I wish I could go there now! It is certainly the promised land, where we all shall be so happy. Come nearer to me, Elsli. I feel so weak I cannot sit up alone."

Elsli sat close by her, and drew the tired head to rest upon her shoulder; and so the two friends sat, silently gazing at the wonderful sight, until at last the sun disappeared behind the woods, and slowly the mists of evening filled the valley, and all the glory was over.

But for Nora it had only just begun. When her mother came in from the next room, she thought her little girl was asleep on Elsli's shoulder. She was asleep, indeed; but she would never awaken on earth. Mrs. Stanhope took her in her arms, and burst into tears.

"Run, Elsli, for the doctor, as fast as you can!" cried she, and Elsli ran. The doctor was not at home, but Mrs. Stein soon saw the truth, from Elsli's answers to her many questions.

"Dear little Nora!" she said sadly. "Her sufferings are over forever. She has gone to heaven to be at rest."

Elsli stood as if struck by lightning.

"Is she gone? Is Nora really gone to heaven?" she exclaimed, and then she burst into tears, and trembled so that she could scarcely stand.

"My dear child," said the doctor's wife tenderly, taking Elsli by the hand, "come and sit down with me a little while, till you feel better."

But Elsli could not. She covered her face with her apron, and ran out of the house, crying bitterly.

"Oh, how could she go and leave me behind?" she kept saying to herself as she hurried back to Oak-ridge. She found Mrs. Stanhope still bending over Nora, and sobbing as when she left her. Elsli seated herself on Nora's footstool, and wept in silence. It was not long before the doctor came. He bent over the child's form a moment, and then turned to the mother.

"Mrs. Stanhope," he said, and his tones were very tender, "I can do nothing. Your little girl is gone. I will send my wife to you."

Mrs. Stein came, but her words brought no comfort to the bereaved mother. She heard nothing; she saw nothing but the quiet little form that lay lifeless before her. When Mrs. Stein was convinced that she could be of no use to her, she went across the room to Elsli, who sat weeping on the footstool by the window, and taking her by the hand, she led her out of the room, saying gently: -- 

"Now it is best for you to go home, my dear. We will not forget you, and remember that our Father in heaven never forgets his children. Think how well and happy Nora is! She will never be ill again, in that land where the weary are at rest."

"If she had only taken me with her," moaned poor Elsli, and when Mrs. Stein left her, as their ways parted, she could hear the sobbing child for a long time as she slowly walked, with her apron over her eyes, along the lane that led to her home.

At home, Mrs. Stein found the children grouped about their aunt, who was telling them about Nora. Fred had many questions to ask about death, and how people can die and come to life again. Emma was much depressed, for she felt, now that it was too late, that she had not done anything to make Nora's illness more cheerful.

That evening Mrs. Stein and her sister were full of anxious thought. They felt keen sympathy with the sorrowing mother at Oak-ridge, and they talked a great deal about the blow that had fallen upon poor little Elsli. She had not only lost a friend whose companionship had brought her new life, but she must now go back to the hard and uncongenial labor from which she had had a brief and blessed respite. Fani too, the only bright spot in her dark lot, was away now, and who could tell when she would have him again? Indeed, Fani's fate was also a source of anxiety, especially on account of Emma's share in his disappearance. Would all turn out right for the boy? Would he get a suitable education, and what sort of a future lay before him? The information they had obtained from Basel had not proved perfectly satisfactory. The scene-painter had, to be sure, taken Fani into his service, but the boy had nothing to do with the painting but to clean up the brushes and palettes, and grind the colors; and, although he had his board and lodging from his master, he must pay for his clothes himself. It was not a very promising outlook for Fani. His parents were willing to have him stay away from home, but they expected him at least to support himself, if not to send them some money occasionally. Mrs. Stein could not decide what ought to be done, and all this new care would have been a very heavy burden to bear, if her sister had not lightened it by her sympathy and encouragement. Aunty's cheerful spirit always inspired hope and confidence.

*    *    *    *    *

The next morning, Emma, with a downcast air, asked leave to take some flowers over to lay upon the bed by Nora. Her mother was glad to let her go, and glad too that Fred offered to accompany his sister. The children were admitted to the house, and shown into the room where Nora lay upon a snow-white bed; herself as white and cold as marble.

Mrs. Stanhope was kneeling by the bedside, her face buried in the coverlet. Emma laid her flowers upon the bed, and, with fast flowing tears, looked upon the peaceful face, and remembered sadly that she had not done a friendly act for the little invalid, nor helped to wile away her lonely hours. She left the room sorry and ashamed, regretting her selfishness, when it was too late to do any good.

A little while after, Mrs, Stein came softly into the quiet room. Mrs. Stanhope raised her head, and, as she returned the kindly greeting, her grief broke out, and she exclaimed with sobs: -- 

"Oh, if you knew how miserable I am! Why -- ah, why! does God take from me my only child? Fortune and lands, everything else he might have taken, if he would only have left me my child! This is the very hardest fate that could have befallen me! Why must I suffer more than any one else in the world?"

"Dear Mrs. Stanhope," said the doctor's wife, as she took the poor lady's hand and pressed it tenderly in her own; "I feel for your sorrow, but I beg you to think of what your child has gained. God has taken her to himself, and she is free from pain and weariness forevermore, in his sheltering arms. You do not know what poverty means! Think of the many mothers who only see their children grow up to hard labor, and suffer for want of food and clothing. Take the sorrow that God has sent you; do not try to measure it with that of others; the sorrow that comes to each seems the heaviest for each to bear. But our Father knows why he has given each row, and the road he leads us is the one best for us to follow."

Mrs. Stanhope became more tranquil as these words fell on her ear, but her face still wore an expression of inconsolable grief. She was silent a few moments, and then she told Mrs. Stein that she meant to take Nora home and lay her beside the little boy in the garden by the Rhine, and that she should send to her true friend and house-keeper Clarissa to come at once to Oak-ridge to make the preparations for their return, and accompany her on her painful journey. This arrangement was a great relief to Mrs. Stein, who returned home with an easier mind, and hastened to impart this bit of good news to her sister. But aunty was nowhere to be found, and Emma, who was sitting alone in an unusually subdued mood, told her mother that she was probably with Fred, who had been looking for her, "to show her a beetle or some such thing," she supposed! So Mrs. Stein sat down with her little girl, who wanted to ask her questions about Nora. Emma longed to hear that Nora had not suffered from her neglect, and had been contented and happy without her; for she had been feeling more and more how selfish she had been in never repeating her first visit, merely because she had not herself enjoyed it, never thinking what she might have done for poor sick Nora.

Fred had sought his aunt for a long time, and when he found her he carried her off to a remote part of the garden, where stood a lonely summer-house. There he drew her down beside him on a bench, and said he had something to say to her alone.

"Do you know, aunty, I saw Nora to-day, and she is dead; and I cannot see how she can come to life again, and go to heaven."

"You cannot understand that, Fred? Neither can I. But the good God does many things which we cannot understand, and yet we know they are. And as we are told by One whom we can trust that we shall live again after our body dies, we must believe it. I believe it, Fred, with all my heart."

"But," argued Fred, "I have always thought that life is the same in men as in animals, and when an animal dies, it can never be made alive again. I have noticed that myself."

At this moment, the conversation was interrupted, for they saw the doctor in the garden, and aunty hastened to join him, as she had promised to visit his cauliflowers with him this evening.

Fred sat still lost in thought; he did not care for cauliflowers.



Chapter IX.

A Last Journey And A First.


A large travelling-carriage passed by the door of the doctor's house, in which sat alone, a lady clothed in black. It was Clarissa, who had come to carry little Nora to her home by the Rhine. The doctor's four children were standing in the garden, and they watched it as it passed, thinking what a sad journey its occupant must have had. Their aunt stood at an upper window watching it also, and as it disappeared round the corner she beckoned Fred to come up to her in his room. He came running up the stairs.

"See, Fred! I am clearing your room up a little. There are a great many useless things here; why should you keep them? See; in this box is a dead creature; let's begin with this, and throw it away"; and as she spoke she carried the box towards a window.

"What are you doing, aunty?" cried the boy. "That is my very best chrysalis; it will turn into a beautiful moth by and by; one of the finest of our butterflies, with wonderful marks on its wings."

"What nonsense!" said his aunt. "This little creature is utterly dead; don't you see it is stiff and motionless."

"Don't you know about caterpillars, aunty dear?" exclaimed the boy, holding fast to his box. "I'll tell you about it. This is a chrysalis; and it seems entirely dead, but it's only the outside that is dead. Inside, where we cannot see it, lies something that is alive; and by and by, when the time comes, this shell will be cast off, for there will be no farther use for it, and out will fly a new lovely creature with exquisite wings."

"But, Fred, I don't understand how that can be possible! How can a poor worm, that only crawls about all its life, die, and then suddenly turn into a beautiful new creature with wings, and fly away leaving its old body behind? Do you understand it, Fred?"

"No, I don't understand it, but I know it's so."

"Well, my dear boy," said his aunt, seriously, "what if there was something hidden within little Nora, which was alive too, and which, leaving the poor dead shell behind, has flown on shining wings away to distant heights, where it is entering on a new and happy life!"

Fred stood thoughtful a few moments, and then said, "I never thought of it in that way, aunty. Now I shall have a very different idea about Nora. How glad she must be to fly away on her new wings from the sick body in which she was imprisoned! Are not you glad, aunty, that you know about the chrysalis, and isn't it wonderful?"

"It certainly is; and it teaches us that there are many things about us that we cannot understand, and yet which are true, though no one can explain them. So by and by, Fred, when you are a learned man, as I hope you will be, when you come to something you cannot understand in nature, you must say modestly, 'This is beyond my powers of explanation; this is the work of God'; and so stand reverently before his greatness, that is about and above us all."

Fred handled his chrysalis with respect as he laid it away with his other treasures. A new thought had come to him about that and about other things.

Clarissa had arrived; but her coming did not bring comfort to the sorrowing mother; on the contrary, it seemed only to renew her grief. Clarissa would have been glad to hear all about her darling's last days, and how the end came, but the mother could not bear any allusion to the subject, and Clarissa kept silence. She consoled herself by looking at Nora's peaceful face, that seemed to have a message of comfort for her. When she heard that Elsli had been alone with Nora when she died, she was very anxious to see the girl, and sent for her to come and speak with her. When Elsli came into the pleasant room where she had passed so many happy days, and glanced towards the empty window-seat, she was overcome with fresh grief. Clarissa took her by the hand, and, drawing her to a seat by her side, immediately began to ask about Nora; and soon Elsli was pouring out her whole heart; and she told Clarissa all that she and Nora had said to each other about the heavenly land, and she repeated the hymn that Nora had taught her. Then she told how quietly Nora had left her at last, and said that she hoped to follow her soon into her beautiful home.

Clarissa hung upon every word that fell from Elsi's lips with gratitude and satisfaction. It was she who had taught Nora that hymn as she sat upon her knees when she was a very little child, and as she heard it repeated now it was with the same tones, the same motions of hand and head that the child had used who learned it from her own lips; it seemed to Clarissa as if Nora lived again in Elsli. Weeping with mingled joy and sorrow, she went in search of Mrs. Stanhope.

"Surely," she exclaimed, "this child is the image of our darling; it is her sister, with her voice, her words, her very thought. This, too, is our child."

Mrs. Stanhope roused herself for a moment to listen to Clarissa's words, but she was not moved by them; she threw herself again on her bed and would not be comforted. Clarissa was not disheartened by this indifference; she was so completely impressed herself by the wonderful resemblance between the children that she led Elsli into the room where the hopeless mother lay in full indulgence of her grief, and said: -- 

"I bring you this little girl, Mrs. Stanhope; for I look upon her as a legacy that our Nora has left us."

Mrs. Stanhope looked for a moment into the girl's face; then she suddenly kissed her and said: -- 

"Elsli, Nora loved you, and you loved her. You shall stay with me always"; and they all three wept together, but there was healing in the tears.

Like one in a dream Elsli went home that day. She understood, but not wholly, what had happened. She had believed that Nora would ask her heavenly Father to call her to heaven, and would come herself to meet her; and now it seemed as if she had already come to meet her to lead her elsewhere than to heaven.

Clarissa went to make the arrangements with Marget, about which there was no difficulty whatever. For as soon as Marget understood that not only was Elsli to be provided with a home for life, but that the help which she might have afforded her parents as she grew older was to be made good to them, she was overjoyed. She said that Elsli was not fit for hard work, and that the care of the little boys was quite beyond her, especially since Hans was growing more and more troublesome. So she gladly agreed to let her go, with the understanding that she should return home at least once a year for a visit.

In an incredibly short time the whole village was in possession of the news that the wealthy Mrs. Stanhope had offered to take Elsli home with her, and to keep her as her own child always; and that they were to start for the villa on the Rhine the very next day. The excitement produced by this news was intense. Wherever two neighbors met on the road, they stopped to talk over the good-luck that had happened to Elsli. In the school, the children could not keep quiet, so great was their interest in the event. Even Mr. Bickel was moved to make an unheard-of effort He took his big stick in his hand, saying: -- 

"Wife, we ought to go and call on Mrs. Stanhope, and apprise her of our relationship with that girl Elsli. If she needs any advice about the child, I am the proper person to give it. Perhaps we shall be asked to make our cousin a visit, when she is settled there by the Rhine; there are great factories of all kinds there, and perhaps Mrs. Stanhope may have some connection with them, and that may help us in our business."

But Mr. Bickel had to lay aside his stick again, for his wife was not ready to go to make so important a visit at so short notice.

If there was excitement elsewhere, at the doctor's house there was a real jubilee. The mother and the aunt were filled with thankfulness that the delicate girl had fallen into such good hands, where she would be loved and cared for, and where her natural refinement would have every chance of development. All the family were full of pleasure and anticipations of great things in the future.

Oscar went about all day, lost in thought. He was trying to turn this new state of things to account; for it was a great trial to him that the beautiful embroidered banner had had to be laid aside; and he was determined, if possible, to find some use to put it to. Emma, too, was evidently preoccupied, and Fred said to himself, as he saw her knitted brows, "She's got some scheme working in her brain." As for Fred himself, he sat deeply engaged in making long lists of all the caterpillars, beetles, snails, and other similar creatures that he knew were to be found in the neighborhood of the Rhine. To make assurance doubly sure, he put the Latin name under the common name of each.

That evening Elsli was sitting on the long bench at home, quite hidden by the three little brothers, who had taken complete possession of her. She bore the infliction patiently, for she knew it was the last time, at least for many months. She had begun to realize her good fortune, and to rejoice in the prospect before her. Clarissa had completely won her heart; and the child could talk to her freely and without reserve, as she had never spoken to any one before, except Nora. She did not feel so much at ease with Mrs. Stanhope, but she loved her as Nora's mother, and Mrs. Stanhope was kind to her, but not like Clarissa. Elsli puzzled her mind a good deal about the sort of life she was to lead in her new home; and as to whether she should be able to do all that was required of her, and to do it properly. But more than all, she was worried about Fani, from whom she was now so completely separated, and whom she might not see again for long years. As she sat pondering on these problems, she was totally unconscious that Hanseli was pulling and kicking her in the old style, when Emma suddenly came into the room.

"Elsli," she cried, breathlessly, before she had fairly passed the threshold, "you are going away to-morrow, and I have something very important to say to you. Put the boys down, and come with me; do."

"Hanseli will scream if I do," said Elsli, and he did scream; but Emma took him without ceremony from his sister's arms, setting him on the ground with no gentle hand; and before the frightened child had recovered from his surprise, she had dragged Elsli away round the corner of the house to a secluded place behind the big apple-tree.

"Here, I want you to take this with you," she began, holding out a thick roll of paper, "and I want to tell you that you are going to pass through Basel on your way."

"Are you sure?" asked Elsli, with sparkling eyes.

"Yes, yes, I am sure; and now listen. Tell Mrs. Clarissa that Fani is in Basel, and that you want to see him. I know she will take you, she is so kind. Then you give him this roll, and tell him that I sent it, and that I hope he is well. Here is his address."

"Oh, how glad I am!" cried Elsli. "Do you really think I ought to ask Mrs. Clarissa to take me to Fani?"

"Of course you ought; only think how pleased he will be to see you. Promise, Elsli, -- " but before Elsli could answer, Oscar came round the corner; and, spying Elsli, he seized her by the hand, exclaiming: -- 

"I've been hunting for you everywhere; and I've found you at last! Come with me; I want to tell you something!"

He drew her away to the other side of the house, and stopped by the hazelnut hedge; Emma did not follow them, for fear of vexing her brother. She had sent to Fani, by Elsli, all the white paper and all the pencils that she could collect in the children's room at home, and she thought it but prudent to keep out of Oscar's way.

"Now, attend to what I am going to say, Elsli," began Oscar, seriously; "it is something very important for you to know. You are going to foreign parts, where you will have no friends; I mean no acquaintances among people in general. But no doubt there will be some Swiss there, and you can form a society of our countrymen, that can meet every week, and talk over all the news from their own country."

"Yes, but I shouldn't know what to say," said Elsli, very much perplexed.

"Never mind, the others can do the talking," said the boy, eagerly; "but now comes the really important part of it. Next summer, when you are coming home again, you must agree upon some convenient place where all the members of the society shall meet Then crowds of people will collect from all sides, and I will be there with my beautiful banner, and we will have a procession and a great celebration of the first anniversary. Be sure to write me the date of the foundation, Elsli!"

"Yes, I will certainly," assented Elsli, but her tone was less decided than her words, for she was anything but clear as to how the society could be formed, or why it should be formed at all. Further questions were, however, impossible, for at this moment Fred appeared with Rikli in his wake, and a long strip of paper in his hand. Oscar vanished.

"Now, Elsli, read this," said Fred.

"Here are the names of all the beautiful caterpillars, and rare beetles and snails, that you are likely to find where you are going. I want you to hunt in all the hedges, and stir up the earth now and then in your walks. Then the fellows will turn up, and you can collect them, and send me the finest specimens. You will, won't you? I'll send you something pretty in return. You can put them right into your pocket, you know, until you get home from your walk, and hold the pocket together so, -- ; so that they won't crawl out"; and Fred pinched up his pocket-hole so that no kind of a crawling thing could have escaped from it. Rikli shuddered all over.

Elsli was very willing to do Fred this service, but she did not really see how, any more than in Oscar's case; but she said, modestly: -- 

"I will do my best, Fred; but how am I to know the creatures whose names are on your list?"

This was a sensible question, and Fred could not help seeing the importance of it; but he was not to be deterred by a slight obstacle. He looked again at his lists.

"Suppose I should draw a figure of each creature against its name!" he said to himself. "I will come to see you to-morrow morning, before you go away," he said to Elsli, and was off.

Little Rikli, whose lesson had been learned at such a severe cost, was quite cured of her foolish screaming whenever Fred came near her with his dear little insects; but she watched his every motion, lest his fist or his pockets should disgorge some green-eyed frog or other equally unpleasant treasure. Her big brother had, however, a great fascination for the child, who followed him everywhere like his shadow. She now came nearer to Elsli, and said, entreatingly: -- 

"Don't send the nasty things alive, will you, Elsli, dear? You'll stuff them first, won't you?"

Just then, who should make his appearance but Feklitus, in his very best Sunday suit, and at the same moment Marget's voice was heard from the cottage, calling in a tone loud enough to sound above Hans' screams: -- 

"Elsli, where are you? It's strange that you can't stay in the house two minutes at a time to-day."

Rikli ran away; but Feklitus seized Elsli by the arm and held her fast.

"I want to go to see the lady at Oak-ridge," he said, roughly. "I am your cousin, and I want to tell her so, and that some time or other we mean to come and visit you down there by the Rhine; but I'm not going alone, and you've just got to come with me."

"Let me alone; don't you hear that I am wanted in the house!" And Elsli tried to free herself from his hold.

"You shall come," said the boy; and he grasped Elsli still more firmly, and dragged her away with him.

Oscar, Emma, Fred, and Rikli all met with the same reception from Kathri on their return home; she stood on the front porch, and said to one after another as they came up, in a warning whisper: -- 

"Hush, hush! don't make a noise! Mrs. Stickhop is in the parlor, come to say good-bye."

Poor Elsli did not sleep much that last night at home. She was excited by all the last words and commissions and leave-takings of her friends, and oppressed by the thought of what was before her on the morrow, and it was in a half-dreamy state that early on the following morning she began her journey, with Mrs. Stanhope and Clarissa, in the large carriage, along the high road, through the country that lay still in the dawning light. Suddenly a folded paper, weighted with a small stone, flew through the air into the carriage window.

"Good-bye, Elsli. I wish I could go with you," cried a voice from the road-side. It was Fred, who had not been able to finish his work before, and who had only painted his last snail just in season to throw his now illustrated list after Elsli.

This last greeting brought the tears to Elsli's eyes. She seemed now fully to realize that she was leaving home, leaving all who had ever known and loved her. Clarissa saw it all, and, taking Elsli's hand in hers, she expressed, by the warm grasp that she gave her, a mother's sympathy and love.

For the next week the doctor's family were busy talking over and over all the events of the past few weeks, from the arrival of little Nora to Elsli's final departure. On the tenth day came a long letter from Elsli, which gave food for farther conversation. The mother and the aunt and the four brothers and sisters were all equally impatient to know the contents. The letter was addressed to Emma, who knew it from its envelope, opened it out, and exclaimed with delight: -- 

"It is eight pages long! I will read it aloud to you"

ROSEMOUNT ON THE RHINE, Sept. 28, 18 -- .

DEAR FRIEND, -- Thank you a thousand times for your good advice, for without it I should never have dared to say a word about Fani.

But I will begin at the beginning and tell you everything as it has happened. When Fred said good-bye and I drove away from you all, I had to cry a little! But Aunt Clarissa -- this is what I am to call her always -- was very kind, and talked to me, and bade me tell her everything that troubled me. Mrs. Stanhope shut her eyes and lay back in the carriage, so still that I thought she was asleep, so I thought it was a good time to tell Aunt Clarissa all about Fani, as you advised. She didn't even know that there was such a person, so I had to tell her everything that had happened, and how long it was since I had seen him. She said of course I must see him in Basel, and that we should have plenty of time, as we were not going farther than that, that day. She said she would go with me to find him, and that Mrs. Stanhope would be perfectly willing. When we reached Basel we went to a big hotel. I never saw anything like it before. I could scarcely eat my dinner for joy that I was going to see Fani again. Directly after dinner Aunt Clarissa told Mrs. Stanhope that we wanted to go to see my brother, and Mrs. Stanhope said she would go with us, as she did not want to stay alone.

We went across a long bridge, over a river, and quite a distance further. At last we came to some small houses, and we began to inquire for the painter Schulz. There we were right before his house. Mrs. Stanhope opened the door and went right into the work-shop, and we followed her. Fani sprang up with a great cry of joy, and threw his arms round Mrs. Stanhope, and his eyes were full of tears, for he was terribly homesick, and had never seen any one from home since he went away. Then he caught sight of me, and he was gladder still; and he wasn't the least shy with Mrs. Stanhope -- you know he never is -- but he put his arms round her again, and exclaimed: -- 

"Oh, you don't know how glad I am to see some one from home!"

You can't imagine how kind she was to him. At last she told Fani to call his master, and when the man came she went out into another room to talk with him. After a while she came back, and then, what do you think? She asked Fani if he would not like to go and live with me at her house! I can't begin to tell you how I felt. At first I could scarcely breathe for joy, and then I began to think I must have made a mistake; it couldn't be true. But Fani cried out with delight, and he seized Mrs. Stanhope's hand and looked at her so beseechingly, and he promised to work as hard as he could, and do everything to please her if he might only go. "You shall," she said; and then she told him when to meet us at the railroad next day. What a promise for Fani and me!

As we were going back to the hotel, Mrs. Stanhope said to Aunt Clarissa, "Did you notice the resemblance? Doesn't he look at you out of his big brown eyes just as my Philo did?" Aunt Clarissa saw the likeness too, and said that was the reason that she took a fancy to Fani the moment she saw him. You see, Philo was Nora's little brother. In the evening, Mrs. Stanhope spoke several times about the likeness, and it was the first time that she had talked with us at all. All that night I kept thinking it was too good to be true; it must be a dream; but the next morning, when we got to the railroad station, there was Fani, and he had been waiting three hours, ever since six o'clock. Mrs. Stanhope laughed a little at his impatience -- it was the first time she had laughed at all.

All day long we travelled in the railway carriage, and Fani was as happy as he could be. When we stopped at a station, and Aunt Clarissa was going to get out and fetch us something to eat, Mrs. Stanhope stopped her and said: "No, no; we have an escort now, he must wait upon us." Then she explained to Fani what he was to do, and you ought to have seen how he ran about and did it all so handily, and he kept looking at Mrs. Stanhope to see if she was pleased; and she was pleased, that was plain enough. In the evening we stopped at Mainz on the Rhine, and Mrs. Stanhope said we should see the river in the morning. And the next day, what do you think? we went on a splendid steamboat; no one can possibly understand it without seeing it. Fani was like a crazy creature all day, he was so wild with delight; and Mrs. Stanhope let him run about all over the boat and look at everything. Sometimes I didn't see him for an hour at a time! By and by he came and took your present, and said he was going to draw everything that he had seen, and just how the whole boat was arranged, so that he should never forget it. And he wants me to thank you a great deal for the beautiful present. I forgot to say that before.

In the evening, when we left the boat, we found a carriage and a wagon waiting for us. We drove for half an hour or more, and then we came to Mrs. Stanhope's house. It is a large house, standing in the middle of a garden, and with large trees about it. When we got out of the carriage, Fani whispered to me, "Do you suppose I shall work in the stables or in the garden?" Of course I couldn't tell him; I did not even know what I was to do myself. But nothing has turned out as we thought it would. At first Mrs. Stanhope was so sad that we did not see her at all for three days. Aunt Clarissa was just as kind as she could be. She took us all about the garden and showed us the place where Philo was buried; a white cross stands there with his name on it. And Nora was buried by his side, under a big linden.

On the fourth day Mrs. Stanhope came to table with us, and after dinner she talked very kindly with us, and said that now it was time for us to begin to work. Oh, how surprised Fani and I were when we found out what we were to do! What kind of hard work do you guess it is? No work at all! You won't believe it, but it is true. We just sit all the morning in the school-room and study! The teacher comes at nine o'clock and stays till one, and Fani and I are the only scholars! Of course Fani is much cleverer than I am; but the teacher is very kind, and when I cannot do my lessons he only says: "Come, be brave, and you'll soon do as well as your brother!" I get along very well, and I am not so ashamed as I was when all the children in school were ahead of me. It is one o'clock before we know it, and we are glad when school-time comes the next day. After dinner we all go into the garden; and Mrs. Stanhope takes Fani with her, and he talks with her about his lessons and his ideas about all sorts of things; and it is easy to see that she likes him very much, better of course than she does me; you know how frank he is. He tells her just how he feels and how glad he is to be here with her, and he thanks her over and over again for all her kindness, and he holds her hand tight; and, when he looks up at her so beaming with happiness, she strokes his hair, and seems more fond of him than I have ever seen her of any one except Nora. But I can never do as Fani does; though I have just the same feelings, I cannot speak them out; and I'm afraid she does not think that I am so grateful, and I can quite understand that she cannot care as much for me as for Fani. But Aunt Clarissa is very good to me, and, when we come in out of the garden, I go into a room with her and she teaches me to sew and to embroider as you do. Tell Oscar that, even if I don't succeed in finding people to form a society, I will at any rate work him a beautiful banner, -- Aunt Clarissa says that I may, -- so he must be sure to write me what he wants for a motto. While I am working, Fani has a lesson in drawing; a teacher comes for two hours. Mrs. Stanhope almost always sits with him during this lesson, for she is delighted that Fani learns so quickly, and draws such beautiful things already.

After that Fani and I go into the garden by ourselves and play about as much as we like. We run into every corner of it, for all about are stone seats to rest on, and white marble statues, and the garden is large and beautiful and stretches way down to the river; and there stand the great lindens, and it is all the most splendid and beautiful place in the world. Please tell Fred that I am looking all the time after beetles and such things, but I haven't been able to catch any; he mustn't be vexed with me, perhaps I shall succeed better by and by.

After supper Aunt Clarissa sits down at the piano, and we sing Nora's favorite song and several others that she has taught me. Generally Fani sits in the other room and draws by himself; but when he sings with us it sounds much better, and it's only when he sings, too, that Mrs. Stanhope comes in to listen. After this, we get our lessons ready for the next day. But time passes much too quickly here; and Fani and I are always sorry when the day is over and we have to go to bed. I am almost never tired now; and, oh, it is so lovely to live here and to be with Fani. When we go in to our meals, Aunt Clarissa always says, "Thank God that we have children again with us at table!" And yesterday Mrs. Stanhope answered: "I think you would like to have the house full of children." And Aunt Clarissa replied, "I should never have too many of them." Then Mrs. Stanhope said: "Next year we must invite our friends from Switzerland to visit us; all four of the doctor's children; and you can take little Rikli under your special charge." At these words Fani shouted for joy; but I couldn't utter a sound; I could scarcely swallow, I was so delighted. Aunt Clarissa clapped her hands and said, "Elsli must write directly and invite them, so that we may make sure of them"; and, afterwards, she said to me again, "What a splendid plan that is of Mrs. Stanhope's!" In the evening Fani and I went all round the garden to pick out all the places that we particularly want to show you. Fred will be able to catch his own insects. Fani is going to write you a long letter, and then one to Oscar; but first he wants to draw a picture of the linden trees and the little spot under them, to send you for a present. We send our love to you all a thousand times, and beg you to give it to our father and mother and the little boys.

Fani sends his special love to you.


Your true friend,

Elsli.


When the letter was finished, there came a burst of shouting and hand-clapping that seemed as if it would never stop. Such good news for the children! What a prospect of delights! The mother and aunt sympathized in their pleasure; but they took the greatest satisfaction in the thought that their anxiety for Fani was forever relieved, and that God had led the two children whose welfare lay so near their hearts, by such unlooked-for ways, into a happy and hopeful life.

Which of the four children was most pleased with the prospect of the visit to the villa on the Rhine, it would be impossible to say. They could talk of nothing else, and think of nothing else. Oscar saw in imagination whole armies of Swiss collected there, and united in one fraternal society by his efforts, with Fani's help. He began at once to employ every spare moment in searching for a motto for the promised banner. Emma was in a condition of almost feverish joy. Fani was really on the road to become a painter, and her long-cherished wish was being accomplished. Now that Mrs. Stanhope was evidently so fond of him, surely everything would be done for his improvement. But she could hardly wait for the time to come for their visit, for every day she had some new idea for his future that she longed to tell him. Fred had his hands full of preparations. He looked forward to making such an increase of his collections that he was afraid he should not have room to contain them all. He induced his aunt to promise him all the useless boxes in the house, and all winter long he stored them away in his room in readiness for the expected occupants.

Little Rikli enjoyed the anticipation of the summer with pure delight. She was never so happy as when with Fred, yet her pleasure in being with him had been always mixed with fright; but she was sure that under the protection of good Aunt Clarissa there would be no danger that frogs or beetles should be allowed to annoy her, or that any unpleasant creatures would crawl out upon her under the shady lindens by the river.

Fani and Elsli grew better and happier every day; they had but one unsatisfied wish -- that the summer would come; so that they might welcome their dear old friends to their new home, and show them its beauties and share its blessings with them.

Aunt Clarissa took great pains that the two children committed to her care should not forget the good Father in heaven who had provided such a home for them. She led them often to the spot where Philo and Nora lay buried, and reminded them how quickly and unexpectedly sorrow may be changed into joy, as they had themselves experienced; then she told them that just so quickly joy may be changed to sorrow, and that into the brightest sunshine the shadow of death may fall; so that only those can live happy and secure who have full trust in God, who holds all life in his hand, and who makes both joy and sorrow work together for good to those who love him.




Volume Two


Chapter I.

The New Home.


Winter was over and gone. The early summer roses had opened again, and raised their heads high about the villa on the Rhine. They glowed and blossomed in all the garden-beds, and glistened in the sunshine, and sent their sweet perfume far and near on every breeze. On the pebbly path that led down from the splashing fountain to the lindens by the river, Fani and Elsli scampered back and forth, drinking in the fragrant air.

"Do you know where Mrs. Stanhope's house gets its name?" asked Fani, as he stood by a bed of flowers, watching with delight the airy butterflies flitting from blossom to blossom, and then floating away as in ecstacy up into the blue air.

"Of course I do," answered Elsli; "it is called Rosemount because there are so many rose-bushes stretching from up here way down to the lindens."

"Well, that's true; but there's nothing melancholy about it," said Fani, reproachfully. "What makes you look so sad, Elsli? You almost always look sad nowadays, and it isn't right, for I'm sure there's no reason for it. And Mrs. Stanhope notices it, too, and she doesn't like it very well; she must think that you are horribly ungrateful, and that you don't realize how well off we are. And yet you can't help realizing it when you think how it used to be at home."

"Yes; I do think of it, and I realize it all perfectly, Fani; and I am not a bit ungrateful. But you see I can't express it to Mrs. Stanhope; I wish I could. And then, besides, Fani," she added, after a pause, "Aunt Clarissa has often told me that when we are well off ourselves, and have everything we need, and more, too, we ought to think all the more about the poor, and do what we can to help them. And I am always thinking about them, and wishing that I could share some of the good things we enjoy with those who have none."

"What do you mean, Elsli?" cried Fani; "there is no one about here who is poor; even the men and women-servants live like gentlefolk. Have you never noticed that Lina, the chambermaid, wears a hat when she goes out, and a red and yellow shawl, just like Mrs. Bickel? And what red cheeks the cook has! She has enough to eat, I'm sure; and the coachman wears gloves when he drives."

"Yes, I know; but I mean -- well, you see we have a great deal of time to ourselves, and can run round in the garden and amuse ourselves, and I can't help thinking that I might be doing something useful. I might knit some stockings for the children at home if I had some yarn, but I don't like to ask for any; I have so many things."

"Why, of course you can't ask for it, Elsli; what are you thinking of? And you know how many clothes and things Mrs. Stanhope is always sending to mother? Only last week a big bundle went off; don't you remember, Elsli?"

"Yes, I know all that; but what I mean is that I want to do something myself, and not go on taking my own comfort and enjoyment when so many other people are suffering."

"But you know the doctor said you must take comfort; and he told Mrs. Stanhope not to let you sit at your books and study all the time, but to keep you a great deal in the open air. Come, let's run all round the big rose-bed, and draw in long breaths of that delicious perfume. How strong it is! I can smell it way off here. Come!" and Fani took hold of his sister's hand and began to run. But she held back.

"I can't run as you do, Fani," she said, breathing heavily; "I would rather go down to the stone seat under the lindens by the river and sit a while."

"Now you see, Elsli," said Fani, as he walked slowly by her side down towards the river, "now you see how soon you get tired. It is a good thing for you that you have this garden to stay in. And how lovely it is down here, too! do you notice? there's quite a different smell here, and its delicious!"

Fani was already seated on the bench, and he leaned back against the trunk of the old linden, whose head was crowned with flowers that diffused a sweet perfume through the air. The fresh foaming waves of the river ran below, bathing the low hanging branches as they flowed along.

"Oh, how beautiful it is here! It will do you good to shout as loud as you can, Elsli. I'm sure it would make you feel better."

"Yes, indeed," said the girl assentingly, but no joyous look came into her pale face, such as shone from Fani's eyes. "When I sit here I always think of Nora. There's such a beautiful view of the sunset from here. And then I think of the evening when she went away, how the whole sky was golden, as if the heavens were open, and you could look right into them and see the crystal river flowing there forever. Whenever it is a clear evening, and the red clouds come in the west, I always think that Nora is looking down at me and beckoning me to come to her. How dearly I should love to go!"

Fani sprang to his feet in great distress.

"How can you talk so, Elsli? Here we are living so happily together. Nobody was ever so happy as we are, and yet you talk as if it was all nothing, and all you want is to die! I'm sure I don't want to die, and you ought not to. And if you were to talk in this way to Mrs. Stanhope just once, what do you suppose would happen? I can tell you -- she'd just send us straight home, I know; and how would you like that? And I'm certain that she means to have us stay here always; for several times when I've said something about being a painter she has begun to talk about the future, and she takes it for granted that you and I are to live with her. Just think of that! Then I shall be a gentleman and you a lady like Mrs. Stanhope, and then -- "

"Oh, Fani, you trouble me still more when you talk so," interrupted Elsli, sadly. "I see more plainly every day that I can never be what Mrs. Stanhope wants me to be. I am afraid she will be more and more vexed about it, and will like me less and less. And you too will be ashamed of me by and by, because I cannot be what you would like to have me."

Fani had seated himself again at Elsli's side, but at these words he sprang again to his feet, crying out reproachfully: -- 

"Oh, Elsli, what strange notions have you taken into your head? It isn't pleasant in you to talk so. Why don't you think of all the nice things there are, and what good times we have together, and let all these melancholy ideas go?"

"I don't think of melancholy things on purpose, Fani, and I wish I did not at all," said Elsli, pleadingly. "It is this way. Whenever I begin to think of something very pleasant, then sad thoughts come into my mind, and I keep wondering whether there isn't something that I can do for those in trouble, and then I am unhappy because I can't think of anything. I see so many things that you don't see, and I can't get them out of my head all day long."

"What sort of things?" asked the boy in surprise.

"Well, for instance, twice when we have been coming home from our afternoon walk, we have met a man with a heavy shovel on his shoulder, and you didn't notice him because you were so busy talking with Mrs. Stanhope. The man looked down on the ground, just as father does when he comes home at night all tired out and says, 'We shall hardly pull through, if I work ever so hard; I'm afraid we can't keep out of debt.' I'm sure that man is worried just as father was, and I keep thinking if I could only go after him and find out where he lives, I might do him some good, perhaps."

"But you mustn't do that," cried Fani, much horrified. "Don't you remember how Mrs. Stanhope told us in the very beginning that we must never go into any house where we didn't know the people? and that we mustn't speak first to people we don't know, as we do at home? You must not go and talk to that man. Do you hear, Elsli? Mrs. Stanhope would be very angry with you."

Elsli thought for a while. Presently she said, "I do not believe that Mrs. Stanhope meant that I should not speak to a poor man who is in trouble, as this man is. She only meant that we mustn't talk with people who ask us questions about where we came from and how we live at home. I don't believe she meant people like this man at all."

"Oh, Elsli, you can't make distinctions, that way," said Fani, impatiently. "All we have to do is to mind what we are told, and not speak to strange people or go to their houses. Now let's talk about something else; this sort of talk is tiresome. Come here; I'll show you something."

The children sat down again side by side on the stone bench, with their heads close together, and Fani took something out of his pocket which they both examined carefully. It was a small, nicely painted landscape, in fresh bright colors. Elsli studied it silently.

"Do you see what it is?" asked Fani.

"Yes, indeed, I knew it at the first glance. It is Rosemount; there are the roses and the linden trees. How beautifully you have done it, Fani! Won't Emma be delighted when she sees it, and surprised too? I'm sure she has no idea that you can paint so well!"

"I'm so glad she is coming," cried the lad, and his face glowed with pleasure. "There is no one that I can talk with about being a painter as I can with her. She understands just how I feel, and is as much interested in it as I am myself."

"Are you still bent on being an artist?" asked Elsli.

"Yes, indeed, more and more. Every day, and after every drawing lesson, I care about it more than ever before. I don't say anything about it, because I see that Mrs. Stanhope doesn't like the idea. You see, Elsli, she means to keep us with her all our lives, just as if we were her own children. I'm sure of it, from a great many things that she has said. We can stay here just as long as we don't do anything to displease her, and of course we sha'n't do that. Several times when I've said that I should like to be a painter, Mrs. Stanhope has said that it was a very good profession for persons who had no home, and were obliged to live alone, and could travel as much as they pleased in foreign countries. She said I might paint at Rosemount as much as I chose, but that I must not make it my business, because then I should have to go away to live. So you see that she is quite decided that we are to stay here."

Elsli shook her head.

"I don't know, Fani. It seems to me that we don't belong here in this beautiful house. Don't you feel so too, Fani? Somehow as if we were only here on a visit, and that to-morrow we might be going away again."

"There you are again with the old story," said Fani, rather vexed, for this doubt was very distasteful to him.

The time which they had to spend in the garden was now over, and hand in hand they passed back up the white pebbly path, and by the sweet-scented rose-beds, and entered the hall, which stood with wide-open doors on the garden side.



Chapter II.

A Journey.


Great was the excitement in the doctor's house at Buchberg. July had come at last, and the long-looked-for journey was at hand. Only one more day! The big trunk was packed and locked and placed in the lower hall, ready to go. Now there were only the hand-bags and satchels to be filled with the last needful articles. This task was not so easy as one might expect, however. On the contrary, mother and aunty found it the most difficult part of the whole. For the three older children had received permission to choose each the things which he wanted most to fill up his own bag, with the express understanding that these must be useful things. But the three had their own definitions of "useful." So they worked with all their might, running, breathless, up stairs and down, loaded with most extraordinary articles, most of which were rejected by the packers as utterly unsuitable, and consigned to the places whence they came.

Fred came first with four great boxes under each arm, which were tied up with so many strings, that no accident could have opened them if they had gone all the way round the world. These he brought to his aunt, while Emma was, at the same time, pressing upon her mother a heavy roll, which she had brought under one arm, and an enormous package which she could scarcely carry.

"Those can't go, Fred," said his aunt, decidedly. "I couldn't possibly get those eight boxes into this bag, and what's the use? You certainly can't need whatever there is in them."

"Yes, I do, aunty; six of them are full of living creatures which I must carry with me to take care of them, or they would all die. The other two have in them specimens of beetles and snails and other things of the same kinds as those I expect to find near the Rhine, but, of course, they are somewhat different, and I want to carry these to compare with those, don't you see, aunty? Perhaps if we squeeze the boxes with all our might we can get them in, except those that have the live creatures."

"No, Fred, it can't be done," said his aunt, kindly. "Take them back into your room; and you needn't be in the least anxious. I'll take care of the live ones while you are gone, and, as to the others, when you want to compare any of them with what you find, write to me about it, and I will send you as good a description as I can make."

Meantime, Mrs. Stein had been gazing in despair at the two huge, misshapen packages which Emma had placed upon the table to be put into her hand-bag.

"What have you in that big roll? It is too large to go even into the trunk! What are you thinking about?" she cried.

"Oh, mamma, can't they be tied on the outside of the bag? I could carry them all together myself. I do want to take them with me so much. In the roll are ever so many drawing-copies, such as we had at school, and some that were given us on the Christmas-tree. Fani spoke of them in one of his letters, and I'm sure he'll be delighted to have them. I put in all ours, and I borrowed some from the master, who said I could have them if I would take great care of them and bring them safely back again."

"What foolishness, Emma! You seem to forget that, for the last year, Fani has had his own drawing-teacher, who gives his pupils what he thinks best for them to copy, and, doubtless, has plenty of patterns of all kinds. So take the roll away; it would be absurd to carry it. And that hideous bundle, what is in it? It is twice too big to go in here."

"I was afraid it would be," said Emma, rather crestfallen. "But I thought I could carry it in my lap, and, really, I must take it, mamma. It is that book which I chose for a Christmas present, you know; the 'Lives of Distinguished Painters.' I want to carry it for Fani to read; and, for fear of hurting the handsome binding, I wrapped it up in two petticoats and a waterproof cloak and a small table-cloth, and then I put some enamel-cloth outside the whole."

"You do get hold of most unfortunate ideas, my child! we shall never get ready at this rate. Come, we'll take the book out of all these wrappings, and then perhaps we can get it in. But you haven't brought anything that you really need, though you have had such a long time to think about it all. And here aunty and I are standing waiting and can't get through, because you have nothing ready for us."

At this moment aunty exclaimed, in a tone of alarm: -- 

"For pity's sake, Oscar! what is that that you are tugging along?"

With a tremendous racket Oscar came into the room, dragging behind him a drum, which he could not carry, because in one hand he had a large bunch of bells and in the other a harmonica and a flute.

"Oscar dear, your own good-sense can tell you that you can't get a drum into this bag; to say nothing of the other instruments. What in the world do you want with them? Mrs. Stanhope wouldn't thank you for such music!"

"It isn't for the house, aunty," answered the boy. "It is for the festival out-of-doors. I've taken only Fred's small drum, because mine is too large. See if it won't go in here!" and Oscar measured the drum against his travelling-bag, only to be compelled to acknowledge that it was too large by half. The bells, too, had to be laid aside, though the boy complained that they were absolutely needed to call the guests together at the festival.

"Whose flute is that?" asked the aunt; "it is a beauty."

"It belongs to Feklitus. He is learning to play on it; and he was glad enough to lend it to me, because while it's gone he can't be made to practise!"

Mother and aunt agreed that the flute must not be packed without the consent of Feklitus' parents.

Fred came now with an armful of articles of various kinds for his bag, and behind him appeared Kathri, saying: -- 

"Mrs. Bickel wants to see Mrs. Stein."

"This isn't a very good time to choose," said Mrs. Stein, with a sigh. "I shall have to leave this all to you," she added, turning to her sister; "and, children, you really must make up your minds what is necessary to take, and not bring all sorts of useless stuff, that only has to be carried back again."

With these words Mrs. Stein went into the room where her guest was sitting. It was easy to see that Mrs. Bickel had something very important on her mind. She had on her fine red and yellow shawl, and on her hat a bunch of large white feathers, higher and bushier than Mrs. Stein had ever seen in her life. The doctor's wife greeted her guest with the fervent though unspoken hope that that lady would immediately unfold the object of her coming, so that the visit might speedily come to a close, and she herself go back to her children's packing. Not so; Mrs. Bickel opened the conversation with a remark upon the weather, which she thought was growing worse and worse. Mrs. Stein agreed with her. Then followed "the cherries"; they had not ripened well this summer. From "cherries" she came to "apples," a natural association of ideas. Mrs. Stein burned with impatience. Her mind would run on the travelling-bags. Could aunty pack them alone? Would not the most important things be left out, after all, and a great many useless ones put in? That reminded her of the flute, and she hastened to ask whether Feklitus had his parents' permission to lend it. This gave Mrs. Bickel the opening she had been wanting. She said that it was a good thing that Oscar wanted to take the flute; for her husband had decided to let Feklitus take the trip to the Rhine; and he could play on the flute to Mrs. Stanhope; all the more, because none of the doctor's children were musical.

She and Mr. Bickel thought, too, that it would be pleasant for their son to be there with the others, and that it would show people that the doctor's children had other and better acquaintances at home than the two poor children whom Mrs. Stanhope had taken with her.

But here Mrs. Stein interrupted the stream of words to say that there was no occasion for that, as Mrs. Stanhope had seen for herself that Fani and Elsli were her children's most intimate friends. She then inquired whether Mrs. Bickel wished Feklitus to go with her children.

Mrs. Bickel declared that she should not think of such a thing as that. In that case Mrs. Stanhope would naturally ask him to stay at her house, which of course they would not allow; as if he could not afford to pay for his lodging! But she would be glad if Oscar would write as soon as convenient and tell Feklitus the best way to go, and also find out the chief hotel in the neighborhood. Then, if Oscar would meet him on his arrival, and show him the way to it, Feklitus would take a room there, and spend the time between meals with the children at Mrs. Stanhope's. His father meant to go himself very soon to visit his young relatives, as it was only proper that he should do; and he would bring the boy home.

Mrs. Stein listened patiently to this long discourse, but her thoughts often wandered away into the next room, to aunty and the bags. How were they getting on all this time?

She promised Mrs. Bickel that Oscar would do what she asked, and now she hoped the visit was coming to a close. But there was more to ask. How many suits of clothes did she think needed for such a journey? Would six new ones be enough? Wouldn't it be well to fill one trunk entirely with new shirts, so that they needn't be washed away from home; hotel laundry work was so bad. Mrs. Stein only replied that she had not so many suits to give her children, and that Mrs. Bickel must decide such questions for herself.

It was growing dark before the visit came to an end, and Mrs. Stein hastened back into the other room. The packing was done, and aunty had gone away with Oscar. The other children were complaining that they wanted her, and they didn't see why Oscar should keep her all to himself.

Little Rikli had been watching all the preparations with the keenest interest, and, as it turned out, with an unfortunate effect. For mother and aunty, having decided that the child was too young to go so far from home, had persuaded her, by the prospect of many delightful treats and excursions with them, to make up her mind that she would far rather stay at home, than go on this long, uncertain journey without them. But alas! all this delightful stir of preparation had fascinated the child, and completely changed her views on the subject. She was seized with a desire to go too, and she suddenly burst into a loud scream, which increased every instant under Emma's scolding, and was only intensified by Fred's taunting song: -- 

"Hanseli is a cry-baby, Rikli is another; She's so exactly like him, He must be her brother."

In the midst of this hubbub, the mother entered, and at once interposed her tranquillizing influence. She lifted Rikli from the floor, where she sat in the midst of the luggage, and called the other two to sit quietly down at her side. On this last evening, she said, she wanted to have a little peaceful time with them; and Emma and Fred were very glad to consult her about the various questions which lay on their minds, which they had meant to ask aunty about, when Oscar so unceremoniously usurped her.

As Rikli listened to the conversation which followed, and learned how many things her brother and sister were in doubt about, -- as to their behavior in Mrs. Stanhope's house, and what they should say and do there, and what they could not, -- she made up her mind that it was far better for her to stay quietly at home with her mother and aunty; and the prospect of walks and drives with them, and of the biggest share of all the cherry and apple cakes, seemed more attractive than the very doubtful circumstances in which the others would be placed. So Rikli became quite reconciled to her lot, and was in good-humor again.

Oscar had meantime led his aunt into an unused bedroom on the ground floor, and, having locked the door for farther security from interruption, he announced that he had something very important to consult her about. He had been all winter hunting for suitable mottoes for his new banner, and had pressed so many friends into the service, that he had collected no fewer than thirty-five beautiful mottoes, any one of which would have been perfectly satisfactory. From such wealth it seemed impossible to choose, yet some choice must be made. One banner would hold only one motto, and even Oscar, with all his enthusiasm, could scarcely hope to have thirty-five banners for the sake of using them all. Aunty must help him decide, and already before this last afternoon they had had at least a dozen consultations on the subject, in which they had gradually succeeded in reducing the number of candidates to three. And now the final selection must be made, and Oscar and his aunt could not agree upon it. His aunt wanted him to make his own choice, but he was not willing to decide against her opinion; yet he could not give up his own; he hoped by farther argument to bring her over to his side.

"Now, aunty," he said, when the door was safely locked, "we must settle this about the motto. I will repeat them all three over again, and you really must choose. First I'll say the one you like best: -- 

"'Drums beat and banners fly Our Festival to grace; Long live all men, we cry; But guests we forward place.'

"Now that's a good motto, aunty, but you see I can't pack the drum, and so it won't suit very well to say 'drums beat,' -- will it?"

"There must be plenty of drums there, and perhaps Fani has one," said his aunt. "And I'm sure the motto is a very good one. However, let me hear the second. I've forgotten just how it goes."

"'Come to our Festival! come all! Come from Switzerland! Conductor, let your tickets fall! And, fireman, stay your hand! You who make boots, or who brew beer, You one and all are welcome here.'

"Don't you think that is, after all, better than the other, aunty?"

"Yes, it is certainly very good, but it is too long. It would take Elsli such a time to embroider it."

"That settles it, then," said Oscar, well pleased that his aunt found a decisive reason for rejecting another. "Now, then, for the last, short and energetic: -- 

"'Freedom we shout! Freedom for all! Freedom for ever and aye! We will not yield till all chains fall, And tyrants are banished or die!'

"Do you hear that, aunty?"

"Yes, my dear, I can't help hearing it, and it's very spirited, but it doesn't mean anything. I don't know of any 'tyrants' that need to be banished or die, do you? It isn't to be thought of. Take the first, or, if you don't like that, choose another from the list."

But Oscar was obstinate. The first he wouldn't have, and he must somehow or other bring his aunt over to accept this one.

"But, aunty," he began in a tone of remonstrance, "there were tyrants once; don't you remember the poem about Dionysius, the tyrant? And if there have been once, there may be again, and then this verse would be splendid; don't you think so?"

Before aunty could respond to this appeal, came a fearful pounding at the door, which put a stop to the discussion. Fred and Emma, having hunted over the rest of the house in vain, had at last bethought themselves of this apartment; and, finding the door locked, they felt sure that the objects of their search were within.

Emma called through the keyhole: -- 

"Come, aunty, please, quick! Supper is ready, and papa has come, and mamma sent us to call you."

And Fred shouted in a still louder tone: -- 

"Come along, Oscar; papa is asking for you."

All was over. His aunt opened the door at once, and Oscar had to follow her.

The next morning, when the carriage had been rolled out of the coach-house and stood waiting for the horses, to which the groom was giving the last polish in the stable, Dr. Stein came into the room where the mother and aunt were putting the final touches to the preparation of the children for the journey.

"I must say good-bye now. My patients cannot be kept waiting, and I must go. One word to you, Oscar. Be careful not to carry your schemes too far while you are visiting. Here, at home, every one knows you; and, if you do a foolish thing, they say: 'It's the doctor's boy; he'll soon be set right.' But now you will have only yourself to depend upon; so don't go into anything heedlessly. Don't undertake anything which you are not quite sure about, so that no unpleasant consequences may result either for yourself or for the lady whose guest you are to be. You must remember that you will displease Mrs. Stanhope if you do a wrong or foolish thing. You are old enough to understand me without farther explanation. Do not forget. Now good-bye, my boy, and you too, Emma; good-bye, Fred. Be happy and be good."

With these words the father shook all three pairs of outstretched hands and was off.

The mother drew Emma to the other side of the room for a word of admonition. The big roll of paper and the book that the little girl had been so anxious to have at Christmas, and was now so determined to take with her, roused anxious thoughts in the mother's mind, and she felt that she must speak seriously to the child, warning her not to instigate Fani to any undertaking which Mrs. Stanhope might not approve. She reminded Emma that Fani was now very well off, and that the prospect before him was very bright, if Mrs. Stanhope should decide to take him under her protection. But it was of the greatest importance that he should do nothing to displease Mrs. Stanhope, and Emma would certainly never forgive herself if she should be the means of leading him to act contrary to his benefactress' wishes.

Emma understood the value of her mother's suggestion and promised to heed her advice, adding earnestly that she would try to think of different ways in which Fani could make himself agreeable to Mrs. Stanhope.

"You'd far better not think about it at all, my child," replied her mother. "Enjoy with Fani the pleasures and advantages of his life, and don't try to bring about any special event, as you are so fond of doing. And one thing more: don't forget to pray every day to God to protect you and to help you to carry out all your good resolutions. Now that you are leaving home, my only comfort is that our Father's hand is still about you, there as well as here. Promise me that you will pray for the heavenly blessing every night, as we do together at home."

Emma promised not to neglect her morning and evening prayers, and begged her mother to have no anxiety about her.

Meanwhile, aunty had been standing by the window, talking with Fred.

"Pray be careful," she said, "never by any chance to let one of your small creatures, even the prettiest one, escape out of your pockets upon the table or the floor. In fact, you would do better not to put them into your pockets at all, for fear of some such mishap, as often occurs at home. It would spoil all the pleasure of your visit; for Mrs. Stanhope would neither understand nor forgive such carelessness."

"Don't worry, aunty," replied the boy; "I'll fix them so they can't stir. I'll bring them all safe home to you, and I'm sure you will be delighted with them."

Rikli had been meanwhile listening to one person and another, catching the words of warning and advice as they were given to the three travellers, and dwelling with pride and pleasure at the thought that she was the only one who did not need any caution.

To her aunt's closing words to Fred, she added quickly: -- 

"Yes, yes! how Mrs. Stanhope would stare to see a horrid frog or a red snail or a blind worm come hopping over her white table-cloth!"

"Well, I think any one would stare, to see a snail or a worm hop anywhere!" said the boy laughing.

"You'd see what she would say, and how she would put you out of the house in no time, and take all your food away."

"I don't believe I should see her say anything at all," retorted Fred, with another laugh.

"You'd find out how it would be, when you were sent home in disgrace; and you'd be ashamed to be seen in the railway carriage, and by the children in school."

"I don't mean to find out anything of the kind," said Fred, and the contest dropped.

The coachman cracked his whip as a signal that it was high time to start. Hurried good-byes were said; the children seized their bags, and seated themselves in the carriage; the horses started, and the journey was begun. Mother and aunt stood by the road-side, and waved their handkerchiefs till the carriage turned a corner and was lost to view.

"Oh! I wish I knew that they would meet with no accident, and would all come home safe!" said the mother, with a sigh, as she turned back to the house.

"That will be as God wills," said her sister; "we must trust them to him, and pray him to send his angels to watch over them; that will be a better protection than any that we two could afford them."



Chapter III.

On The Beautiful Rhine.


In the garden at Rosemount was such an excitement and running to and fro as had never been seen there before. It was the day after the arrival of the three guests. Great had been the surprise of the doctor's children, yesterday evening, when they were shown up stairs, to find three large rooms assigned for their use, one to each. For the house was so arranged that there was but one bed in each room. The windows of all three rooms overlooked the garden, and beyond could be seen the river. The children had never before been so royally lodged. Emma planned directly to spend long hours at her window, looking into the moonlight and listening to the river, as late as she chose, for no one would come to send her off to bed. Oscar looked about the large apartment, and thought what a fine place it would be to spread out his banners. They would not be in any one's way, as they were at home; and no one would come and clear them out. Fred examined all the presses, tables, and drawers, and destined them to his special uses.

The meeting of the five children was a most joyous one to them all. From the first moment they found themselves on as intimate a footing as if they had never been separated. Elsli and Fani were not changed as the doctor's children had feared they might be; on the contrary, it seemed as if they were even nearer to their old friends. Fani was merrier and more lively than ever, and Elsli, although still somewhat shy, was more confiding than before, and just as amiable and obliging; and they both were so attractive in their nice clothes, that Emma took great delight in merely looking at them.

The first morning was spent in emptying the big trunk, with Aunt Clarissa's help, and in arranging the contents in the three rooms. In the afternoon the children were allowed to explore the house and garden, and to have a run in the meadows, that they might become acquainted with Rosemount and its surroundings. What a pleasure for them all!

Emma's first wish was to get down to the river-side, under the lindens, and to see the branches dip and rise and dip again into the swiftly flowing stream. Fani had drawn her a picture of it, and she must see it. It was Fani's favorite spot, and he was ready enough to show it to her; so the two ran off together.

Fred did not know which way to turn. He was fairly bewildered by all the living wonders that surrounded him; the glancing, gleaming, humming world of the rose-garden. Here a golden beetle crept across the lawn; there the air seemed full of gayly colored butterflies. On the edge of the fountain sat a golden-green lizard in the sun. Over on the hedge a great variety of wonderful insects swarmed on every leaf and twig! What a harvest he could gather! He ran about in every direction; he was beside himself with delight; discovering every moment something new and unexpected. Nor was this in the garden only. Down by the river, under the old trees, in the thick hedges, in the damp earth by the water-side, between the cracks of the stones by the river, he felt sure of countless treasures. He paid little attention to his friends or his brother and sister; he seemed to swim in an ocean of wealth, undreamed of before, and all within his grasp!

Oscar, meantime, under Elsli's guidance, had been examining every part of the garden; carefully observing everything as he walked along down to the Rhine, along the meadow-land and back to the court-yard, which was all walled in, and where two big oak-trees cast a far-reaching shadow. Around these oaks ran a wooden seat where one could sit in comfort under the thick protection of the leafy cover. Here the two children seated themselves; and Oscar looked thoughtfully across the broad meadow, around which ran a high hedge; a broad paved path led from the court-yard down to a gate-way of iron-work, which united the hedges that enclosed the whole estate.

"And you say, Elsli," said Oscar presently, "that beyond the hedges the land does not belong to Mrs. Stanhope at all?"

"No, Oscar; a very large vineyard belongs to her besides. It is so large that you would not believe the quantity of grapes that she gets from it. It lies on the other side of the house, towards the Rhine."

"I don't mean that," said Oscar; "Fani showed me that this morning. I mean from the end of the meadow-land across the high-road there."

Elsli was quite sure that Mrs. Stanhope owned nothing beyond the high-road.

"Do you see that little hill over there?" said Oscar, pointing in that direction. "There's a wind-mill up there; see how finely the big wings go turning round in the wind, like huge banners waving for a festival, and inviting people from all sides to come and rejoice together. All the people who are to come to our celebration might camp out around the foot of that hill, and the speaker could stand up above there on that platform, and those huge flags would wave to and fro behind him and show where the festival was taking place, to all the neighboring country!"

Oscar uttered these words in such a tone of enthusiasm that his companion caught the infection; but she hesitated.

"Yes, it would be fine," she said; "but don't you think we should have to ask the miller's leave?"

Oscar thought this would not be at all necessary, as the meeting would do no harm to the mill or to the grass, which was evidently very short. He would go over and inspect the place himself.

"How is the banner getting on, Elsli?" he asked presently.

"Oh, I forgot it entirely!" said the girl, somewhat startled. "It is all ready, and I meant to put it in your bedroom to welcome you. You see, Oscar, I finished it; because Aunt Clarissa said that it would be prettier without a motto, if I put a wreath of Alpine roses on the Swiss flag, and so I embroidered one upon it."

But this did not suit Oscar at all; he wished to have his motto, his verses, over which he had spent so much trouble and had had so many discussions. He had no mind to drop it now; and he looked as if he had suffered a severe loss. Elsli saw his disappointment, and she hastened to propose a remedy. Why not put the motto on the other side of the banner? Oscar could print the verse in large letters on a piece of paper, and she would fasten it upon the banner, on the side opposite the Alpine roses. That was a clever thought. Oscar's spirits rose again, and the banner would be really in the end far handsomer than he had expected.

"You are the smartest girl I know, Elsli," cried the lad; and this unexpected praise brought the color into Elsli's cheeks, for she was little accustomed to notice, much less to commendation.

"How many Swiss have you found and invited to join our society?" continued Oscar.

Elsli confessed that she had discovered but one; the baker's boy who brought fresh bread to the house every day; and she could not induce him to join the society. "I am very sorry," she said, "that I could not do as you asked me; but we are not allowed to go into the kitchen and talk to the people that come there."

But Oscar was well satisfied. He only wanted to know at what time and from which direction the baker's boy came every morning; and this Elsli told him. "All right!" he said; "I can help myself, now."

Meanwhile, Fani and Emma were walking up and down by the river-side, talking with constantly increasing eagerness. Emma had never been so excited; she had had a tremendous surprise. Since Fani had left home, she had never lost sight of her hope that he would become a great artist. He had never mentioned the subject in his letters, and it had been more and more evident that Mrs. Stanhope meant to educate the two children, as she would have done her own, in various branches, without any view to a special training for a life-work. Emma feared that Fani would lose his ambition to be an artist, and she set herself to work to counteract this danger. She had heard of a book called the "Lives of Celebrated Painters," and she did not rest till her aunt promised to procure it for her at Christmas; for she thought it would inspire Fani with fresh enthusiasm to learn how artists had become great and celebrated. She now brought the book with her, and told Fani about it, in the hope that it would serve as a spur to arouse his dormant energies. What was her astonishment when Fani pushed the book away, and broke out passionately: -- 

"No, no; I will not read it! I will try not to think of it at all! You see, Emma, I have a drawing lesson every day; only now of course I do not, while you are here on a visit. And the more I draw, the more I want to; I can do much better than I used to, and the teacher has told me several times that I can certainly learn to be an artist."

Emma could not contain her joy at these words, and she cried out: -- 

"Now it's all right, Fani! You can be a painter, and I am sure you will be a celebrated one, the most famous one in all the land. But why do not you tell Mrs. Stanhope directly that you want to do that and nothing else?"

Fani shook his head and looked very much depressed.

"It would be of no use. Mrs. Stanhope will not allow me to be an artist; I am sure of that. Once when we were walking, I said to her that I thought painting pictures was the greatest happiness a man could have; she said it was only a childish notion; and that when I grew up I should have very different ideas as to greatness and happiness. And since then she has taken me about the estate several times; for you know, Emma, that it is a very large property; great vineyards stretching for miles along the Rhine. She says there is nothing so desirable for a man as to own a large place, and to live on it; and I think she has the thought in her mind that she will keep me with her here on the estate; and of course it would be a great thing for me if she did. Just think of it. Always to live here as we do now; how terribly ungrateful I should be if I did not rejoice in such a prospect! Only -- I must give up all idea of ever being an artist!" And Fani hung his head.

"Oh, what a shame! It's of no use thinking about it any more, then!" cried Emma, in tones of intense disappointment. "And I was just beginning to think that everything would turn out for you as I had hoped. It is too bad! I had such good fun reading the book, and putting your name in the place of the celebrated artist; like this -- 'In delicacy of drawing Fani von Buchberg stands far above all his compeers.' For you know when you were celebrated, you would be spoken of so; for they always take the name of their birth-place, instead of their family name; and that would be particularly nice, because Hopli isn't a very good name, but Fani von Buchberg sounds finely, doesn't it? Listen!" And Emma read from the book.

"Where Fani von Buchberg learned to mix his paints, is a mystery. Even to this day, he is the only one who can place such enchanting tones of color upon his canvas. Of course, that is a mistake; it ought to be shades of color, shouldn't it, Fani? Oh! think, if such things could be said of you! and now it is all over; no chance of that any more!" And the girl threw herself on the bench as if it wasn't worth while to take the trouble to stir again.

Fani sat down at her side. He had followed every word she had said, with increasing excitement; and he had caught the fire of her enthusiasm, for his eyes flamed.

"I know something that may make a difference," he said presently; and at his words Emma, who had looked as if life had lost all charm for her, sprang up with renewed interest, exclaiming eagerly: -- 

"What is it, Fani? Speak; do speak!"

"Come with me," and he ran along the river-side, drawing her with him. "There, sit down here and look up over Rosemount, towards the wood. Do you see that ruined castle, all covered with ivy?"

"I don't see anything. Oh, yes, I do now! I can see an old, old tower"; and as she spoke the excited girl leaned backwards towards the river, and she would certainly have fallen in, if Fani had not caught her and held her fast.

"There, we will go back to the seat again," he said; "though the ruin is scarcely visible from here," he added, as they reached the spot; "but it is safer. It is the most beautiful ruined castle that you can imagine. It is all covered with ivy, and the stones are moss-grown, and the gray walls show through in places, and in the setting sun they flame with crimson; you've no idea how beautiful it is! I saw it once from the steamboat. It was splendid! Now listen! The last lesson I took, the teacher asked me whether I was in earnest when I said that I wanted to be a painter; and I said yes, but that I could never be allowed to; and I told him just what I have told you. He understood at once; and he said that I mustn't, of course, do anything to displease Mrs. Stanhope; but that possibly she might in some way be led to have the same wish. He advised me to make a drawing of something very beautiful; and he said he would send it to Düsseldorf, where they do something or other with a whole lot of drawings, and the best one gets a prize. If mine got a prize, Mrs. Stanhope might change her mind; and if it didn't, I could try again. I thought directly of the ruined castle, and how beautiful it would be to draw! But there's no good view of it except from the middle of the river, and it's quite impossible for me to get there."

To Emma there was no such word as impossible.

"Of course we can get there, Fani. What a delightful ideal" she cried. "We can make a trip on the steamboat, and we can see the river, and you must make a sketch of it as fast as you can."

"Oh, yes! I shall just get a few strokes on the paper, and then -- whizz! -- we shall be past it like a flash of lightning. What good would that do?"

Emma was not to be discouraged. If the only thing needful was a way to take a sketch from the river, she would set herself to find such a way.

At this moment Fani interrupted her meditations by the exclamation: "Oh, the bell! the bell!" and she heard the ringing of the supper-bell; and the two children scampered back to the house, and joined the scattered guests, who came from every direction to meet in the great dining-room.

At the upper end of the table, spread with many delicious luxuries, sat Mrs. Stanhope, and she welcomed the children in the kindest manner. Aunt Clarissa seated them in their places, then sat down herself at the foot of the table, and the meal began. The guests brought wonderful appetites to the feast. The conversation was subdued, for in Mrs. Stanhope's presence the children's liveliness was somewhat checked. Elsli spoke least, and also partook least of the tempting viands. Her abstinence attracted the attention of Fred, who sat next her, and, in spite of a warning shove which she gave him under the table, to show him that she wished to avoid observation, he exclaimed in a loud whisper: -- 

"What's the matter with you, Elsli? Why don't you eat?"

After supper Mrs. Stanhope led them all out upon the terrace, and they sat down in a semicircle on the garden benches. Then she told them that she had a plan of taking them very soon on a steamboat excursion down the Rhine, as far as Cologne; where there was a remarkably fine zoölogical garden which they would all visit together. Emma's eyes blazed with delight, but she did not speak; her thoughts were busy, but not wholly with the animals of the garden. Fred was delighted at the prospect; but the zoölogical garden had a powerful rival in an enormous night-moth which was humming about his head, and which he could hardly resist his desire to jump up and catch. Such a prize it would be! But he recollected his aunt's advice, on the good manners of sitting still, especially in Mrs. Stanhope's presence. Oscar was overjoyed at the prospect of a voyage, and he bethought himself immediately of the possibility of meeting with persons much more desirable for his Society than Elsli's baker's boy.

The next day the children sat down to keep their promise of writing home an account of their experiences. The three letters were very different in style, but they were all filled with the delight of their writers at the beauty and magnificence of the villa, and with the pleasures they enjoyed and the kindness they received. They hoped they should stay twelve weeks instead of six. These were the letters. But into each letter was secretly slipped a private note, addressed to Aunty, begging her to persuade papa to allow the visit to be prolonged as much as possible. Fred added that if the time fixed should be a year, and then a cipher added to the number of days, three thousand six hundred and fifty would not be one too many for him.



Chapter IV.

In The Fisherman's Hut.


The next morning, Oscar was early on hand at the iron gate; waiting to see the baker's boy, when he brought the bread. The boy came along with a huge basket on his arm, from which issued an agreeable smell of freshly baked loaves. Oscar went to meet him, and asked abruptly: -- 

"Which canton are you from?"

"That is none of your business," answered the boy.

Oscar was not a whit surprised or daunted by this reply.

"You needn't be so rough," he said; "I've a very good reason for asking." And he went on to explain to the boy what he had in mind, and to enlarge on the pleasure of collecting as many Swiss as possible; and of holding a festival in honor of their country. Then it appeared that the fellow was not a bad fellow at all, and had only answered in that rude way to show his independence. He received Oscar's proposal with great interest, though he owned that he knew but very few Swiss in the neighborhood. He had come from Lucerne only about six months before, to work for the baker, whose wife was his cousin. A shoemaker's boy from Uri lived near by, and a porter at the "Bunch of Grapes" came from Schwyz. Then there was the great factory down by the canal, which belonged to some Swiss gentlemen. He carried bread there every day, and had often seen two boys playing ball in the garden, but they had never spoken to him. Oscar was well pleased with this information. He asked the boy to invite the shoemaker's boy and the porter to join the society, and he would see the others himself. He would appoint the day, and decide on other particulars later; as the baker's boy came every day to the house, there would be no difficulty in keeping him informed.

Highly delighted with his success, Oscar told the other children of his plans, and asked Fani to go with him to the factory to see the two boys. Fani refused decidedly. Mrs. Stanhope, he said, did not allow him and Elsli to visit people with whom she was not acquainted, especially in the neighborhood. But when Elsli saw how badly Oscar felt at this refusal, she said: -- 

"Perhaps you can go, Oscar. If you don't think of any better way, I'll tell you what I think you could do. When I came away from home, Mr. Bickel asked me to look about here and find out what sort of factories there were in this neighborhood, and send him word so that he might know whether he could form any business relations with them. I have not been able to do anything about it. Perhaps you could go and visit the factory, and then write to Mr. Bickel about it"

"I always said you were the cleverest girl in the world," cried Oscar, with delight; for he saw the way now clear before him. That afternoon, when they all went out to the court-yard and garden for their out-door games, he ran off to the factory. The dwelling-house stood not far from the canal, surrounded by a pretty flower-garden. Under the trees two lads were playing ball. They played with such zeal that Oscar, looking over the hedge, became absorbed in watching them, and entirely forgot his object He was a good player himself; but such throws!

"Bravo!" he cried; and the boys looked round. "Come and play too," called one of them.

Oscar asked nothing better. Hardly had he entered the yard than piff! paff! the play began again. Such a game he had never had before, nor with such players. The boys were as well pleased as he; and they played on till the big factory bell rang for close of work, and Oscar remembered that he must go home. He wanted to make acquaintance with these boys. The three playmates had, to be sure, already struck up a friendship, but they did not even know each other's names. Oscar now told his, and asked theirs; and learned that they were named Fink; the sons of the family who lived in the large house. They were from St. Gall, and were warm-hearted, wide awake young fellows. They made friends with this new acquaintance from Switzerland with all their hearts, and Oscar was as ardent as they. What enterprises they would plan and carry out together! But there was no time to stop and talk about it now. He could only hint to them that he had a project of founding a great society of Swiss, a kind of Swiss Confederation, in which he wished them to take part. They received the idea with enthusiasm, and, having fixed a time for meeting his new friends again, Oscar returned to Rosemount with a happy heart. But what kind of a factory that was of Mr. Fink's, he knew as little as before; he had forgotten to ask.

From this time Oscar was always missing during the time that the children were left to themselves to play as they pleased out-of-doors. No one minded his absence; Fred was so busy with his collections that he thought of nothing else; Fani and Emma were absorbed in their own plans and only wanted to be let alone; and Elsli, feeling that her society was not important to any one, sat by herself on the bench under the lindens, occupied with her own thoughts by the hour together. Sometimes she grew unhappy at the thought that she was living here so well-off and at ease, while her father and mother still had such a hard life at home. Often she thought about Nora, and wondered if she had forgotten to ask the heavenly Father to call her to himself. She could well be spared from the earth, where no one needed her, and she longed to go. To tell the truth, Elsli dreaded to look forward. She did not feel at home in Mrs. Stanhope's house; she had a constant sense of unfitness for the position; yet when she thought of going back to her parents, she knew that there she should be equally out of place. So the poor child was living a lonely life at beautiful Rosemount, and thinking herself a useless and superfluous being on the face of the earth.

Down along the bank of the river, a narrow foot-path ran for some distance towards a thick clump of willows, in which it disappeared. Elsli had often followed this path by herself; it was so quiet that she liked it particularly; she never met any one there, for it led only from Mrs. Stanhope's grounds to the willows. To-day, after Elsli had sat alone for a time, she rose and walked along this path, and gazed at the ever-moving waves as they rushed headlong toward the sea. Sunk in thought, she came at last nearer to the willows than she had ever been before. The bushes grew larger and higher and became real trees; from a distance they looked like a thick wood that reached far into the water. Here was complete solitude; not a creature was to be seen, and the plash of the water below was the only sound that broke the stillness. Suddenly a loud scream startled the air. Elsli drew back in alarm. Louder and louder grew the sounds of distress, now pausing, then beginning afresh. The child, recovering her courage, hurried forward to the spot from which they came. Behind the first low-growing clump of willows the ground was wet and swampy; and fast caught in the bog stood two children; -- a little girl, who was screaming with all her might, and a boy, who was tugging at his sister's arm as hard as he could. When he found that he could not pull her out he too began to cry aloud. Elsli came to their aid, and lifted the little girl from her uncomfortable position. The boy then slowly worked his way out, but his wooden shoes were a great encumbrance, and he moved with difficulty. When the two children stood at last on dry land with their wet shoes and clothes soaked with muddy water, they presented a pitiable sight, and Elsli asked them sympathetically whether they were far from home, and where they lived.

The boy, who was scarcely more than six years old, evidently felt immediate confidence in Elsli. He took her by the hand and said entreatingly: -- 

"Come with us and tell mother about it!" And as he spoke he looked ruefully at his shoes and at his sister's gown, on which the mud was rapidly drying, and which looked as if it were made of pasteboard. The little girl, not more than four years old, taking Elsli's other hand, said softly, "Do come with us."

It was plain that they wanted some friendly intercession with their mother, and Elsli felt sure that such small children could not have wandered far from home; so she held tight the clasping hands and let them lead her.

The boy became at once very confidential, and entered on the family history. His mother was ill, and his grandfather could not go out into the sun unless she helped him. The little girl's name was Lenchen, and his own was Lucas, and the other boys were Tolf and Heini, and were not much bigger than he. As he talked, they passed the willow-bushes, and came to the taller trees that stood near together; and quite close to the water, wedged tightly in between two of these trees, stood a small hut, so low and gray with moss, that it could scarcely be distinguished from the trees.

"Here," said the boy, and drew Elsli with him into the house. It was pleasant and clean within, though low and small. The sun was streaming in through the little window in the corner. Against the wall was a bedstead, where the sick mother lay, staring with big, wide-open eyes at the new-comer. In the sunny corner sat an old man with snow-white hair. He looked up wonderingly at Elsli and the children. Two boys, not much larger than Lucas, came towards them as they entered.

"We've been looking for you everywhere, and we couldn't find you anywhere!" they cried. Elsli went to the bedside and told the mother about the children's misfortune, and where she had found them.

The poor woman thanked her, and said it was very difficult for her to look after the little ones, now that she was confined to her bed. The two older boys had all they could do to keep the house in order, so she let the younger children go out by themselves; and sometimes they got into trouble, for they were foolish little things. As she spoke, the mother looked with anxious eyes at Lenchen, as she stood in her mud-stiffened clothes.

"Can I help you in any way?" asked Elsli. She spoke timidly, for the woman's tone and manner compelled respect.

"We have never been obliged to beg," was the reply. "We help ourselves as well as we can. But since I have been ill, it has been very hard. What help could a young lady like you give us?"

"I am not a young lady. I can take off Lenchen's frock and wash it, and hang it out to dry," replied Elsli, eagerly.

"Your dress shows that you are a young lady," answered the sick woman, evidently much surprised; and she glanced searchingly at Elsli from head to foot.

The dress, which was one of Nora's, was of soft woollen material, trimmed with silk bands.

"It is not mine; it was only given me to wear," she said.

Suddenly the woman felt strongly drawn towards the friendly girl. She thought she must be a foreigner. Her way of speaking, her whole appearance had something unusual about it. Perhaps some one had taken pity on her, and had lent her clothes because she was so good. So she thanked Elsli and accepted her offer. Without hesitation Elsli set to work, and it was easy to see that it was not for the first time. In a trice she had freed Lenchen from her shell, and dressed her in a little jacket that hung on the wall. Then she took the stiff frock upon her arm and went with the children into the kitchen. She drew water in a wooden bucket, and put the two pairs of little feet to soak, after removing the dirty shoes and socks. When they were clean and dried, she sent the children back into the other room, while she washed out the dress. They went very obediently, but Lucas called back to her to hurry and come to them as soon as the washing was done. The other boys now came into the kitchen, desirous to scrape acquaintance with this novel visitor.

When Tolf saw how much at home the stranger seemed to be in her work, he said: -- 

"Get our supper ready too, won't you? If you don't, we shall have to wait till father comes home; and he doesn't know how to cook very well, either."

"Yes," chimed in Heini; "and once he fell asleep when he was cooking, he was so tired; and the potatoes were all burned up."

"Yes, and then father has to go fishing after supper," continued Tolf; "every day, no matter how tired he is, he takes the boat and goes to catch fish to sell."

"And we've got to learn to fish too," interrupted Heini; "father says the oars are too heavy for us now, but by and by we shall be strong enough, and we must all work as hard as we can, or else we shall have nothing to eat, and our house will be taken away from us."

These words roused many old memories in Elsli; how well she knew how it all was. It seemed to her as if she were at home with her father again, and saw his tired face, and heard him say: -- 

"If we can only manage so that we shall not have to give up our house!"

When Elsli had finished the washing, she went to the mother's bedside, and asked if she were willing that she should get the supper ready, and if she would tell her what to do. The eyes of the sick woman glowed with pleasure.

"Oh!" she cried, "how kind you are! will you really do that for us?" and she seized Elsli's hand, and grasped it heartily. Then she told her what she wished to have done. It was simple enough; Elsli had done the same at home a hundred times. The boys ran into the kitchen with her.

"I know of something new for you to do," she said, presently. "How old are you?"

"I am seven," "I am eight," they answered both at once; and Elsli said: -- 

"Well, you are old enough. When I was eight I had to cook the potatoes all by myself. Now I will show you how to do it, if you like, and then when your father comes home tired, you can say, 'Sit down, dear father, and eat your supper; it is all ready.'"

The boys were very much pleased with this proposition, and all eagerness to begin. Elsli showed them how to make the fire with small bits of dry wood at first, and to put the larger sticks on afterwards. Then the potatoes must be washed very clean, and put into the pot, and a very little water poured upon them. The boys worked away merrily, and meanwhile Elsli fetched the sour milk. The boys watched the pot unceasingly, but when the potatoes began to burst apart, first one and then another, they were frightened and called aloud for Elsli. She speedily reassured them, explaining that the bursting only meant that they were good potatoes and that they were done. Then she threw away the water that remained in the pot, and poured the potatoes out into a big round dish. She carried the plates into the other room, and made the table ready against the father's arrival.

The old grandfather, who had watched the proceedings from his corner, called Elsli to him.

"You are good, and very handy too," he said; "can you come again to-morrow?"

Elsli promised to come.

"Look, I am lame," he went on, "and ever since my daughter has been sick, I have not been able to get out into the sun, because there is no one for me to lean on; the children are too little. Will you help me to-morrow to get out-of-doors?"

She promised that too. But now it was time for her to go; she must not be away when the supper-bell rang. The mother thanked her again and again, and the children begged her to stay longer. As she went out of the house she saw a man just taking from his shoulder a shovel, which he placed against the house. Elsli recognized him at once as the weary laborer whom she had seen before, and who had reminded her of her father. And as he stood there now, with his two boys affectionately clinging to his sides, and looked sadly yet kindly at her, he seemed still more to resemble her father, and she could not keep the tears from her eyes. She could scarcely refrain from sobbing, so clearly did she see the anxiety and trouble that were in his heart, the same that weighed down her own father at home. She held her hand to him, he pressed it kindly, and she was gone.

When the father entered the cottage, the children all began talking at once, so that he could not understand a word they said. He went to the bedside, and asked his wife for an explanation. She told him just what had happened, and of her wonder that a child so well dressed and with such an air of refinement should have been able to do that kind of work for poor people like themselves, and she didn't know where she could have come from; but the father said simply, "Our Heavenly Father has taken pity on our misery, and has sent a kind angel to help us." And he thought of the tears of pity that he had seen in Elsli's eyes.

Elsli ran as fast as she could along the path to the linden tree and up into the garden. The supper-bell rang just as she reached the house, and the different members of the household gathered together from their different occupations. No one asked any questions of Elsli. She meant, as soon as she could find a good opportunity, to ask Aunt Clarissa's leave to continue her visits to the fisherman's family. She did not doubt that she should be allowed to help them; they were so much in need of help.

When she left the cottage, she had asked the woman if she should not send a doctor to her; but the answer was that the best medicine would be her own return. The poor mother had been constantly prevented from getting well by trying to work before she was strong enough, and yet there was so much to be done that it was hard for her to keep her bed. If she could lie still for one week only, she would be well again.

So Elsli had decided that she could not help going again, and she was glad to go. It was a real pleasure to her to feel that she could be of use, that some one really needed her.

The next afternoon Elsli did not wait a moment on the seat by the river. As soon as the children had scattered to their different amusements she started down to the lindens, and she did not stop till she reached the little house among the willows. All four children were standing in the door-way awaiting her. They cried out with joy when they espied her, and ran to meet her, and when she took little Lenchen up in her arms, the child almost choked her in her close embrace. The boys too were so glad to see her, and pressed so near her side, that she began to feel as if she were surrounded by a tenderness and love such as she had never before received; the poor, lonely little girl!

The mother's welcome was warm, and the grandfather raised both arms in the air and cried out: -- 

"God be praised! I had begun to think that there was no chance for to-day!"

He asked her to help him go directly out into the sun; for it was pleasant and warm outside, but within he sat chilly all day long. It was no easy task, for the old man was heavy, and leaned upon her so that she could scarcely stand under his weight, but at last they struggled out to where the sun shone pleasantly on the water, and gilded the trunks of the old willows with his beams. Here the old man sat down, and asked Elsli to sit by him. She did so, and he went on talking.

"Yes," he said, "that is the same old Rhine! How I have always loved it! But it will soon be all over with me; I shall not be long here to see it; I must go, and where? But it's foolish to talk this way to you; you are too young to understand. Your life is just beginning. Are you not happy, and glad to think that you can stay here by this beautiful water for a long, long time to come?"

"I don't think of that when I look at the river," said Elsli. "I think of the beautiful stream that flows through Paradise, and of the happiness of those who live there."

"What do you say! How can you know anything about that?" said the old man, looking at Elsli in amazement.

"I know what is said about it in a beautiful song; I have known it a long time. One of my friends taught it to me, and she has gone there already. Shall I repeat it to you?"

The old man nodded assent, and Elsli was glad to repeat the song again to some one who must be interested to hear it, since he was so soon going there himself, he said. She began directly, and, as the old man listened with great attention, she kept on to the end. He shook his head several times during the recitation, and, when it was finished, he said: -- 

"That will not be for me."

Elsli was very much startled. "But why not, why not?" she asked, anxiously. "It is certainly for every one; we must all die some time, and then how happy we shall be, when we go there."

He shook his head again.

"Not for me; it is only for the good." He said no more for some minutes, and Elsli sat in silence. At last he spoke again.

"I could tell you something, but I don't think you would understand me. If a man doesn't get along well in life, and he thinks that God can help him but does not, he says to himself that there's no use in praying, and he must help himself as he can; and so he grows reckless and does things that are wrong and that he shouldn't do; then when he comes to die, and he has not thought for a long time anything about God and Heaven, then the door of Paradise does not open to him, and he cannot go in to that happy life. But why do I talk to you of this? You cannot understand."

But Elsli did understand partly, for she remembered hearing her step-mother once say it was easy enough for those to pray who had all they wanted, for they could see that God helped them; but he had never helped her. And Elsli could hear again the sorrowful tones of her father's voice as he answered: -- 

"If we think that, it will be worse and worse for us; that is not the right way to think."

These thoughts made Elsli very sad; but presently she roused herself and said she would go into the house and see if she could do something for the sick woman; she would come back by and by, and help him into the house again. The old man would not let her go, however; he drew her down again upon the fallen tree on which he was sitting.

"No, no; stay here," he said. "Let us talk a little more; you are wise for your age. Don't you know some other song? I should like to hear another."

Yes; Elsli knew many others; but she could not tell which it would be best to repeat now. After thinking awhile, she suddenly looked up brightly and said, "I remember one now that perhaps you will like. Shall I say it?" and as her companion nodded assent, she went on: -- 

"The night draws on -- sped is my day; I know my end is near. I raise my trembling hands to pray; The grave's dark road I fear.

"O God! thou art my only light! Be thou my guiding star! Hide all my trespasses from sight; Thy mercies endless are.

"Look down upon me, Lord! I bow, Repenting of my sin, Oh! ope the gates of heaven now, And bid me enter in."

The old man was silent. In a few moments Elsli arose, and the grandfather rose also, to go back with her into the house. While with slow and painful steps they regained the door, he said, thoughtfully: -- 

"Yes; I heard that long ago when I went to church. Then, it is still true! If I could only find my way there! Will you come to-morrow, my child, and say those verses again?"

Elsli promised heartily. She was glad that she had thought of the right words to help the poor old man. She set to work at once in the house, and did not rest till she had put to rights everything that could make the mother uneasy, and had made the sick woman and the children orderly and comfortable. The boys were eager to have her come into the kitchen, to see how well they remembered their yesterday's lesson. Everything went right; and as she was leaving the house she again met the father coming in, and again received from him the friendly yet depressed greeting which reminded her of her own father. And when the four children seized and held her, declaring that she should not leave them, a rare smile lighted up his weary face for a moment, and he stretched out his hand to her with such a tender look of love as she had never in her life received from any one but her father.

And this was the story of one day after another for many succeeding days. Elsli was living in quite another world from that in which the other children were amusing themselves at Rosemount. A new life had come to her, and she looked so happy always and so changed that Fred one day called out: -- 

"What makes you so happy, Elsli? You look as if you had just caught two gold beetles!"

Elsli had found a place in the world, and no longer felt herself useless and superfluous. She knew that early every morning the four children began to count the hours till she should come. The sick mother longed for her to appear and with her skilful hands bring neatness and comfort into her room. The grandfather depended on her help to take his daily airing, and, more than that, he loved the songs and hymns and gentle talk, with which Elsli brightened an hour of his lonely day. And every day Elsli could see more clearly how the father grew happier in his home-coming, now that he found the house-work done and a peaceful evening of rest before him.

Only one thing troubled her. She had not found a chance to talk with Aunt Clarissa, and these daily visits were still a secret. And what if Mrs. Stanhope should disapprove them! This thought gave her great anxiety. She knew that there was nothing wrong about them, but she was not sure that they would be allowed. For all that, she could not give them up. She had made many attempts to tell Aunt Clarissa, but there was a great deal going on in the house, and every time she spoke she was told that she must wait till another time. One day she determined to make another effort to get a few minutes' attention from Aunt Clarissa in the evening, and then she would tell her the whole story. After supper she went to her and asked whether she might tell her something before they went out on the terrace with the others. Aunt Clarissa asked how long it would take, for Mrs. Stanhope wished them all to go out together in a few minutes. Elsli answered that it would take some time to tell it all, but that it was very important.

"Then, dear," said Aunt Clarissa, "we shall have to wait till some other time; but I will call you to come to me in my room as soon as I can find a quiet time. There is no hurry, I'm sure."

So it was put off again.



Chapter V.

Great Preparations.


The day had come for the expedition to Cologne. It was a perfect day. The sky was blue and the sun shone bright. The children had a delightful trip, and the zoölogical garden was beyond all expectation interesting. Nevertheless, when they went to bed that night, each was a little dissatisfied on looking back over the day. Each thought: -- 

"It was splendid! but what a shame!"

Yet each was thinking of a different disappointment.

When they went on board the steamboat in the morning, Mrs. Stanhope said: -- 

"Now, all come and sit here quietly with me; there are so many passengers to-day that it will not do for you to be running about."

This prevented Oscar from carrying out his plan of going through the crowd, to find as many fellow-countrymen as he could, whom he could invite to his great Festival.

Emma had cherished a hope that by some unexpected arrangement it would turn out that the boat would stop for a little while in sight of the ruined castle, and she had brought pencils and paper, so as to be ready for the fortunate moment, if it should come. She was greatly disappointed when the boat shot swiftly by the spot, so that she hardly caught even a glimpse of the chosen view. Fani glanced at her despondently, with a look which said: -- 

"You see I was right. There's nothing to be done about it."

On entering the gardens, Mrs. Stanhope said again that they must all keep together. No one must linger behind, nor hurry before, or they might get lost; and they must not touch anything in the garden.

This was a blow to Fred, and took away most of his satisfaction in seeing the animals; and his martyrdom did not cease while they were in the gardens. Here he heard great buzzing and humming in a bush, and he longed to see the wonderful insects that made it. There he saw bright-colored butterflies fluttering about the flowers; on one side red-gold beetles were creeping in the grass before his eyes; on the other some huge lizards were sunning themselves on a rock. He must pass by all these attractions; not stop a moment to examine them, not touch one of all this multitude of treasures. It was almost too much for him. He could scarcely keep his hands off.

Elsli walked silently along, scarcely able to enjoy anything she saw, for thinking: -- 

"They are all waiting for me; and I shall not come all day."

And so it was that all five, in spite of the enjoyments of the day, went to bed at night with the feeling, "What a shame!"

But the next morning the thoughts of disappointment had passed away, and they came out to their recreation in the garden with happy plans for the day.

Oscar had a great deal of business on hand. He must see the Fink boys and fix the day for the Festival. Then, Feklitus was to come to-day, and he must be met at the station. They had put off the Festival till his arrival, for he would be one countryman more, and that was worth counting. Oscar had written him that there were three good hotels near the station; the Bunch of Grapes, the Eagle, and the Morning Star. A little farther on, down by the Rhine, was a magnificent house, as large as the church and the school-house at home put together; yes, and six dwelling-houses besides. It was called the Crown Prince. There were Rhine baths there, and many guests came for the sake of the bathing; perhaps this hotel was rather more expensive than the others.

Mr. and Mrs. Bickel immediately decided in favor of the Crown Prince, on account of the name, which certainly suited perfectly for their son, and also because of the acquaintances he might make there. Of course, there would be only the best of company there, since only those would go who could afford to pay high prices. It was proper, too, to show people that their son was a person who could afford to stay at the most expensive place. Oscar was therefore requested to engage a room for Feklitus at the Crown Prince.

When the time came for the children to go out and occupy themselves as they pleased, Oscar went off like a shot. He and the Fink brothers were now such fast friends that they could not pass one day without meeting, and had promised to remain intimate all their lives long. Oscar had never had such friends before. When they were together the hours flew like minutes, for they had a thousand interests in common -- their plays, their plans, their wishes for the future; they talked over everything together.

When the hour came for Feklitus to arrive, they started for the station together. In spite of the friendliness with which the Fink boys met the new-comer, the greeting was rather a one-sided affair, for Feklitus was not accustomed to making friends with strangers. His trunks were handed over to the omnibus-driver, and the four boys proceeded to the hotel on foot. Here he was shown to a very large room, furnished in splendid bright red satin, and with windows higher than the doors of most Buchberg houses.

Oscar began directly to tell Feklitus the arrangements that were to be made to-day in preparation for the great Festival to-morrow. The flag-staff must be set in a hole in the ground, and held firm by stones placed close around its base, so that there would be no delay in the morning. Then he told him whom he had found to join the society and take part in the Festival.

Feklitus' nose went up in scorn.

"A fine set of people you have collected! and all from the small cantons, too!" he exclaimed.

"What do you mean?" cried Oscar, angrily. "Who was it that wanted to put on the banner, 'Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity'?"

"Well, I say that still," answered Feklitus, stoutly. "But I'll have fraternity with those I choose, and not with every one that comes along, as you do."

"Ho, ho! that's it, is it?" cried Oscar, still more furious. "What do you understand, then, by equality?"

"Just what you do," retorted Feklitus. "I mean that we all have equal rights to do our own way; I don't care what other people do as long as they let me alone to act as I choose."

"Oh, you're a fine Swiss!" cried Oscar, screaming with excitement. "Much you must know about the history of your country! Do you know what you would be doing now if it had not been for the brave fellows from the small cantons? You'd be crouching before the tyrant's hat and licking the dust from his shoes!"

At this point the Fink boys joined with great liveliness in the dispute, and supported Oscar's side so energetically that Feklitus became excited in his turn, and shouted that he knew the history of Switzerland as well as they did, and that he had always been at the head of his class in school. The quarrel grew louder and louder, and above all Oscar's voice rose the loudest, crying angrily: -- 

"We will show you by and by, when we are old enough, what fraternity and equality and love of our country means. We will found a society for the whole of Switzerland, and every year we will celebrate the Feast of the Foundation, in which all the inhabitants of all the cantons shall take part; and at the feasts they shall sit in the order in which they joined the society. The first members shall sit at the head, and then you will see who they are!"

"Yes; then you'll see!" screamed the Finks, and Feklitus raised his voice still more furiously: -- 

"Well, you won't come anywhere near the first, you St. Gall fellows, not by a long piece!"

Just here the door was thrown wide-open by a very elegant waiter, who looked anxiously at the windows, as if he was afraid they had been broken in the fray. Then he placed himself in the door-way with a very polite air, as if to intimate that he would there await the close of the entertainment.

Oscar found it quite time to lower his voice, and to invite his friends to go with him to the place chosen for the Festival. The polite spectator waiting at the door seemed to exercise a subduing influence upon all the young patriots; for they became suddenly silent, and followed Oscar readily. He stopped at Rosemount only to fetch his banner, and then the boys went on.

When they reached the hill where the windmill stood, the banner was unrolled and admired. The garland of Alpine roses was beautiful with its bright colors and green leaves. On the other side Elsli had neatly sewed a large circle of paper, on which Oscar had inscribed his favorite motto, in large, legible letters.

The afternoon sun shone brightly on the hill and on the great sails of the windmill. It was a fine place for a festival. The Fink brothers began to dig a hole for the flag-staff; and Oscar directed them, and when they were ready he held the staff upright while they filled in the earth around it, and piled up the heavy stones. Feklitus looked on.

Just before this, the owner of the mill had decided on a walk to visit his property. He was looking about inside, when unusual noises without attracted his attention. Coming to a window in the upper story, he looked down on the scene below. There, directly before his astonished eyes, floated a banner, on which these words were plainly visible:

"Freedom we shout! Freedom for all! Freedom forever and aye! We will not yield till all chains fall, And tyrants are banished or die!"

He saw, too, that the boys were working hard to fasten the staff securely in its place.

"Hm, hm, so, so!" he murmured; "that's to be planted on my land! We'll see about that."

He stood still at his post of observation, and watched the farther proceedings. When the staff was firmly fixed so that it was not swayed by the blowing of the banner above, it was carefully drawn out, the stones were buried in the hole and neatly covered with sod. The preparations for the Festival were now all made, and to-morrow the banner could be easily set in place, and the celebration go on.

Oscar had long had a speech in readiness. Now he cast one long delighted glance at the beautiful platform before the windmill, so suitable for a speaker.

"At six o'clock to-morrow evening, not before; the others could not get away before," he said to his friends. "The meeting-place is behind Rosemount, by the three oaks. From there we shall march to music."

Then the four boys went down the hill, and at the main road they separated, promising to meet at the appointed time and place to-morrow.

Early in the morning of this same day, Emma had begun in her busy brain a new set of schemes. On the trip the day before, she had seen something which had excited her inventive powers in the highest degree. At the table at noon a keen observer would have suspected that something was in the wind, from the unseemly haste with which the little girl devoured her food. She was too busy with her project to remember her manners! When they arose from the table, and Mrs. Stanhope, with her never-forgotten politeness, dismissed them with "many wishes for an agreeable afternoon," Emma slipped lightly down the stairs, like a little weasel, and into the kitchen. The fat cook looked up with surprise from her cup of coffee; she could not get along without her coffee at noon, whatever happened.

"Well, now, has anything gone wrong with you, miss?" she asked.

"Oh, no," answered Emma; "but I have a little favor to ask of you. Drink your coffee, first; do."

"I've finished. What do you want?" asked the cook, slowly rising from her chair.

"My shoes are very dusty; will you please wipe them for me?" asked Emma, as politely as if she could not speak in any other way.

"It's hardly worth while," answered the woman, but she lifted Emma's foot upon a cricket, and began to rub it.

"And I want to ask you something more," began Emma. "Where do you get those beautiful fish that we have on the table so often?"

"They come out of the water near by," answered the cook.

"Yes, of course; but I mean, does a fisherman bring them to you, or do you go yourself to fetch them?"

"That would be a queer thing, if I had to trot round a couple of hours before I could have fish for my frying-pan! There! your shoes are all clean again." And she laid the brush away.

"Does it take a couple of hours to go to the fisherman's?" asked Emma.

"Goodness me! I can't speak always as if I were on oath; if you want to know how far it is, you'd better go measure it yourself, miss," retorted the displeased woman.

"That's just what I want to do! Will you please tell me the way?" asked Emma; and she thanked the cook for brushing her shoes, like a little lady.

"You go directly down behind the house, as far as the main road; go along the road a little way, and then turn to the left along a narrow path, till you come to a clump of willows; there you'll find the fisherman's house."

With many thanks Emma ran off.

"She is thinking of going a-fishing herself, I'm sure," said the cook, looking after her.

Emma rushed into the garden to find Fani.

"Come along, come with me! I know something nice! We can do it now!" and, dragging the boy along with her, the impetuous girl told him that the day before she had seen a fisherman out in his boat on the river, and she had made an excuse to go into the kitchen to speak to the cook, because she knew that children were not allowed there unless they had an errand to do; and she had found out where the fisherman lived, and of course they could hire his boat. In that they could go out on the river, and she would keep the boat still while Fani took a sketch of the ruin. If he could not finish it the first time, they could go again and again. It wouldn't cost so much to hire the boat that they couldn't take it several times if necessary.

Fani was delighted. But there was one difficulty.

"Who will row us, Elsli? I don't know how, and the fisherman couldn't leave his work so long."

"I can row myself. I took four people out in a boat once, when I was making a visit, near a lake, to some friends of mamma's. I have often rowed about alone. You don't know how skilful I am."

Fani was quite satisfied. He never dreamed of questioning Emma's capability. They went down to the road, and, after looking about for some time and retracing their steps, they found at last the narrow foot-path leading to the left, and, after walking a little way, they saw before them the clump of willows at a short distance. It was now nearly evening, for they had been a long time finding the way. The path they had taken was twice as long as that by the river, by which Elsli went; but they knew nothing of that. Under the willows all was still; there was nothing to be seen beyond but more willows, and the sound of the rushing river came through the silence to their ears. The children came in among the trees till they could see the water that flowed beyond. There lay the boat not far from them, and behind the bushes a slender thread of blue smoke rising into the air showed them where the fisherman's hut was. A man was just going down to the edge of the water, and presently he began to hammer at something in the boat. Emma ran towards him, and Fani followed.

"Are you the fisherman?" asked Emma?

The man raised his head, and stopped hammering.

"Yes, I am; at your service," he answered, politely. "Do you want to buy some fish?"

Emma explained that they only wanted to hire a boat, just for an hour or two; not to go far away from the shore at all. The man looked doubtful. Fani looked like a steady little fellow. He ought to manage a boat; still, it was best to be prudent, so he asked, -- 

"Are you young people in the habit of rowing yourselves?"

"Oh, yes, it is not our first trip, by any means," said Emma. "We can take care of ourselves"; and Fani was no less confident.

The fisherman said it was too late to go that day; he should need the boat himself, and there was some mending to be done to it before it could be used. If they wanted it the next day, he would have it ready; they could take it themselves, if he was not there. They ought not to go far from shore, and the young gentleman could use the pole where the oars wouldn't serve; he would understand. Emma promised to be careful, and they promised to pay on their return; and these arrangements being completed to their immense satisfaction, the children walked happily back to Rosemount, eagerly discussing their plans on the way. At the same time Elsli came silent and alone along the little foot-path by the river. All three came from the same place, but they knew nothing of each other, for Elsli had not come out of the house till after the others had reached the road. In the garden they met, and asked each other whether the supper-bell had rung. As they spoke they heard it; and, running up the stone steps, they sat down to supper without farther questions, and each was glad that the others asked none.



Chapter VI.

Anxiety At Rosemount.


The only really quiet part of the day at Rosemount was during the morning hours, when the children were busy writing letters home and learning their lessons. To-day, however, a certain restlessness seemed to have taken possession of them all. Emma and Fani could not keep still a minute. The latter tossed his papers about as if he couldn't make up his mind which one he wanted. The former made all sorts of signs to him across the table, and, in the midst of studying her French verbs, she seemed to be suddenly seized with a desire for lead-pencils, for she began to sharpen all that she could get together, one after the other. Oscar was writing out his speech. Any one would have thought that he was composing a drama and acting it out as he went along; he kept throwing up his head, and gazing enthusiastically first at one inkstand and then at another, as if he were summoning them all to great heroic deeds.

Aunt Clarissa, who generally sat in the room during the lesson-time to keep order in the little company, had just been called out by Lina, the maid-servant, who was usually a most quiet and reserved young person, but who was now, evidently, much excited and almost distressed as she asked to "speak a word with Mrs. Clarissa."

No sooner was the door closed than Oscar broke out eagerly: -- 

"Though neither you nor anybody knows where the Festival is to be this evening, Fani, yet promise me, on your word of honor, that you will join us -- Promise! at quarter before six, at the three oaks. Promise! and from there we march to the place of celebration."

Fani looked at Emma.

"Yes, of course you can promise. We shall be back by that time," said Emma, decidedly. "You see, Oscar, we have something to do together before that; but we are going at two o'clock if we can get away."

"Go where you please; only promise to be back," said Oscar.

Fani promised that he would be at the three oaks before six o'clock.

"And you too, Fred; we have not too many at the best. Promise that you'll come too."

It was not so easy to get Fred's consent; he was always slow to make a promise. Perhaps he would come; but, if he had anything important to attend to, he couldn't come if he did promise, so he must be excused.

Oscar was determined to have his own way. Fred was obstinate and would not yield. Emma and Fani were not at all loath to give up their studies and join in the dispute.

In the other room, Lina, her cheeks flaming with excitement, was declaring to Mrs. Clarissa that she would not stay another day in the house; no one would believe such things could happen who hadn't seen them; she never heard of such things before in her life.

"Do try to speak plainly, so that I can understand what you mean," said Clarissa, who had not an idea what the girl was talking about.

"Well, I noticed it a little once or twice before," said the agitated house-maid; "but I thought it came in at the open window. But to-day, just now, when I opened the drawer of the young gentleman's wash-stand to clean it, out jumped a live frog. I opened another and there were a lot of spiders crawling about! I slapped at them with a cloth and they ran into all the corners, and I couldn't get them out. Then I saw that the key was in the writing-desk, and I thought what if by chance any of the disgusting creatures had got in there; for what would Mrs. Stanhope say? I opened one division and then another and another. Hu! how it looked! I can't tell you how horrid it was! Snails, caterpillars, beetles, every sort of ugly living creature crawled out of every place, -- it was all dirty and nasty and abominable! I cleaned and brushed and washed and scrubbed as well as I could; but it was so dirty and so sticky! Ugh! And it was done on purpose, too; that's the worst of it; and the nasty things have got into my clothes and my hair and all over me! That stupid young gentleman did it just to frighten whoever came and found them there! I know he did!"

"No, Lina, you're mistaken," said Clarissa, when she could get in a word. "Come with me, and I'll see what can be done with the room. The boy didn't mean to frighten any one. I'm only afraid he was trying to hide them where they wouldn't be found. Let's go and see."

The aspect of Fred's room was indeed alarming. All the drawers and shelves in the different pieces of furniture were pulled out, and all were dirty and bore the marks of the creatures who had been kept in them. On the floor lay the remains of the spiders and worms that Lina had destroyed. The windows also were spotted with the dead bodies of insects. Clarissa shook her head sadly.

"Call the lad to come up here," she said. "But do not make any more fuss about the matter. Listen to me, Lina; we must make this all clean and nice again without letting Mrs. Stanhope know anything about it. Do you understand?"

Lina muttered something to herself and went to call Fred. When the poor lad entered his room and saw the destruction of all his carefully preserved treasures, he turned as white as chalk, and spoke not one word.

"My dear boy," said Clarissa very gently, "you need not be frightened, but I must tell you that you cannot use these drawers nor this desk for this purpose. Now, we will clean them all out, but remember that no more creatures must be brought into the house."

"Oh, my collection! my whole collection!"

"Yes, you see this is not the way to go to work to make a collection. Don't be unhappy. I will see about your getting some more creatures. But the first thing is to get this room cleaned up, and I'm sure you won't want to give us so much trouble again."

Fred glanced at the places where his most cherished treasures had been stored. His rare oleander-worms and his priceless beetles all were destroyed. The drawers all opened, the creatures all killed and spoiled. He went down stairs again, but he could not go back to the others and have them ask him why he had been sent for. He went out into the garden, and down to the seat under the lindens by the river. The thought of his specimens, his precious specimens, was too much for the poor fellow. He threw himself on the ground and poured out his sorrows in sobs and tears.

In the afternoon, when the others all ran out rejoicing in the sunshine, he hid himself in a corner of the school-room, and wrote the following letter: -- 

DEAR AUNTY: -- You will cry when you read this, I am sure. It is all done for, my entire collection; all killed with a dust-cloth, squashed, smashed, driven out of windows, and into holes, and all by a maid-servant. As I had no boxes for them, I naturally put my specimens into the best places I could find for them. In the writing-desk in my room were ever so many little divisions, just the very thing to put different varieties into. When the maid came to clear up the room, she didn't know anything about their value, of course, and she thrust her hateful brush right in and destroyed them all. She is a savage, an ignorant savage. I did as you told me, dear aunty. Not one tiny little frog even have I carried in my pockets, not even a beetle; and this is the result. I will not tell you all the things I had found; I couldn't bear to describe them. Two such beauties of beetles -- bright red wings, the body lilac blue, and glittering as any precious stone! Such a rare species! And an oleander-sphinx! And my magnificent caterpillar of the humming-bird moth! -- you know, aunty, that one with yellow stripes and blue eye-spots. All trodden to death on the floor.

I must stop; the longer I think of it, the worse I feel. I will say one thing though. You may call a person "Aunty," but that doesn't make her one. When we first came here, I used to say to Fani, when he wanted anything, "Why don't you go and ask Aunt Clarissa?" and he answered more than a dozen times, "That isn't allowed here." So at last I understood, and as I didn't want to lead him to do anything out of the way, I didn't say it any more. But now you see the difference between a real aunt and a make-believe one. There is nothing in the world that we can't ask you. If you can't do it, you say so, and there's the end of it. But that's no reason for not asking another time; there is always something to ask, and you understand that, and don't expect us to stop asking just because you have to say no sometimes. Now, this whole trouble comes from this; for when I asked Fani to ask Aunt Clarissa to give me some twenty or thirty old boxes to keep my specimens in, he said it was not proper to ask for so many things, and I could pack them in paper. Just think of that! To wrap living creatures up in paper! Of course Fani doesn't understand anything about such things.

Now what I want you to do, dear aunty, is to write in your next letter that we are to come home; it is high time. It is four weeks since we came, and that is long enough to be away from home; for home is the best place in the whole world. There are plenty of boxes to be had there, and everything that you want, and there are nice places for things, and there isn't such danger of accidents. And if anything does go wrong, you are there, aunty, and in a minute it is set right again. Do write and say that we may leave here on Saturday, and then on Sunday we shall be at home again. How glad we shall be! Good-bye, dear aunty; your ever-loving nephew,

Fred.

The evening came; lovely and bright. Under the three oaks were assembled the two Fink boys, the baker's son from Lucerne, the shoemaker's apprentice from Uri, the hotel porter from Schwyz, and Feklitus! Oscar stood in the midst with his banner, and looked sharply in every direction, for it was almost six o'clock and neither Fred nor Fani was in sight. The clock struck; five, ten minutes passed, and they did not come.

Oscar felt that it was useless to wait longer. Fred did not mean to come; he had seen that in the morning; but Fani, where was he? As he asked himself this question, Oscar raised his fist threateningly in the air and muttered to himself: -- 

"Oh, that Emma! that Xanthippe!"

His original intention had been to march to the windmill to the music of fife and drum, flute and harmonicon, but he had given up part of this plan; chiefly, he said to himself, on account of his father's advice not to make any disturbance in a strange place; but also because he could not get a drum, and Feklitus would not play the flute.

Now it was time to move, and the procession began to march. The lad from Lucerne went first, playing briskly upon the harmonicon; the others followed two and two, and Oscar in the middle held aloft the banner. The staff was quickly planted as previously arranged; the beautiful banner floated proudly over the land. Oscar took his stand by it, and the others formed a circle, lying on the grass about him. With a loud ringing voice he began: -- 

"Friends and brothers!"

"What does this mean? What is this all about?" suddenly thundered a voice behind him.

The boys sprang to their feet. Oscar looked round. Two bearded men in uniform stood close behind him and looked at him with threatening glances. In a flash Oscar turned about, made one great leap down the hill-side and away across the field like a madman. Behind him came the Finks, scarcely touching the ground. Down the other side ran the Lucerner fast on the heels of the Schwyzer, who tripped, and both went headlong into a ditch. Feklitus was the only one who kept his ground. He knew who he was; Fortunatus, the only son of Mr. Bickel. No one would dare to meddle with him. He knew, too, that he was by no means nimble, and the sudden appearance of the men in uniform had given him a strange feeling of heaviness in his legs. He had no mind to stay alone, however, and so he seized the shoemaker's boy by the collar, and held him as in a vise.

One of the men now came up to them and said roughly, -- 

"Come along to the watch-house and explain what you have been about, and what it all means."

The Uri boy hid himself as well as he could. Feklitus, half-frightened, half-angry, answered, -- 

"We have done nothing. We are not to blame. It's all Oscar's doing."

"We don't know anything about that," said the man. "You come along with us. Our motto is, 'Taken together, hung together.'" Then he turned to his comrade, and they began to whisper.

Feklitus was as pale as a ghost.

"Did you hear that? They are going to hang us," he said, grasping his companion still more tightly.

"Let us run away," gasped the boy, hardly able to speak for choking.

Feklitus looked at the men; they were in earnest conversation with the miller. He sprang from the ground; fear gave him unwonted agility. Down the hill he raced, his hair fairly standing on end with fright, and the Uri boy after him. Neither looked back to see whether they were pursued, but they thought they heard footsteps behind them. On they ran -- on, on; at last they separated; one this way, the other that; and then both disappeared. They had not been followed.

Oscar reached Rosemount all out of breath. He rushed up the steps, ran to his bed-room, took out his portfolio, threw himself on a seat before the table, and wrote the following, sobbing more and more as he went on: -- 

DEAR AUNTY, -- I want your help. Something has happened that may have very unpleasant consequences, and you are the only person that can help me; you will know how. I really did mean to be careful, just as my father bade me, and not do anything out of the way, and particularly not make a noise. You will not think that I did wrong to select the best of the mottoes. You know you said yourself that though we had no tyrants ourselves, yet, where there were any, it was a splendid verse. I cannot explain it all exactly, but we were taken by surprise in the middle of a perfectly harmless meeting. We succeeded in escaping, but I think perhaps we shall be prosecuted; and if my name comes out, they may write to papa from the court of justice here, and that would be horrible. You will stand by me, won't you, dear aunty? If a letter should come to my father, couldn't you get hold of it and read it and answer it yourself, without letting him know? You can explain to the gentlemen that we were only having a little Swiss celebration just among ourselves. Pray do help me, and not let the story get out. I hope you will write to-morrow and tell us to come home. We have been away long enough. I am sure papa and mamma would be glad, for we cannot do our lessons nicely here, at all. Everything is far better at home; things are better arranged, and the amusements are a great deal better. Do write to us to come home directly; and tell me too that you have done what I ask about the letter to papa. Best love, dearest aunty,

From your loving nephew,

Oscar.

The letter was folded in haste, and the address quickly added; and the writer ran with all his might to the post-office, a short distance from the house. He had to hurry, for it was nearly supper-time. As he came tearing along into the court-yard at Rosemount, on his return, he started back; for there stood one of the men in uniform, with the deserted banner in his hand. He was waiting to be let in. The door opened. He entered. Oscar drew back behind a great oak-tree. His heart beat like a trip-hammer. What was going on inside there? Mrs. Stanhope would know now all about it! What would she think of him after this! Perhaps she would send them all home with a letter of complaint to their father! His heart beat louder and louder. Perhaps the man came to fetch him to be punished and imprisoned. Had he broken some law when he had the hole dug in front of the mill, when there was nothing but short grass there? Oh, if he had only followed his father's advice, and not tried to do anything in this strange country without leave! All these anxious thoughts ran through Oscar's head, and the longer that dreadful man stayed, the more alarmed he grew.

Clarissa had just finished her disagreeable task, and, assisted very reluctantly by the indignant Lina, had at last succeeded in removing all traces of Fred's unfortunate collection, when a tremendous ringing at the house-door called her down stairs. It was the watchman with the banner. Another strange occurrence. What would happen next? She was really frightened when she recognized Oscar's banner, and read the too distinctly printed motto which embellished it. Clarissa looked anxiously at the different doors for fear that Mrs. Stanhope might come through one of them. She asked the man what his business might be. He replied that they had discovered that the owner of the banner he held in his hand belonged at Rosemount, and also that they had come to the conclusion that all that affair was only boys' play, though at first the miller had thought otherwise because of the motto. This was why he had informed the police. Now, they merely wished to advise Mrs. Stanhope to bid her young people keep such games within the limits of her own grounds.

Clarissa still glanced anxiously towards the doors, while she assured the man that his advice would be followed, and pressed a coin into his hand as an acknowledgment of the trouble he had taken. Then she hurriedly took the banner, rolled it up, and carried it away. She was determined, if possible, to keep from Mrs. Stanhope all knowledge of this day's occurrences. But would it be possible?

However, all was safe for the present; and, when the bell rang for supper, Clarissa laid aside her anxiety and went cheerfully into the dining-room. Oscar and Fred followed each other with slow steps and dejected demeanor. Their usual vivacity had vanished, and, as they seated themselves at the table, they hung their heads like hyacinths nipped by the frost.

Elsli sat next to Fred; her cheeks were glowing with exercise, for she had had to run fast all the way home to be in time for supper. She, too, hung her head over her plate to hide her heated face.

Emma and Fani were not there.

Mrs. Stanhope looked silently first at the empty places, then at the children.

Clarissa watched the door uneasily; no one came.

"I am willing to allow children all possible freedom," said Mrs. Stanhope, seriously; "but the order of the house must be maintained. I am very much annoyed at unpunctuality at meals. Fani has never allowed himself any such irregularity. I wonder how it happened now."

She looked from one brother to another as if expecting some explanation. They looked so uncomfortable that she took it as a sign of regret for their sister's delinquency, and so forbore farther remark.

After supper, Mrs. Stanhope went out as usual on the terrace, and the others followed. It began to grow dark. Clarissa's anxiety became unendurable; what could have happened to the children?

"Dear Mrs. Stanhope," she said, entreatingly, "do let me send some one out to look for the children. I cannot rest for fear that they have met with some accident."

"Where can we send? We have no clue to the direction they have taken," answered Mrs. Stanhope in a tone of vexation. "It is very provoking. Fani never did such a thing before. I will go with you."

She rose and went through a long corridor to the court-yard. Clarissa and the children followed. There they found the servants all assembled: the footman, coachman, cook, and maids were holding a council. They were talking over the children's absence, its possible cause, and Mrs. Stanhope's probable displeasure. When that lady came upon them unperceived, they tried to separate and escape; but it was too late. She told the men to go out into the street and to inquire in different directions whether anything had been seen of the lost children. Lina came forward to say that the cook knew that the young lady had gone fishing. It was a pity that all these young people were so cruel to animals, the house-maid added; and therewith she shot an angry glance at Fred, whom she hadn't forgiven for the trouble he had given her.

"For Heaven's sake!" cried Clarissa, in great alarm. "If those children have gone out on the river, something terrible must have happened to them! If we could only have the least idea which way they went!"

The cook, being appealed to, said that she had directed the young lady to the fisherman's hut. It might be well to look for her there.

Clarissa started at once, calling the men to go with her and show her the way.

Poor Elsli was more frightened now than any one else. She thought that Aunt Clarissa would now learn the story which she ought long ago to have told her. By her daily visits she had become so familiar with all the wants and sufferings of the fisherman's family that she had been led on to undertake more and more, till at last she had come to do nearly all the housework of the poor little dwelling. But gradually had grown upon her the conviction that Mrs. Stanhope would be extremely displeased if she knew of her conduct. In great agony she now started after Aunt Clarissa, crying out: -- 

"Oh, do let me go with you! I have something to tell you, and we can talk as we go."

"My dear child, what a time to choose to tell me something! How could I listen now? Turn back directly. What will Mrs. Stanhope think to see you running away at such a time?"

Mrs. Stanhope only thought that Elsli was anxious about her brother, as was very natural. She bade the children go to bed, since they could be of no use in finding the missing ones. They obeyed her in silence, and went to their rooms. The boys fell asleep as soon as their heads touched their pillows, and so happily lost remembrance of their troubles; but poor Elsli sat on her bed with wide-open eyes, for the anxious fear in her heart made sleep impossible. She went over and over again the events of the last few weeks. She had not at first meant to do wrong, but she certainly ought not to have repeated her visits to the fisherman's house without leave, especially as she knew that Mrs. Stanhope would probably object. Yet, how could she have left those poor people without help, when she found that she could do so much for them, and they reminded her so much of her family at home? Probably Mrs. Stanhope would send her and Fani away, but she deserved it and Fani did not. The more the poor girl pondered over all this trouble, the more unhappy she became; and at last she burst into tears and sobbed out: -- 

"Oh, if I only had some one to help me. I cannot tell what to do!"

Then Elsli remembered that she could bring her trouble to her Heavenly Father, and seek comfort and forgiveness from him. She had already repeated her daily evening prayer; but now she folded her hands again, and prayed, not as a form but from the bottom of her heart, that God would help her in her dire need, so that Fani should not be punished for her fault, and that she should not do wrong again, and that the fisherman's family should not suffer any more. Peace came as she prayed, and she lay down and slept at last.



Chapter VII.

An Unexpected Termination.


Directly after dinner Emma and Fani had started on their expedition. They had no trouble to-day in finding their way to the willows, and they went as quickly as they could, so that they could have a long afternoon, and yet get back in time for Oscar's Festival.

They found the boat ready for them; oars and pole all in position, and a seat in the middle. The boat was but lightly fastened to the shore, and the children sprang gayly into it. Emma took the oars and pushed off. She rowed well, and knew what she was about. She handled the boat skilfully, for she had often been out on the lake with her friend when the wind blew and the waves were high.

Fani took his seat in the stern, saying: -- 

"When you want my help, just say so, Emma. But I don't know anything at all about rowing."

"I shan't need you," answered Emma, bravely, as she pulled away.

Two things, however, she had not counted on. The boat was much heavier than that which she had used on the lake, and the swift current of the river was a very different thing to row against, from the quiet waters of a lake. Emma worked sturdily against the stream. She wanted to go out far enough to be in full sight of the ruined castle. She had arranged in her mind a plan for keeping the boat in place while Fani sketched. But she soon began to find herself growing very tired, while yet she made little head-way.

"Take the pole, Fani," she said, "and stick it firmly against the bottom and push." Fani did so, and the boat made an advance of several feet. "Again, again, Fani." Fani did his best.

"Now I'll row a bit farther into the middle of the river, then hold fast so that we shall not be carried down; here we are! there is the ruin, Fani! Now, Fani, stick the pole down, and I'll hold it and you can begin to sketch."

Fani stuck his pole manfully into the bottom of the river, but the rushing current seized it and threw it up again as if it had been a reed.

"Oh! oh!" he cried, "we shall be carried away!"

"You take one of the oars and we'll row back to the shore," said Emma, anxiously. "Come, be quick!"

But the stream seized the oar before Fani could take it from her, and it was swept away.

"What shall we do? There is no one to help us," cried Emma, beside herself. "Suppose the boat should upset!"

Faster and faster they were whirled along, the boat tossing like a nut-shell upon the waves.

The children sat still, although frightened almost to death.

"Fani, we are lost! who can help us?" screamed Emma. "Let us say our prayers. I have forgotten to say them ever since I came to Rosemount. I promised mamma not to forget; but I did. Do you think God will hear me now? Fani, you pray; you do it every day, I know."

"No; I thought Elsli would do it for me and for herself," said the boy hoarsely.

"That is no good; you must do it for yourself or God will not listen. He will only say, 'I do not know him,' when Elsli prays for you. Oh, if I had not forgotten to pray myself, he would not punish me so now!"

And then she sat silent, looking at the sky and praying from her heart that God would forgive her forgetfulness of him, and save her and Fani from the danger that threatened them.

"A steamboat! A steamboat! It is going to run us down!" shrieked Fani; and his fears were well grounded. With lightning speed, as it seemed, the great boat came rushing toward them like a huge giant, and in a few minutes the little boat would be engulfed in the swelling waves.

The children screamed; the steamer came nearer; it was close upon them; the boat was upset! At the same instant Emma was seized by a strong hand, lifted into the air, and then set down upon her feet on the deck of the steamer. Fani was saved, too, by another seaman, and both stood shivering with cold and fright, dripping with water, and soaked to the skin, but safe and sound. The passengers crowded about them.

Suddenly a tall, black-bearded man with angry eyes came toward them. It was the captain.

"What madness is this?" he thundered. "Do you think it is the business of steamboats to look out for little fools of fishermen? Whose fault would it have been if you had been run down and drowned?"

But as he looked at the two little dripping, miserable figures, his tone softened.

"Bring them below and give them something hot to drink," he said to one of the gaping by-standers. It was a mercy to get them away from all those staring eyes; they swallowed the steaming contents of the glass that was given them in the cabin without a word, though it burned their throats. They did not dare to sit down; they were too wet.

After a while the captain came down and asked where they came from, and where they were going in that "old fish-box."

Fani told the whole story without reserve. An expression of amusement passed over the captain's brown face more than once during this narration, and when he had heard all, he said kindly that they must get themselves dried off as best they could; he was going to stop at Cologne, and there they could take the train home again.

To reward him for saving them, Mrs. Stanhope could invite him to visit her house at the next vintage.

This was their second visit to Cologne; how different it was from the first one!

The captain's parting advice was that they should in future make their expeditions by land rather than by water; it was much safer, he said.

It was pretty dark by this time, and they had some trouble in finding the way to the station. They wandered from street to street inquiring their way, and at last found themselves again at the steamboat wharf, just where they had landed. They began to fear that they should lose the train and have to stay in the city all night. They set out again upon their search, and at last they came upon a policeman, who took pity upon them and led them through alleys and by-streets to the station, where they found that one train had just left, and they must wait two hours for the next. The little wanderers sat down outside the building to wait. They were wet and cold and hungry, but they did not complain of these minor troubles; their anxieties lay far deeper.

"I am dreadfully worried," said Fani, with a deep sigh.

"So am I, but I don't know exactly why," replied Emma.

"Well, I do," said the boy. "I'm perfectly sure that Mrs. Stanhope will send me home after this, and poor Elsli will have to go too, for she could never stay without me."

"Oh, that is dreadful!" cried Emma. She was conscience-stricken. It was a bad scrape, and it was mainly her fault. "Mrs. Stanhope is so kind," she went on hopefully, "perhaps she will not be so very angry."

Fani shook his head.

"You don't know about it, Emma. Of course Mrs. Stanhope is the greatest benefactress in the world. But she is very particular about our minding exactly what she tells us; and one of her principal rules is that we must never disturb the regularity of the household, and must keep punctually to just such hours; and now see what we have done! We shall not get home till twelve o'clock to-night, midnight! Probably they are hunting for us everywhere. How will it all turn out? Oh, dear! if she sends us off, there's an end of drawing and painting for me! That's all over"; and Fani looked despairing.

Emma felt that he knew Mrs. Stanhope far better than she did, and her courage began to fail. They sat in silence till the train came along. At the end of their journey they had a long walk from the station to Rosemount, and they stumbled along in the dark, frightened and trembling, and scarcely exchanging a word. Their hearts beat more and more as they neared the house. As they entered the court-yard, the watch-dog began to bark, but he stopped when he heard Fani's voice.

The great house-door was opened, and Aunt Clarissa came out to meet them from the lighted hall.

"Is it you?" she cried. "Thank God!" and she drew them into the house.

Mrs. Stanhope had not gone to bed. She was standing just inside the door.

"Now you may tell me all about it," she said, looking seriously at the children, who presented a shocking appearance. "So, you've been in the water! Where are the men?"

The children stammered out that they had seen no men. They had just come up from the station.

Mrs. Stanhope shook her head.

"Some one must be sent to the fisherman's hut to tell the men to stop the search," she said coldly. "I will leave the care of the children to more skilful hands"; and she withdrew without more words.

Aunt Clarissa put them to bed directly, and a big pitcher of hot tea was brought to each of them, from which they had to drink one steaming cup after another, till they were warmed through. Then Clarissa sat down first by Emma's bed, and then by Fani's, to learn exactly what had happened, and whether they had met with any injuries that would need a doctor's attention.

In the midst of assurances that they were not injured, and of attempts to explain what had happened, the two tired miscreants fell asleep, and Aunt Clarissa went to her room with thankful heart that things were no worse.

The next morning Fani was determined, in spite of his weariness of limb, to be punctual at the breakfast table. He sprang out of bed the moment that he waked, and dressed an hour too early. He went into the garden to listen to the birds; he thought their happy singing might make him happier. As he was walking up and down, he saw the fisherman coming into the court-yard. He went to meet him. The man stopped and lifted his cap politely. "I know what you have come for," said Fani, taking out his purse; "how much do I owe you?"

The man turned his cap about in his hands, as if he were turning his thoughts over too.

"I don't want to be unreasonable," he said presently, "and I don't suppose a young gentleman like you knows how much a boat with all its belongings is worth. I cannot say less than eighty marks; I shall lose at that, but I will not ask more."

Fani stood thunder-struck. Of course, as the boat was lost, he must make it good. But eighty marks! He had never even seen so much money as that. He was speechless. The fisherman looked thoughtfully at him. Presently he said modestly: -- 

"I can understand that you cannot pay me the money yourself; you will have to ask your mother for it. I will come again to-morrow."

"No, no!" cried Fani. "I will bring it to you as soon as I get it. I will certainly come," he added, as he saw the man's disappointed look. "I shall keep my word; only I can't say exactly when."

It seemed as if the man had something more to say; but he swallowed it down, and went away, muttering to himself, "No boat! and no money to buy another!"

Fani ran back into the house. He looked at Emma's door to see whether her boots were still outside, but they had disappeared; so he tapped on the door and said softly: -- 

"Come out, Emma, I have something to say to you."

"What is the matter? Has Mrs. Stanhope been talking to you?" asked Emma, in a low tone, as she opened the door.

"No," said Fani, "it's not that"; and he drew her into the garden, to an arbor in a far-away corner, and there he told her about the eighty marks that were owing for the lost boat. Emma was greatly excited.

"We can never in the world get together so much as eighty marks! What can we do?" she cried in a tone of anguish.

"I don't know. We can't ask Mrs. Stanhope for a lot of money like that, after all that we have done to displease her. Can't you think of any way? If I only knew some one to borrow of! Oh, don't you know of anybody, Emma?"

Emma had sunk upon a bench, and her eyes looked as if they would start out of her head; she was trying so hard to see some way out of the dilemma.

Fred came running down the walk. He wanted to know what they were about the night before, but they had no time to answer, for just then the bell rang for breakfast.

The meal was not a merry one. The children were all embarrassed, and they knew why; they were all conscious that they had not behaved well to their hostess.

Mrs. Stanhope looked at them inquiringly, but said not a word. Aunt Clarissa nervously buttered large slices of bread as fast as she could; the dish was piled high with them, for no one ate much.

As Mrs. Stanhope left the table, she turned to Fani and said: -- 

"Go into the library and wait for me. I want to speak to you."

Fani grew white; Emma, red. "It's coming now," they said to themselves.

As Mrs. Stanhope opened the door to leave the room, she was knocked against by a house-maid who was entering in great haste.

"Excuse me, madam," she said. "I was in such a hurry. Something else has happened. A servant has just come from the Crown Prince to say that the young gentleman for whom Master Oscar ordered a room there has not been at home all night; and this morning the shoemaker told them at the hotel that he was with the young man himself last evening, and saw him running like a crazy fellow down towards the river."

It was now Oscar's turn to grow pale.

Aunt Clarissa sent the maid away, saying that she would speak to the hotel servant herself. She was afraid that Lina would let out the secret of Fred's untidy room if she were allowed to go on.

Mrs. Stanhope looked very serious.

"I don't understand all this," she said, turning to Clarissa; "but if the young stranger has anything to do with Oscar, I will be responsible for his bill at the hotel." And she left the room.

Emma instantly rushed to the school-room, seized her portfolio, and began to write as fast as her pen could go.

DEAR AUNTY, -- For pity's sake, help me now! Something dreadful has happened. I will never make any plans again as long as I live, even if they would be sure to come out right. I will always do just as mamma bids me, and never suggest anything more to Fani. I gave him the book just to encourage him; but he said before he looked at it that what he cared for most was to be an artist. And there was something that he could do that would make Mrs. Stanhope willing to have him one, only he couldn't find any way to do it. So I found a way. I didn't forget that I promised mamma that I wouldn't make any plans; but I thought this was different. Fani knew what he wanted to do; only he couldn't see the way clear to do it, and I was just going to help him. Don't you see? And there was a dreadful thing that happened when we tried that way; but I can't write about it now, it is a long story. I'll tell you by and by. But the trouble now is, we have lost a boat in the river; it is a poor fisherman's, and we must pay him for it. You will understand that we do not dare to tell Mrs. Stanhope anything about it. We can't ask her for so much money. Fani says he would rather go to work in the factory. But you will help us, I know, dear aunty; you will not let us suffer. We want eighty marks. It is terrible. But it is worth that, for there were two oars and a pole besides the boat. I don't ask you to give it to me, but only to lend it. I will keep thinking day and night how I can earn enough to pay you. I have some things, you know; my godfather's present. In my drawer in the little writing-table at home are six silver spoons, and a beautiful pincushion, and two old Easter eggs with pictures on them cut out of paper: dragons spitting fire, and flowers, and the sun, moon, and stars. You can sell them for something, I am sure; and after this I will sell directly everything that I get and give you the money. And perhaps I shall contrive to think of some way to earn something too; if I can I will. Oh, dearest aunty, you will help us, I know, for you help everybody.

Write as soon as you can and tell us to come home. How glad we shall be to get there! There we can tell you all our troubles. I wish we could go to-morrow, and get back to you and mamma. Write directly, dear aunty. I send you my love a thousand thousand times.

Your loving niece,

Emma.

P.S. Aunty, dear, I have thought of another way. In Cologne I saw a girl who went about in the street with a basket and sold roses. Now I think that if Mrs. Stanhope would let me take two roses from each bed in her garden I should get a basket full, and I could earn a lot of money, I am sure. Don't you think so? With a thousand kisses, Your niece,

Emma.

P.S. I have thought this very moment of the nicest plan of all. In the vineyards here they put horrid looking figures, like men with red beards and arms stretched out, to frighten away the birds. If you will send me some red stuff and some yellow, I can make figures a great deal more frightful, and they will sell for a great deal. Perhaps in this way I can pay you half the money, and I'm sure I shall find something else to do by and by.

I am again and always,

Your loving niece,

Emma.

Fani had been sitting for some time in the library, awaiting with a beating heart the coming of Mrs. Stanhope. When the door opened, he sprang to his feet; he had learned that that was the proper thing to do when a lady entered the room. Mrs. Stanhope took a seat on the sofa, and motioned him to take a cricket and sit down by her.

"Now tell me all about it, Fani," she began. "Tell me the exact truth about what happened yesterday. What made you think of going out on the water, and how did you manage it? Tell me the whole story just as it was. Keep nothing back."

Fani obeyed. He went way back to the plans which Emma and he had made before he left home so that he might become an artist. How pleased he had been to take drawing-lessons, and how they made him love drawing more and more. How glad Emma had been at his progress, and how she had urged him to tell Mrs. Stanhope how he felt about his future career. Now came the most important point, and Fani related it very clearly. He wished to make a picture of the old ruin, because if he got a prize for it he thought Mrs. Stanhope would look more favorably on his adoption of art as a business; and Emma had thought out a way of getting a good view of it from the river. Then followed the mishap, which occurred because Emma did not know the strength of the current, nor understand how different the river was from the lake on which she had been in the habit of rowing. Fani told the whole story faithfully. Mrs. Stanhope listened in silence to the end, and then said briefly, -- 

"Very well; you may go, Fani."

In the hall behind one of the pillars stood Emma, impatient to hear the result of the interview.

"Well? well?" she asked eagerly.

"Well; it's just as it was before; I don't know any more than I did."

"Did she scold you very hard? Did she say anything about me? For I was the one to blame."

"No, indeed; Mrs. Stanhope never scolds; but she is very angry with me, I know, for she did not speak to me when I had told her all about it. Generally she talks a good deal to me about all sorts of things; even when I have done something to displease her. I am sure there is no help for us."

Emma sighed. She knew too well how much she was to blame for this unfortunate state of things.

Three days passed. The house was more quiet than it had been before since the children came. A cloud was over them all. No one laughed or talked freely or cared for amusement. All seemed waiting for some unpleasant thing that was going to happen.

Early in the morning of the fourth day, a letter was brought to Mrs. Stanhope, containing an enclosure for the children. The letter was from their mother. She expressed her gratitude to Mrs. Stanhope for all her kindness, and for the pleasure the children had enjoyed at Rosemount. Then followed apologies and regrets for the trouble and annoyance that the visit must have caused Mrs. Stanhope. And Mrs. Stein closed by saying that they had too long trespassed on the indulgence of their kind hostess, and begged her to set a time when it would be convenient to her for them to take their leave.

The enclosure for the children contained three letters from their aunt. Emma tore hers open first. A banknote met her delighted eyes. She ran out of the room, and called Fani. "She has saved us!" she cried. "Oh, isn't aunty an angel from heaven!" Fani's face shone with pleasure and surprise. Emma thrust the money into his hand.

"Take it, and run to the fisherman's. I must read my letter"; and she ran off to the arbor.

After an affectionate greeting it ran thus; -- 

"It is a crying shame, my dear girl, that this delightful visit, full of pleasures that may never fall to your lot again, should have been spoiled by each of you three children, only because of your disobedience. Especially you and Oscar. Your father and mother gave you both particular warning against what you were not to do. You both set to work to see how you could manage to obey in all the trivial details, and yet carry out your own plans in essentials. You both knew very well what you were about, and have well deserved the unpleasant consequences of your actions. I trust that you have both received a lasting lesson. How much worse the results might have been, dear Emma, we do not dare to think. We can only guess, though you do not tell us that you had a very narrow escape. We trust that you will show your gratitude to God for it by never again straying into forbidden paths. I send you the money you asked for, in order to spare Mrs. Stanhope any trouble about it. Fani showed a proper sense of his own folly and of his obligations to her when he said he would make any sacrifice rather than ask her for it. I do not lend you the money. It is a gift. But do not run in debt again. Another time I might not be able to help you. We shall all be glad to see you at home again."

In her letter to Oscar, aunty wrote that he deserved a much worse punishment than he had received, for his wilful misinterpretation of his father's warning, obeying the letter, rather than the spirit, and for his obstinacy about the motto. The letter then continued: -- 

"No notice from the police nor from the court of justice has been sent to your father; but a complaint has been lodged against you from another quarter. Only three days after he went from home, Feklitus came back again, without bag or baggage, as if he had fled for his life. He told a terrible tale of some scrape into which you had led him, and from which he had got away safe only by his own most skilful management. On the evening of that unlucky Festival he had scampered away from his captors with all his might, flung himself into a railway carriage, and, travelling all night, had not stopped till he reached home. Now you see, dear Oscar, that you have something to answer for in this affair; for even if Feklitus was unnecessarily frightened, it does not alter the fact that you got him involved in a most unpleasant way, and his parents are naturally very angry with you. You must at any rate take measures to set Mrs. Bickel's mind at rest She told me yesterday that she had lost her sleep and her appetite, from thinking about the beautiful leather trunk, and the six new suits of clothes, which she has no doubt the waiters at the Crown Prince are sharing among themselves. You must go to the hotel, pack all the clothes carefully, lock the trunk, and send it to him. Send the keys in a separate package, and then you will have removed one cause of their not unreasonable displeasure."

With Fred, aunty pathetically condoled on the loss of his collection; and then she added: -- 

"Yet you see, my dear Fred, you are to blame after all; for I told you not to put your creatures where they would displease Mrs. Stanhope, if she should see them. I could not specify every such place, but I trusted to your commonsense to tell you that beetles and caterpillars do not belong in a writing-desk! You are such an insatiable collector! You will have to learn moderation. If you had only been satisfied with a reasonable number of the finest specimens, you would not have needed so many boxes; I am very glad that Fani hindered you from asking for them in a house where so many kindnesses were being shown to all of you. It ill becomes guests to make unreasonable demands. After all, dear Fred, I hope you will be able to bring home a few treasures, notwithstanding your great loss, and we will enjoy them together."

These letters were a great relief to all; but some uneasiness still remained. They did not know yet how Mrs. Stanhope would treat their several delinquencies, when she knew all about them, and, besides, they were homesick.

"What about going home?" they asked each other; and none of the letters had mentioned the subject. They were disappointed.

As to Fani, he began to wonder what Mrs. Stanhope's plans were for him. When would she talk with him again? Would he have to go back to the factory? She had never since that day talked with him as she used to do; but often he was aware that she was looking at him, long and thoughtfully.

In Elsli's heart, too, anxiety reigned supreme; not so much for herself as for Fani. Mrs. Stanhope was already displeased with him; and when she found out that she had been doing wrong too, Elsli could not but fear that her displeasure would be so severe that they should both be sent away.



Chapter VIII.

The Happy End.


Elsli's bedroom opened into that of Aunt Clarissa. During this time of worry and excitement, when every day so much happened that was new and unexpected, Clarissa found it difficult to fulfil all her household duties with her usual promptness and regularity, so it was often very late before she could get to her room for the night, and she always thought Elsli was fast asleep. One evening she was even later than usual, and she had hardly seated herself to read her evening prayer when she was surprised to hear Elsli calling her.

"I don't feel very well, Aunt Clarissa," said the child in a feeble voice; and before she had finished speaking her kind friend was at her bedside. Clarissa was startled to see her heavy eyes and feverish cheeks.

"What ails you, my dear girl?" she asked, tenderly, stroking the hot head with her cool hand, and trying to conceal the anxiety that she felt.

"Not much, I think," answered Elsli, with a faint smile; "I haven't been feeling very well for a week or two; I have had a good many dizzy turns and I've been hot and restless. I've heard you come up to bed every night though it was so late."

"Why didn't you speak to me, dear? I might have done something to make you sleep."

"I didn't want to trouble you and it was really nothing. I had no pain, only heat and restlessness. But to-night I thought I must call you, because I feel very ill, and besides I have something that I must tell you, you know, and you told me you would hear it when you could find a quiet time. Can you spare the time to-night, though it is so late? I think I could go to sleep better after I have told it. It has worried me so long." Elsli spoke feebly but eagerly; and Aunt Clarissa, full of anxious fear, could not but assent to her request, though she was almost afraid to have her go on; for she saw that the little girl was really very ill.

She sat down by the bedside holding Elsli's trembling hand in her own and gently pressing it from time to time. Elsli began: -- 

"I want to tell you something that I ought to have spoken of long ago. It was not right for me to go on as I have been doing without telling you; and I am afraid Mrs. Stanhope will be very much displeased when she knows about it"

Clarissa could scarcely control her astonishment. Was it possible that this gentle, conscientious creature had been capable of doing something wrong and concealing it?

But she only said quietly: "Tell me everything that is on your mind, it will relieve you; but do not hurry, there is time enough."

Elsli told her of her accidental acquaintance with the fisherman's family, of their extreme poverty, of the illness of the mother, and of her own efforts to help them.

"Do you think I have done very wrong?" she asked, timidly, looking up at Clarissa with wistful eyes.

Clarissa was very much moved.

"My darling," she said, "do not worry about it. You did not mean to do anything wrong, and all that you did was in kindness. You wanted to tell me about it long ago, I remember; and it was no fault of yours that I did not hear it. I will explain it all to Mrs. Stanhope, and she will understand it and will not be displeased."

"And do you think she will let me go again and help them?"

"You are too ill to think about going now; but I promise to see to them myself, so do not fret about it, dear. I had no idea that the family were so poor; the man never has complained when he has been here with the fish. I will go and inquire what the sick woman needs. Will that satisfy you, dear?"

"Yes," said Elsli, but somewhat doubtfully. "You see, there is so much to be done that no one would know about, and she would never tell about it. I couldn't do much darning and mending, and the clothes are so worn out that the children can scarcely keep them on; and their mother is too ill to cook, and when the father comes home he is too tired, and he has hard work even to keep a house over their heads. If I don't help them, they will never get through; they will suffer in silence. They are just like us at home."

Elsli's sobs prevented her from saying any more. The remembrance of her early sufferings and the thought of her parents' trials came over her like a flood, and she sobbed as if her heart would break. Clarissa lifted her head and raised the pillows behind it, so that she could look out into the clear, star-lit night.

Elsli gradually grew more tranquil, and by and by she looked up into Clarissa's face and smiled.

"Do you think I shall go to Nora?" she asked. "The old grandfather said that only good people go to heaven."

"My child" said Clarissa, "our Lord and Saviour shows us the way. He has opened the door for those who have erred, and shown us that our Heavenly Father is always ready to forgive and receive those who repent and turn to him. Don't you remember the parable of the Prodigal Son and the words of Jesus to the men who were crucified with him? They were not good, you know."

"Yes, I know," said the child in a tone of relief; and she repeated softly to herself the hymn which she had said to the old man. The last couplet was scarcely audible.

"Oh, ope the gates of heaven now, And bid me enter in!"

The next morning Clarissa went to the other children with the sad news that Elsli was very, very ill. They could not at first believe it. She had never complained, and had been only yesterday in the garden with them, joining in their play; quiet to be sure, but always sympathetic and trying to please them all. It was a sad day for them. They could not occupy themselves as usual, but sat about in the house and garden, weeping in silence, or talking in subdued tones about the sick girl whom they all loved so dearly.

Fani was, of course, the most unhappy of all. Elsli's goodness to him in their days of poverty and hardship came clearly to his mind. How she had silently taken many a punishment and rebuke that were really deserved by him. He felt keenly that if Elsli did not recover he should never meet with any one to take her place. He saw now, as he had never seen before, what his sister had been to him.

To Mrs. Stanhope too the blow was a severe one. She blamed herself for not having noticed that the child had been growing thin and pale during the last few weeks, and she recalled, now that it was too late, several times when she had thought that Elsli looked over-heated and tired, but she had done nothing about it, thinking it only a passing matter. She sent at once for the physician. He gave little hope of the child's recovery. He said she had evidently been "running down" for some time, and she must have been eating too little and doing too much, and, besides, he suspected some mental depression and anxiety. All this, acting on a frame naturally delicate and weakened by the hardships of her early years, had more than counteracted the gain that Elsli had certainly made during the first months of her life at Rosemount.

Clarissa then told Mrs. Stanhope the story which the little girl had related to her, and their tears fell fast over the simple tale of pity and self-sacrifice. Mrs. Stanhope's heart smote her, as she learned how Elsli had suffered from fear of her displeasure, and from the concealment into which this had led her, a concealment so foreign to her nature. She went to the child's bedside, and, embracing her more fondly than she had ever done before, she said tenderly: -- 

"I can't tell you, darling child, how sorry I am that you should have been afraid of me. I never meant it should be so, but I am naturally reserved, and when my Nora died, I felt as if all my power of loving had died with her. I liked you, and I meant to take good care of you, but I see now that I have seemed cold to you, and haven't shown you the love that has really been growing up for you in my heart. Forgive me, dear, and believe that I do love you, and that I will be a real loving mother to Fani, as I would be to you -- " She stopped, overcome by her own emotion.

Elsli's face beamed with a radiant smile. She lifted her feeble arm and laid it around Mrs. Stanhope's neck.

"I am going to Nora," she whispered; "I will tell her how good you have been to us. I love you," she added, and it went to Mrs. Stanhope's heart that it was the first time the child had ever said these words to her. She could not speak, but she drew Elsli's head to rest upon her shoulder, and in a few moments the sick girl fell asleep with a peaceful look upon her face, and Mrs. Stanhope sat holding her unwearied, till Clarissa came and gently laid the little head back upon the pillows.

For several days Elsli continued in a critical state; but they were happy days. Mrs. Stanhope never left her, and it seemed as if she could not do enough to show her tenderness. Clarissa was devoted to her comfort, and brought her every day news from her friends in the fisherman's hut, whom Mrs. Stanhope had already begun to help in the wisest and kindest ways. The poor family sent many messages of love and gratitude to their little helper, and these Clarissa delivered; but she did not tell Elsli how unhappy they were at the thought of losing her, nor how the father said: -- 

"I knew she was an angel from heaven; and we could not expect her to stay long with us. Now she is going back again where she belongs."

The children at Rosemount were allowed to come for a few minutes at a time into Elsli's room. They were charged to bring only cheerful faces, and not to trouble her with their grief. They brought her flowers from the garden, and sometimes they read to her from the books she loved. Fani especially was very tender and devoted, and Elsli took great satisfaction in having him with her.

Every interview was precious, since the time for them was probably so short.

But Elsli did not die. The complete repose of the sick-room, and the devoted care she received, but perhaps more than all that the new happiness that had come into her heart in Mrs. Stanhope's awakened affection and her own response to it, and the fresh hopes which sprang from seeing how large a place she held in the lives of those about her, and the happy prospect of being useful and valuable without need of concealment or anxiety, -- all these things helped in her recovery; and when, in a few weeks, she again came down stairs and out into the sunny garden, it was with new eyes that she looked upon life and its duties and opportunities, and she thanked God that he had permitted her to stay upon his beautiful earth, and help his children here. For she saw that the earth is the Lord's as well as the heavens, and while she still looked forward to the happy life of Paradise with hope and confidence, she no longer undervalued the joys and privileges which surrounded her here.

As soon as Elsli was fairly convalescent, the doctor's children went home. Their parents could spare them no longer. Mrs. Stanhope bade them good-bye with the assurance that she should depend on having another visit from them next year, so that it was plain that she felt no serious displeasure with them. They were grateful for her forgiveness, and fervently resolved that next year she should have nothing to forgive.

The three travellers went rapidly on towards their own dear home. At the last station their father's carriage was waiting for them. A shout of joy hailed them. It was Rikli. She had been allowed to come to meet them. It seemed that night as if they would never be tired enough to go to bed, they were so excited with joy at seeing father and mother and aunty, and at feeling themselves at home again. Questions and answers were all poured out together, interrupted by frequent exclamations of affection and of joy at being all together once more. There seemed no chance of quiet or rest that night.

But at last the evening came to an end. The active trio were in bed and asleep, and the happy mother went softly from one bedside to another, and breathed a silent thanksgiving over each sleeping child, that they had all been preserved from harm and brought safely back to her arms.

Mrs. Stanhope's summer had been full of excitement of various kinds, such as she had never in her whole life experienced before. It had been rather a trying thing to her to have her very methodical and regular life so disturbed, and she had not always known how to take with equanimity the alarms and inconveniences that her generous invitation to the doctor's children had brought upon her. But she had been interested in the children, and it had been a good thing for her to become accustomed to the interruption of the too rigorous routine in which she had been living. Elsli's illness had been a deep and painful experience, but it had produced a blessed change in the whole tone of her life and spirit. Her new-born love for the little girl had broken up the sealed fountains of her heart, and she felt again the bliss of a mother's love ardently returned by a child. A warmer glow was infused too into her feeling for Fani, to whom she had been attracted at first by his resemblance to her Philo. Time had softened her sorrow for the loss of her boy, so that this resemblance endeared Fani to her, while in Elsli's case, a similar likeness to Nora had only made it the more difficult to receive one who was brought to her to take Nora's place, while she was still stunned with the grief of the recent parting.

Her first thought now was for Elsli. The doctor said that the child must spend the next winter in a warmer climate, and recommended a removal to the south of France or to Italy before the coming of cold weather.

"And meantime," he said, "you must put a stop to all this long sitting on the stone seat under those heavy lindens down by the water, and to pacing up and down that damp little path that leads to the willows, and to spending hours in that wretched hut by the bog, that isn't fit for any one to live in. The river is very beautiful, but it's better to be looked at from a distance above. Dry air and sunshine are what our little girl needs. She couldn't do anything worse for mind or body than to sit and meditate in that cold, damp, lonely place."

Mrs. Stanhope's eyes were opened, and she resolved to act on the doctor's suggestion, not only with regard to Elsli, but also to the fisherman's family. She took measures directly for building a small house on her own land, in a dry situation, but not far from the river, so that he could continue his avocation as a fisherman, while she also gave him steady and profitable employment as a laborer on her estate. Elsli was very happy watching the progress of the new house and fitting it up for its inmates, and she had the pleasure of seeing them comfortably established there before she went south for the winter.

Meantime Mrs. Stanhope, after much deliberation, and with considerable reluctance, for she was not accustomed to change a resolution once made, had come to a decision with regard to Fani's future, quite at variance with her former plans, which had been to bring him up with a knowledge of business, with a view to his becoming steward of her estates.

One evening she was sitting with the two children in the parlor after supper; for they no longer went out on the terrace at this hour, since the days were growing shorter and Elsli must not be out after sundown. The children were chatting gayly, on various subjects, when Mrs. Stanhope, who had been reading, laid down her book, and said: -- 

"Come and sit by me, Fani; let us have a little talk together. That unfortunate expedition of yours on the river, and what you said when you told me about it, seemed to show that your heart was fully set on becoming an artist. Is it so still? or was it only a passing fancy? Are you sure that you have thought long enough about it to be certain of yourself?"

Fani grew crimson. He hesitated an instant, and then said: -- 

"Yes; I have thought about it and wished for it a long, long time; and the more I draw, the more I care for it. But I am willing to think no more about it; and I will do whatever you wish, to the very best of my ability."

"I have been talking to your teacher," continued Mrs. Stanhope, "and he says, if your industry and perseverance are as great as your talent, you will be a successful artist. And as you care so much about it, I am sure you will be persevering. So I have decided to take you with us to Florence this winter, where you will have good instruction in drawing, and also the benefit of the galleries. You will go on with your studies too, for I want you to be a well educated man as well as an artist, and you are too young yet to give up school-work. If you do well, and at the end of a year or two still persevere in your desire to become a painter, you shall go to an art-school, at Düsseldorf or somewhere else, and take a course of several years. There you will find out just how much you can do, and after that we will decide what is best for our young artist."

Fani sprang to his feet and stood speechless before his kind benefactress. When he tried to speak, tears came instead of the words he meant to utter.

Mrs. Stanhope saw his emotion with far more satisfaction than if he had overwhelmed her with thanks.

"Now," she said to herself, "he is certainly in earnest."

"Meanwhile," she continued aloud, "we shall often be with you, Elsli and I, sometimes at home, or wherever it is best for us to spend the winters. In summer we shall be all together here. You are my own children now; and I shall do for you just as I should have done for my Philo and Nora if they had stayed with me."

Tears stood in Mrs. Stanhope's eyes, but she smiled too, as she held out her arms to the children, and drew them, radiant with joy and gratitude, into a mother's embrace.

There were great rejoicings among their friends in Buchberg over the news that Mrs. Stanhope had adopted the two children, and that Fani was to become an art-student. Oscar and Fred, and still more the triumphant Emma, could already see with prophetic eyes the announcement of the great exhibition to be held in the neighboring city, of the wonderful landscapes of that "celebrated painter, Fani von Buchberg!"

Heiri's family grew better off every year with the help that came from the absent children and their new mother, and Elsli was happy in the thought that her father's hardest days were over, and that her own good-fortune had brought good to him also.

Oscar and the Fink boys kept up an uninterrupted correspondence. They were determined that when they were grown up to manhood they would found a Swiss brotherhood which should astonish the world.

Feklitus got back his shirts and his new clothes and his trunks safe from the clutches of the waiters at the Crown Prince. But he never spoke of his journey to the Rhine, no matter how much his companions might ply him with questions. If, in school, his geography lesson was upon the Rhine country, he turned a deaf ear, for he absolutely declined to learn anything about a place where innocent persons are treated with such indignity as they meet with there.

Mrs. Stein and her sister still had their hands and their hearts full with the care of the boys and girls who were at once their anxiety and their delight; but they still had time and thought to give to the interests of others, and they never failed to rejoice over the improvement and the happiness of Gritli's children.

<eob>

Mary Ware's Promised Land

By

Annie Fellows Johnston



Part I

Mary Ware's Promised Land


Chapter I

A Seeker Of New Trails


When the Ware family boarded the train in San Antonio that September morning for their long journey back to Lone-Rock, every passenger on the Pullman straightened up with an appearance of interest. Somehow their arrival had the effect of a breath of fresh air blowing through the stuffy car. Even before their entrance some curiosity had been awakened by remarks which floated in from the rear platform, where they were bidding farewell to some friends who had come to see them off.

"Do write and tell us what your next adventures are, Mary," exclaimed one clear voice. "Your family ought to be named Gulliver instead of Ware, for you are always travelling around to such queer, out-of-the-way places. I suppose you haven't the faintest idea where you'll be six months from now."

"No, nor where I'll be in even six weeks," came the answer, in a laughing girlish treble. "As I told the Mallory twins when we left Bauer, I'm like 'Gray Brother' now, snuffing at the dawn wind and asking where shall we lair to-day. From now I follow new trails. And, girls, I wish you could have heard Brud's mournful little voice piping after me down the track, as the train pulled out, 'Good hunting, Miss Mayry! Good hunting!'"

"Oh, you'll have that, no matter where you go," was the confident answer. "And don't forget to write and tell us about it."

A chorus of good-byes and farewell injunctions followed this seeker of new trails into the car, and the passengers glanced up to find that she was a bright, happy-looking girl in her teens. She carried a sheaf of roses on one arm, and some new magazines under the other. One noticed first the alertness of the face under the stylish hat with its bronze quills, and then the girlish simplicity of dress and manner which showed at a glance that she was a thorough little gentlewoman. Her mother, who followed, gave the same impression; gray-gowned, gray-gloved, bearing a parting gift of sweet violets, all that she could carry, in both hands.

One literal minded woman who had overheard Mary's remarks about lairs and new trails, and who had been on the watch for something wild all across the state of Texas, looked up in disappointment. There was nothing whatever in their appearance to suggest that they had lived in queer places or that they were on their way to one now. The fifteen year old boy who followed them was like any other big boy in short trousers, and the young man who brought up the rear and was undeniably good to look at, gave not the slightest evidence of being on a quest for adventure. The only reason the woman could see for the name of Gulliver being applied to the family, was that they settled themselves with the ease and dispatch of old travellers.

While Jack was hanging up his mother's coat, and Norman storing their suit-cases away in one section, Mary, in the seat across the aisle, was pressing her face against the window-pane, watching for a parting glimpse of the friends, when they should pass through the station gate. A sudden tapping on the glass outside startled her, and the next instant she was exclaiming excitedly to her elder brother, "Oh, quick, Jack! Put up the window, please. It's Gay and Roberta! They're still waiting out there!"

As the window flew up, and Mary's head was thrust out, passengers on that side of the car saw two young girls standing on tiptoe to speak to her. The one with beautiful auburn hair called out breathlessly, "Oh, Mary! Bogey's coming! Pray that the train will stand one more minute!" And the other, the one with curly lashes and mischievous mouth, chimed in, "He's bringing an enormous box of candy! Mean thing, to come so late that we can't have even a nibble!"

Then those looking out saw a young fellow in lieutenant's uniform sprint through the gate, down the long station and across half a dozen tracks to reach the place where Roberta and Gay stood like excited guide-posts, wildly pointing out the window, and beckoning him to hurry. Red-faced and panting, he brought up beside them with a hasty salute, just as the wheels began turning and the long train started to puff slowly out of the station. There was only time to thrust the box through the window and hastily clasp the little gloved hand held out to him.

"Say good-bye to the others for me," he called, trotting along beside the moving train. "Sorry I was late. I had a lot of things to tell you. I'll have to write them."

"Do," called Mary, "and let me know -- " But he was no longer in hearing distance and the sentence was left unfinished.

When she drew in her head there was a deeper color in her face and such shining pleasure in her eyes, that every fellow traveller who had seen the little byplay, knew just what delight the lieutenant's parting attention had given her. More than one watched furtively with a sort of inward smiling as she opened the box and passed it around for the family to share and admire.

One person, especially, found entertainment in watching her. He was the elderly, spectacled gentleman in the section behind her. He was an illustrator for a well-known publishing house, and Mary would have counted her adventures well begun, could she have known who was sitting behind her, and that one of his famous cover designs was on the very magazine which lay open on her lap. Well for her peace of mind that she did not know what he proceeded to do soon after her arrival. Producing a pencil and drawing pad from his satchel, he made a quick sketch of her, as she sat sideways in her seat, carrying on an animated conversation with Jack.

The artist smiled as he sketched in the jaunty quills of the hat, perked at just the right angle to make an effective picture. He was sure that they gave the key-note to her character.

"They have such an effect of alertness and 'go,'" was his inward comment. "It's sensible of her to know that this style gives her distinction, while those big floppy affairs everybody wears nowadays would have made just an ordinary looking girl of her."

He would have been still more positive that the hat gave the key-note of her character, if he had seen the perseverance and ingenuity that had gone towards its making. For she had been her own milliner. Two other hats had been ripped to pieces to give her material for this, and the stylish brown quills which had first attracted his attention, had been saved from the big bronze turkey which had been sent to them from the Barnaby ranch for their Christmas dinner.

Before he had made more than an outline, the porter came by with a paper bag, and Mary whisked her hat off her head and into the bag, serenely unconscious that thereby she was arresting the development of a good picture.

Later, when Jack changed to the seat facing Mary, and with his elbow on the window ledge and chin propped on his fist sat watching the flying landscape, the illustrator made a sketch of him also. This time he did not stop with a bare outline. What had seemed just a boyish face at first glance, invited his careful study. Those mature lines about the mouth, the firm set of the lips, the serious depths of the grave gray eyes, certainly belonged to one who had known responsibilities and struggles, and, in some way, he felt, conquest. He wondered what there had been in the young fellow's life to leave such a record. The longer he studied the face the better he liked it.

The whole family seemed unusually well worth knowing, he concluded after a critical survey of Norman and his mother, who sat in the opposite section, entertaining each other with such evident interest that it made him long for some one to talk to himself. Tired by his two days' journey and bored by the monotony of his surroundings, he yawned, stretched himself, and rising, sauntered out to the rear platform of the observation car. Here, some time later, Norman found him smoking and was drawn into conversation with the stranger, who seemed to have a gift for asking questions.

The conversation was confined principally to the different kinds of wild animals and snakes to be found in the state of Texas, and to an amateur "zoo" which Norman had once owned in Lone-Rock, the mining camp in Arizona that they were now going back to. But incidentally the interested artist learned that Jack had been assistant manager of the mines. That accounted for the mature lines of his face. They stood for responsibilities bravely shouldered. He had been almost killed by an accident which would have crushed several Mexican workmen had he not risked his own life for theirs. He had been ordered to a milder climate, hence their recent sojourn in Texas. They had supposed he would always be a helpless cripple, but, by an almost miraculous operation, he had been restored, and was now going back to take his old position.

Norman himself intended to be a mining engineer, he told the stranger when questioned. He had already begun to take a practical course under the chief at the office. Mathematics came easy to him. The other studies, which he thought unnecessary, but which his family insisted upon, he recited to the minister. He, and another boy, Billy Downs. There were only a few white boys of his age in Lone-Rock.

"What does your sister do for entertainment?" asked his questioner, recalling the vivacious little face under the hat with the saucy bronze quills. "Doesn't she find it rather lonely there?"

"Why, no!" answered Norman in a surprised tone. "A place just naturally quits being lonesome when Mary gets into it, and she does so many things that nobody can ever guess what she's going to think of doing next."

Probably it was because he had a daughter of his own, who, not possessing Mary's rare gift, demanded constant amusement from her family, that he turned his spectacled gaze on her with deepened interest when he went back into the car, and many times during the rest of the time that they journeyed together. She crossed the aisle to sit with her mother the greater part of the afternoon, so he heard nothing of the conversation which appeared to be of absorbing interest to them both.

But the woman who had been on the watch for something wild all the way across the state, deliberately arranged to hear as much of it as she could. A scrap or two that reached her above the noise of the train made her prick up her ears. She changed her seat so that she sat back to back with Mrs. Ware and Mary. Eavesdropping on the train was perfectly justifiable, she told her uneasy conscience, because there was no personal element in it. Of course she couldn't do it at home, but it was different among strangers. All the world was a stage when one travelled, and the people one met on a journey were the actors one naturally looked to to help pass the time. So she sat with her eyes closed, because riding backward always made her dizzy, and her head so close to the back of Mary's that the bronze quills would have touched her ear had Mary turned an inch or two farther around in her seat.

Presently she gathered that this interesting young girl was about to go out into the wide, wide world to make her fortune, and that she had a list of teachers' agencies and employment bureaus to which she intended applying as soon as she reached home. From various magazines given her to read on the way, she had cut a number of advertisements which she wanted to answer, but her mother objected to most of them. She did not want her to take a place among strangers as governess, companion, social secretary, mother's helper, reader for a clipping bureau or shopping agent.

"You are too young, Mary," she insisted. "One never knows what one is getting into in strange families. Now, that position in a Girls' Winter Camp in Florida does not seem so objectionable, because they give teachers at Warwick Hall as reference. You can easily find out all about it. But there is no real reason why you should go away this winter. Now that Jack has his position again and we are all well and strong we can live like lords at Lone-Rock on his salary. At least," she added, smiling, "it must seem like lords to some of the families in the camp. And he can save a little each month besides."

"But, mother dear," answered Mary, a distressed frown puckering her smooth forehead. "I don't want to settle down for Jack to take care of me. I want to live my own life -- to see something of the world. You let Joyce go without objecting."

"Yes, to make an artist of herself. But somehow that was different. She had a definite career mapped out. Her work is the very breath of life to her, and it would have been wrong to hold her when she has such undoubted talent. But you see, Mary, your goal is so vague. You haven't any great object in view. You're willing to do almost anything for the sake of change. I verily believe you'd like to try each one of those positions in turn, just for the novelty of the experiences, and the opportunity of meeting all those different kinds of people."

Mary nodded emphatically. "Oh, I would! I'd love it!" Then she laughed at her mother's puzzled expression.

"You can't understand it, can you? Your whole brood is turning out to be the kind that pines to be 'in the swim' for itself. Still, you didn't cluck distractedly when Joyce went to New York and Holland into the Navy, and you followed Jack up here when he struck out for himself, and you know Norman's chosen work is liable to take him anywhere on the face of the globe. So I don't see why you should cluck at me when I edge off after the others."

Mrs. Ware smiled into the merry eyes waiting for their answer. "I'm not trying to stop you entirely," she replied. "I'm only warning you to go slowly and to be very careful. As long as there is nothing especial you have set your heart on accomplishing, it seems unwise to snatch at the first chance that offers. You're very young yet, remember, only eighteen."

Mary made no answer for several minutes. Down in her heart was the feeling that some day her life would mean far more to the world than Joyce's career as an artist or Holland's as a naval officer. She had felt so ever since that first day at Warwick Hall, when she gazed up at the great window of Edryn's tryst, where his coat of arms gleamed like jewels in its amber setting. As she had listened to the flood of wonderful music rolling up from below, something out of it had begun calling her. And it had gone on calling and calling with the compelling note of a far-off yet insistent trumpet, into a world of nameless longings and exalted ambitions, of burning desire to do great deeds. And finally she had begun to understand that somewhere, some day, some great achievement awaited her. Like Edryn she had heard the King's call, and like him she had whispered his answer softly and reverently as before an altar:

"Oh list! Oh heart and hand of mine, keep tryst --  Keep tryst or die!"

It was still all vague and shadowy. With what great duty to the universe she was to keep tryst she did not yet know, and it was now two years since she had heard that call. But the vision still stayed. Inwardly she knew she was some sort of a Joan of Arc, consecrated to some high destiny. Yet when she thought of explaining anything so intangible, she began to smile at the thought of how ridiculous such an explanation would sound, shouted out in broad daylight, above the roar of the train. Such confidences can be given only in twilight and cloisters, just as the call itself can come only to those who "wake at dawn to listen in high places."

But feeling presently that she must give some definite reason to her mother for wanting to start out to seek her fortunes, she leaned across the aisle and slipped a railroad folder from Jack's coat pocket. It had a map on one side of it, and spreading it across both her lap and her mother's, she laid her finger on a spot within the boundary lines of Kentucky.

"Don't you remember my little primary geography?" she asked. "The one I began to study at Lee's ranch? I had a gilt paper star pasted right there over Lloydsboro Valley, and a red ink line running to it from Arizona. I remember the day I put them there, I told Hazel Lee that there was my 'Promised Land,' and that I'd vowed a vow to go there some day if the heavens fell. I'll never forget the horror on her little freckled face as she answered, 'Aw, ain't you wicked! I bet you never get there now, just for saying that!'

"But I did get there!" she continued with deep satisfaction. "And now I've made up my mind to go back there to live some of these days. You see, mamma, my visit there was like the trial trip that Caleb and Joshua made to 'spy out the land.' Don't you remember the picture in Grandmother Ware's Bible of the two men coming back with such an enormous bunch of grapes on a pole between them that they could hardly carry it? It proved that the fruits of Canaan were better and bigger than the fruits of any other country. That was what my visit did; proved that I could be better and happier in Lloydsboro Valley than anywhere else in the world."

There was a moment's silence, then she added wistfully, "Somehow, when you're there, it seems easier to keep 'the compass needle of your soul true to the North-star of a great ambition.' There's so much to inspire one there. I have a feeling that if I could only go back to live, I'd --  Oh, I hardly know how to express it! But it would prove to be my 'high place,' the place where I'll hear my call. So the great reason why I want to start right away to earn money is that I may have enough as soon as possible to buy a home back there. That's my dearest day-dream, and I'm bound to make it come true if I have to wander around in the wilderness of hard work as long as the old Israelites did in theirs. You're to come with me. That's one of the best parts of my dream, for I know how you've always loved the place and longed to go back. Now, don't you think that's an object good enough and big enough to let me go for?"

Mrs. Ware seized the little hand spread out over the map of Kentucky and gave it an impulsive squeeze.

"Yes," she answered. "If you're ever as homesick for the dear old place as I used to be sometimes, I can understand your longing to go back there to live."

"Used to be!" echoed Mary blankly, staring at her in astonishment. "Aren't you now? Wouldn't you be glad to go back there to spend the rest of your days? I don't mean right now, of course, while Jack and Norman need you so much here, but" -- lowering her voice -- "I'm just as sure as I can be without having been told officially that Jack is going to marry Betty Lewis as soon as his finances are in better shape. She's such a perfect darling that they'd be happy ever after, and then I wouldn't have any compunctions about taking you away from him. Now that's another reason I don't want to stay on here, just to be an added expense to him."

The words poured out so impetuously, the face turned toward her was so eager, that Mrs. Ware could not dim its light by answering the first two questions as she felt impelled. She answered the last instead, saying that she felt as Mary did about Jack's marriage, and that it made her inexpressibly happy to think that the girl he might some day bring home as his bride was the daughter of her dear old friend and schoolmate, Joyce Allen.

They lowered their voices over this confidence, so that the woman who was sitting back to back with them shifted her position and leaned a little nearer. Even then she could not hear what they were saying till Mary returned to her first question.

"But, mamma, you said 'used to be.' Do you really mean that you don't care for your Happy Valley as much as you used to? The place you've talked about to us since we were babies, till we've come to think of it as enchanted ground?"

Feeling as if she were pleading guilty to a charge of high treason, Mrs. Ware answered slowly, "No, I can't truthfully say that I do long for it as I used to. It's this way, little daughter," she added hastily, seeing the disappointment that shadowed Mary's face. "I've been away such a very, very long time, that there are only a few of my girlhood friends left. Betty's mother has been dead many years. The Little Colonel's mother is really the only one I could expect to find unchanged. The old seminary is burned down, strangers are in the homes I used to visit, and I'm afraid I'd find so many changes that it would be as sad as visiting a cemetery. And I've lived so long in the West, that I've taken root here now. I think of it as home. I'm just as interested as Jack is in building up the fortunes of our new state. I think he is going to be a power in it some day. If I should live long enough, it would not surprise me in the least to see him Governor of it some time."

She folded one little gray-gloved hand over the other so complacently as she calmly made this announcement, that Mary laughed and shook her head despairingly.

"Oh, mamma! mamma! You vain woman! What fine swans all your ducklings are going to turn out to be! Jack a Governor, Holland an Admiral, Norman a mighty man of valor (variety still undetermined), and Joyce a celebrity in the world of art! Must I be the only Simple Simon in the bunch? What would you really like to have me do? Now, own up, if you could have your choice, what is your ambition for me?"

"Well," confessed Mrs. Ware, "you're such a born home-maker, that I'd like to see you that before all else. I believe you could make a home so much better than your neighbors, that like the creator of the proverbial mouse-trap, you would have the world making a beaten track to your door, even though you lived in the woods. As the old Colonel once said, you can be an honor to your sex and one of the most interesting women of your generation."

Although she spoke jokingly there was such a note of belief in her voice that Mary caught her by the arm and shook it, saying playfully, "Peacock! If that's what you hope for me, then you must certainly speed my parting. It's only in the goodly land of Lloydsboro that I can measure up to all you expect of me. I'll try and fill the bill, but promise me this much. When I've finally pitched my tent in Canaan and achieved that happy home, then you'll come and share it with me. At least," she added as Mrs. Ware nodded assent, "what time you are not strutting through foreign salons or the Governor's mansion, or sailing the high seas with the Admiral."

The woman behind them heard no more, for Jack called them across the aisle to look at something from his window, and when they returned to their seats Mrs. Ware picked up a magazine and Mary began an absorbing study of the map. She retraced the line of her first railroad journey, the pilgrimage from the little village of Plainsville, Kansas, to Phoenix, Arizona. As she thought of it, she could almost feel the lump in her throat that had risen when she looked back for the last time on the little brown house they were leaving forever, and waved good-bye to the lonesome little Christmas tree they had put out on the porch for the birds.

It was on that trip that her tireless tongue had made life-long friends of two strangers whom she talked to: Phil Tremont, and his sister Elsie. Her brothers had always teased her about her chatterbox ways, but suppose she hadn't talked to them that day. The endless chain of happenings that that friendship started never would have begun, and life would have been far different for all of them.

Then her finger traced the way to where Ware's Wigwam would have been on the map if it had been a spot large enough to mark. There Phil had come into their life again, almost like one of the family. Her real acquaintance with the Princess Winsome of her dreams began there too, when Lloyd Sherman made her memorable visit, and Mary, with the adoring admiration of a little girl for the older one whom she takes as her ideal in all things, began to copy her in every way possible.

The next line followed the course of the red ink trail in her old primary geography, for that was the trail she had followed back to the gilt paper star which stood for Lloydsboro Valley. The land which she had learned to love through song and story had been the dearest of all to her ever since, through the associations of that happy summer. There were several other trips to retrace as she sat with the map spread out before her. The long one she took to Warwick Hall, where surely no one ever had fuller, happier school-days. She did not stop to recall them now, thinking with satisfaction that they were all recorded in her "Good Times Book," and that if ever "days of dole, those hoarfrost seasons of the soul," came into her life, every cell of that memory hive would be stored with the honey of their good cheer. So also were her Christmas and Easter vacations recorded, when she and Betty visited Joyce in her studio apartment in New York.

The next line which she traced was a hasty dash back across the map to Lone-Rock. She always tried to dash the thought of it out of mind just as quickly. The heart-breaking agony of it, when she was flying home to find her brother a hopeless cripple, was too terrible to recall even now, after a long time, when he was sitting beside her, strong and well.

Then her finger trailed down across the map, retracing their last journey the year before to San Antonio and the hill country above it. In many ways it had been a hard year, but, remembering its happy outcome, she said to herself that it should be marked by triple lines of red. They had gone down to the place, strangers in a strange land, they were coming away with some of the warmest friendships of their lives binding them fast to it. Down there Jack had had his wonderful recovery, which was above and beyond all that their wildest hopes had pictured. And, too, it was the last place where she would have expected to meet Phil Tremont again. Yet he had appeared suddenly one day as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing there by the huisache tree to help her over the fence of the blue-bonnet pasture.

"By what has been, learn what will be," she repeated, and then idly pricked that motto into the edge of the folder with a pin, as she went on recalling various incidents. Judging by her past she had every reason to believe that the future might be full of happy surprises; so, as she studied the map now, it was to wonder which way the new trails would lead her.

"Any way at all!" she thought fervently. "I don't care which direction they take, if they'll only come around to the Happy Valley. I'm bound to get there at any cost."

Presently she folded up the map and sat gazing dreamily out of the window. An old song that was often on her lips came to her mind, but, this time, she parodied it to suit her hopes:

"For if I go not by the road, and go not by the hill, And go not by the far sea way, yet go I surely will! Close all the roads of all the world -- Love's road is open still."



Chapter II

Back At Lone-Rock


The home-coming was keenly pleasant. Mary, who had been going over the house helping to throw open all the doors and windows, paused in the cheerful living-room. The September sun shone across the worn carpet and the familiar furniture which had served them even in the days of the little brown house.

"I didn't know that I could be so glad to get back to these old tables and chairs," she exclaimed. "It actually gives you a real thrill to be welcomed by something that's known you since babyhood, doesn't it?"

"Yes," answered Jack. "They've been considerably mixed up with our family history, and bear more of the scars of our battles than we do. That little chair of Joyce's for instance. Back in the days of my kilts and curls I used to kick dents in it every time we had a scrap, because I couldn't fight a girl, and I had to let off steam some way."

"This is my especial friend," said Mary. She dropped into a wide rocker that held out welcoming arms. "Holland and I used to play in this by the hour. It's a wonder there's anything left of it. We had it for a stage-coach so many times, and turned over in it whenever it was attacked by the Indians. I used to curl up in it before the fire, to read or dream or cry in it, till it knows me in all my moods and tenses. Some of these days, when I go to live in my old Kentucky home, I shall ask mamma to let me take it with me just for old times' sake."

Jack opened the door of the clock and began winding the weights that had hung idle for nearly a year. When the swinging pendulum once more began its deep-toned tick-tock, he looked back over his shoulder with a smile.

"Now I feel that I'm really at home when I hear that voice. As far back as I can remember it's always been saying, 'All right! All right!' I made the nurse carry it back into the kitchen where I couldn't hear it the day the doctor told me I could never walk again. Its cheerfulness nearly drove me wild when I knew that everything was so hopelessly all wrong. But now listen!" he insisted exultantly. "Everything is all right now, and every day is Thanksgiving Day to me the year around."

There was a huskiness in his voice as he added, "Nobody can know what it means to me -- the blessedness of being able to go to work."

He dashed away to the office soon after to discover what had been done in his long absence. Norman hurried through the tasks assigned to him as soon as possible, impatient to be off to explore old haunts with Billy Downs. Two pairs of quick, capable hands made light work of the cleaning and unpacking that had to be done that day, and accomplished much more that might have been left till another time had not Mary's usual zeal for getting everything in proper place in the least possible time taken possession of her.

"Oh, yes, I know, mamma," she called back in answer to a protest from the next room. "These curtains could wait till to-morrow, but they are all fresh and ready to hang, and I'll sleep better if they are on their poles instead of on my mind."

As she climbed up and down the step-ladder her thoughts were not on the curtains which she adjusted mechanically, nor on the song which she was humming in the same way. She was composing the letter which she intended sending to the Girls' Winter Camp in Florida, applying for the vacant position, and she wanted to make it perfect of its kind. Mrs. Ware, watching the zest with which she fell upon her work of beautifying the little cottage, thought it must be because she felt the truth of the refrain which she sang softly over and over:

"'Mid pleasures and palaces, tho' we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."

She was so glad to be back herself, that presently, when she had occasion to go through the room again, she joined in for a few notes in passing.

The sweet alto voice made Mary suddenly aware of what she was singing, and she gave a guilty little start, glad that her mother could not know that her thoughts had all been absorbed in planning to get away from the home she was singing about so fondly.

"It does seem nicer to be back than I thought it would," she admitted to herself. "But maybe that's because I know I don't have to stay. Even the finest cage in the world is more attractive with its door open than shut."

Although she did not realize the fact, much of her hurry to get the house in order was due to a feeling that the summons to take advantage of that open door might come very soon, and she wanted to be ready when it came.

Late that afternoon she started to the post-office with two letters, one to the principal of the Girls' Camp, the other to the teacher in Warwick Hall who had been given as reference.

"Oh, I hope my application will get there in time, and I hope my references will be satisfactory," she thought earnestly. "They ought to be impressed, with a list which begins with Bishop Chartley and Madam, and General Walton's wife, and includes twenty people from New York to Fort Sam Houston in Texas."

Just then a wagon, bearing a huge load of hay, creaked slowly along the road past her, and a half forgotten superstition of her childhood flashed into her mind. Hazel Lee had told her once that if you make a wish on a hay-wagon it will come true if "yes" is the first word you say after doing so. But should you be asked a question requiring any other answer, or should it be necessary to make a remark not beginning with the magic yes, you'll "lose your wish."

So it was with a smile at the old foolishness that Mary watched the loaded wagon go lumbering by. She had wished for a speedy and favorable reply to the letter she was about to post. It had been a point of honor with Hazel and herself whenever the other came running up, significantly tapping mute lips with an impatient forefinger, to ask, "Do you love candy?" or "Do you like peaches?" recognizing the necessity of some question to which the liberated little tongue could respond with a fervent yes. Boys were always so mean about it, asking, "Do you want me to pull your hair?" or "Do you love Peter Finn?" a half-witted boy in the neighborhood.

The childish rite brought up a little of the old thrill of apprehension, that no one might ask her the proper question to make her wish come true, and Mary smiled broadly over her own foolishness as she went on up the street. It was the only street which Lone-Rock boasted; just a straggling road, beginning down by the railroad station and the mine offices, and ending farther up the mountain in a narrow wagon track. The houses of the white families were scattered along it at uneven intervals for the space of half a mile. Then one came to a little wooden school-house on one side, and on the other the tiny box of a room which served as a post-office. The school-house was used as a chapel one day out of the week. The mining company's store was beyond that, and a little farther along, the colony of shanties where the Mexican workmen and their families lived.

The fact that Mary had met no one since leaving home and that only the hay-wagon had passed her, emphasized the loneliness of the little hamlet and made her glad that she need not look forward to spending a winter there. Her quick eyes noted a few changes, however, which promised interesting things. Five new houses had gone up in their absence. There was a piano in one of them, Billy Downs had told Norman, and Mr. Moredock, the man in the new yellow house, who had come for his health, was writing a history of some kind, and had brought a whole wagon-load of books.

The postmaster would know all about the newcomers, Mary reflected with satisfaction. One of her pleasures of coming back was meeting her old friend, the postmaster, and at the thought of him she walked a little faster. Captain Doane had held the office ever since Lone-Rock had been a mail station, and in a way was a sort of father confessor to everybody in the place. A clean-shaven jolly old face with deep laughter wrinkles about the blue eyes, which twinkled through steel-bowed spectacles, bushy iron-gray hair and bristling eyebrows -- that was about all one saw through the bars of the narrow delivery window. But so much kindly sympathy and neighborly interest and good advice and real concern were handed out with the daily mail, that every man in the community regarded him as his personal friend.

There were only two mail trains a day in Lone-Rock, and at this hour Mary was sure of finding him at leisure. Seeing him through the open window, sound asleep in his arm-chair over an open newspaper, with his spectacles slipping down his nose, Mary was about to spring in the door with a playful "boo." But she remembered her wish on the hay-wagon and the necessity of waiting for him to speak first. So she only rattled the latch. He started up, a little bewildered from his sudden awakening, but seeing who had come, dashed off the old slouch hat, perched on the back of his head.

"Well, bless my soul!" he cried heartily, coming forward with an outstretched hand. "If it isn't our little Mary Ware! I heard you were back and I've been looking all afternoon for you to drop in. Have you come back to stay, this time?"

There was an instant of hesitation, as she considered how she could reply to such a question honestly with a yes. Then she stammered, "Y-yes, for a little while. That is, just for a few weeks." Then she drew a long breath. "My! That was a narrow escape. I've been wondering all the way up the street what would be the first thing you'd say to me, and for a second I was afraid you'd ruined my chances."

Her laugh rang out merrily at his bewildered exclamation. "The chances for my wish coming true," she explained. "I made one on a hay-wagon, coming along, about this letter."

"Sit down and give an account of yourself," he insisted, and as she had come for a visit she willingly obeyed. But she would not take his chair at the desk as he urged, climbing instead to the only other seat which the office afforded. It was a high stool beside the shelf where pens, ink and money-order blanks awaited the needs of the public. Mary had often occupied it, and from this perch had given the Captain some of the most amusing hours of his life.

He had missed her when she went away to school, and he never handed out the letters to her family post-marked "Warwick Hall" without a vision of the friendly little girl swinging her feet from her seat on this high stool, as she told him amazing tales of Ware's Wigwam and a place somewhere off in Kentucky that she seemed to regard as a cross between the Land of Beulah and the Garden of Eden. When she came back from Warwick Hall she no longer dangled her feet, but sat in more grown-up fashion, her toes propped on the round below. And she seldom stayed long. There was too much to be done at home, with Jack needing such constant attention. But her short accounts of boarding-school life were like glimpses into a strange world, and he carried home all she told to repeat to his wife; for in an out-of-the-way corner of the universe, where little happens, the most trivial things are accounted of vital interest.

Now he had many questions to ask about Jack's recovery. It was a matter of household rejoicing in Lone-Rock that he had come back able to take his old place among them. Mary satisfied his curiosity and gave a brief outline of their doings while away, but she had questions of her own to ask. How was Aunt Sally Doane? The Captain's wife was "Aunt Sally" by courtesy to the entire settlement. Was her rheumatism better, and was the old red rooster still alive? Was it true that Mr. Moredock was an author, and how many young people had the new families brought with them?

But all roads led to the Rome of her heart's desire, and between her questions and the Captain's she kept jumping back, grasshopper-like, to the subject uppermost in her mind. His cordial interest, unlike her family's half-hearted consenting, led her into further confidences.

"Jack wants me to wait awhile and study at home until he can afford to send me back to Warwick Hall, but I might be in my twenties before that time, and the girls in my classes would be so much younger that they'd look upon me as a hoary old patriarch. Of course I'd be better equipped for what I hope to do eventually, but it would give me such a late start, and there are a number of things that I am fitted to do right now. Besides, it would handicap Jack to spend so much on me. It's only natural to expect that he'll want to marry and settle down some of these days, and he might not be able to do it as soon as he otherwise would if he had me to support and keep at college. And, Captain Doane, I don't want to be just an old maid sister in somebody else's home, even if it is the home of the dearest brother in the world."

The Captain threw back his head and laughed until the steel-bowed spectacles slid down his nose again.

"Much danger of your being an old maid sister in anybody's home, in a place like this where pretty girls are scarcer than hens' teeth," he declared, teasingly. "I know a likely young lad this minute who'd gladly save you from that fate. He's been around several times lately, inquiring when you might be expected back."

Mary was nearly consumed with curiosity to ask who the likely lad was, but only shrugged her shoulders incredulously, knowing that that would be the surest way of provoking him to a disclosure.

"Well, he has!" insisted the Captain. "It's young Upham, if you must know."

Mary's brows drew together in a vain effort to recall him, and she shook her head. "Upham? Upham? I never heard of him."

"Yes, yes, you have," insisted the Captain. "He drove a lumber wagon for the company summer before last. But he's been to school in Tucson all the time you've been away, and has just come back."

"Oh, you mean Pink Upham!" exclaimed Mary, suddenly enlightened, with an emphasis which seemed to say, "Oh, that boy! He doesn't count."

The Captain interpreted the emphasis and resented it.

"Just let me tell you, little Miss Disdain, he's a lad not to be sneezed at. He's come back the likeliest young man in all these parts."

Again Mary shrugged her shoulders and smiled unbelievingly. Her recollection of Pink Upham was of a big red-faced fellow overgrown and awkward, with a disgusting habit of twisting every one's remarks into puns, and of uttering trite truths with the air of just having discovered them. The warning whirr of a clock about to strike made her spring down from the stool with an exclamation of surprise.

"I had no idea I was staying so long. I've an errand at the store too, so I'll have to hurry."

"Well, I'll see that your letter gets started all right," he assured her. "You can't expect an answer before ten days at the earliest, can you?"

She turned back from the door and stood, considering. "I had counted it at about that, but I didn't think -- if they wait to hear from the people I've referred them to, especially those farthest away, it might be double that time. That would keep me waiting clear into October. And then suppose somebody were ahead of me, and I shouldn't get the place, there'd be all that time lost. It would be tragic to have the little ship I'd waited for so long, drift in a wreck."

"That's why I always hold that it's best to send out more than one," said the Captain. "Launch a whole fleet of 'em, is my advice. What makes life a tragedy for most people is that they put all their hopes on just one thing. They load all they've got on one vessel and then strain their eyes for a lifetime waiting for it to come back with all their hopes realized. But if they'd divide their interests and affections around a bit, and start them off in different directions, there'd never be a danger of total wreck. If one went down, there'd be some other cargo to look forward to."

It was a pet subject of the old man's, and Mary made haste to ward off his usual monologue by saying, "I'll certainly take your advice, Captain Doane. You'll see me down here to-morrow with a whole harbor full of little ships. I'll launch all the applications that my family will allow."

The figure of speech pleased her, and as she walked on to the store a vision of blue sea rose before her. On it she seemed to see a fleet of little boats with white sails swelling in the wind. On each sail was a letter and all together they spelled "Great Expectations."

"It's funny," thought Mary, "how such a picture popped right up in front of me. Now, if Joyce had such a fancy she'd do something with it. It would suggest a title design or a tail piece of some kind. Oh, why wasn't I born with a talent for writing! My head is just full of things sometimes that would make the loveliest stories, but when I try to put them on paper it's like trying to touch the rainbows on a bubble. The touch makes them vanish instantly."

It was some crash towelling that she was to call for at the store.

When she opened the door, the place seemed deserted, but she picked her way, among barrels and boxes, saddles and hams, to the dry-goods department in the rear. Through the open back door she could see two men in the yard, one repairing a chicken-coop, and the other standing with his hands in his pockets, watching the job. The man with the hammer and saw, she knew. He was the manager of the store. The other was a new clerk, who had been installed in her absence. She glanced at him curiously, for one reason because every newcomer counted for so much in the social life of the place, for another because he was so imposingly large. "Even taller than Phil Tremont," she thought, and Phil was her standard of all that a man should measure up to in every way.

Presently, seeing that the chicken-coop would occupy their attention indefinitely unless she made some sign, she tapped on the floor with her heel. It was the new clerk who turned, and taking his hands out of his pockets, strode in to wait on her. She noticed that he had to stoop as he came through the doorway. Then she almost forgot what it was she had come to buy, in her surprise. For it was Pink Upham who rushed up to greet her, still red-faced and awkward and facetious, but such a different Pink that she could understand why the Captain had spoken of him as Pinckney, instead of by his undignified nickname. The year at college had done him good.

While he measured off the crash she was taking his measure with quick, critical glances. It was not his pale, straw-colored hair she objected to, made to look even paler by the contrast of his florid complexion and red four-in-hand with its turquoise scarf-pin. It was the way he combed his hair that she criticized, and the gaudy tie and the combination of colors. But his cordial greeting softened her critical glances somewhat. He was genuinely glad to see her, and it was flattering to be welcomed so heartily.

That night at the supper table she recounted her adventures. "I met Pink Upham at the store to-day, Jack. How old do you suppose he is?"

"Oh, about twenty-one. Why?"

"Well, I scarcely knew him before we went away, and he called me by my first name as pat as you may please, and I didn't like it. And when he rolled up the towelling he crooked his little finger in such an affected, genteel, Miss Prim sort of way that it made his big fat hands look ridiculous. I don't know exactly what it was about him that irritated me so, but I couldn't bear him. And yet it seemed that he was so near being nice, that he could be awfully likable if he wasn't so self-conscious and queer."

"He's all right," answered Jack. "Pink is a good-hearted fellow, with the best intentions in the world, but he's green. You see, he hasn't any sisters to call him down and make fun of his mannerisms and set him straight on his color schemes and such things. Now, a girl in his position could get her bearings by going the rounds of the Home Magazines and Ladies' Companions, reading all the Aunt Jenny Corners and columns of advice to anxious correspondents. But there are not so many fountains of information and inspiration for a young man."

"Now, there's your mission in life, Mary," spoke up Norman. "You are strong on giving advice and setting people straight. If you could only get some magazine to take you on for a column of that kind, you might accomplish a world of good. You could send marked copies to Pink, and it might be the making of him."

Norman expected his teasing remarks to meet with an amusing outburst, and was surprised when she pretended to take his suggestion seriously. Her eyes shone with the interest it awakened.

"Say! I'd like that," she answered emphatically. "I really would. I'd call it Uncle Jerry's Corner, and I'd certainly enjoy making up the letters myself so that I could have good spicy replies for my correspondents."

Norman, just in the act of drinking, almost choked on the laugh which seized him. "Excuse me," he spluttered, putting the glass down hastily, "but Mary in the rôle of Uncle Jerry is too funny. Why, Sis, you couldn't be a proper Uncle Jerry without chin whiskers. The editors wouldn't give such a column to anybody without them. A girl could never fill a position like that."

"Indeed she could," Mary protested. "I knew a girl at school who earned her entire spending money for a year, one vacation, by writing an Aunt Ruth's Column for the weekly paper in her home town. She was only eighteen, and the most harum-scarum creature you ever saw. She had been engaged four times, and once to two boys at the same time. And she used to lay down the law in her advice column like a Puritan forefather. Just scored the girls who flirted and accepted valuable presents from men, and who met clandestinely at friends' houses.

"Her letters were so good that several parents wrote to the paper congratulating them on that department. And all the time she was doing the very things which she preached against. She and Charlotte Tatwell were chums, and in all sorts of scrapes together. Charlotte's father used to mourn over her wild ways and try to keep her from running so much with Milly. He thought that Milly had such a bad influence over her. He hadn't the faintest idea that she wrote the Aunt Ruth advice, and twice, when it seemed particularly well aimed at Charlotte's faults, he made her sit down and listen while he read it aloud to the family. Charlotte thought it was such a good joke on her father that she never enlightened him till he'd repeated the performance several times. He wouldn't believe it at first, didn't think it possible that Milly could have written it, till Charlotte proved that she really had.

"If she could do that, I don't see why I couldn't write better advice to boys than a doddering old man who has only his recollections to draw on. I could criticize the faults that I see before me. Boys need to be shown themselves as they appear to the girls, and I'm not sure but I'll act on Norman's suggestion, and take it up as a side-line."

When supper was cleared away Mary brought out her writing material and wrote several applications for the positions which she knew she was qualified to fill. She could teach in the primary or grammar grades, or take beginner's classes in Domestic Science. She knew that she could adapt herself to almost any kind of person as companion, and her experience with the Mallory twins made her confident that she could do wonders with small children, no matter how refractory. She soon had a whole fleet of applications ready to launch in the morning. Then, inspired by the conversation at the supper-table, she tried her hand at a few answers to imaginary correspondents, in which were set forth certain criticisms and suggestions which she burned to make to Pink in person, and several others which were peculiarly well fitted to Norman.

Next morning, when Norman came back from the store with the basket of groceries which it was his daily task to bring, he began calling for Mary at the front gate, and kept it up all the way to the kitchen door. When she appeared, towel in hand, asking what was the matter, he set the basket on the step.

Then with mock solemnity he reached into his pocket and pulled out a lavender envelope; lavender crossed faintly with gray lines to give a checked effect. It was addressed in purple ink to Miss Mary Ware, and in the lower left-hand corner was written, with many ornate flourishes, "K. O. B." It smelled so strongly of rose geranium perfume that Mary sniffed disapprovingly as she took it.

"Pink asked me to bring it," said Norman with a grin. "He's to send a boy up for an answer at three o'clock. What do you suppose 'K. O. B.' stands for?"

Mary puzzled over it, shaking her head, then broke the large purple seal.

"Oh, it must mean 'kindness of bearer,' for he begins the note that way. 'By kindness of bearer I am venturing to send this little missive to know if it will be convenient for you to give me the pleasure of your company this evening. A messenger will call for your answer at three P. M. Trusting that it will accord with my desires, I am yours in friendship's bonds, P. Pinckney Upham.'"

Norman exploded with a loud "whoopee!" of laughter and Mary sniffed again at the strong odor of rose geranium and handed the note to her mother, who had come to the door to see the cause of Norman's mirth.

"The silly boy," exclaimed Mary. "I told him yesterday, when he said that he hoped to call, that we'd all be glad to see him any evening he wanted to drop in. The idea of such formality in a mining camp. And such paper! And such flourishes of purple ink, to say nothing of the strong perfume! Mamma, I don't want him coming to see me."

Mrs. Ware handed the note back with a smile at Mary's disgusted expression. "Don't judge the poor boy too severely. He evidently tried his best to do the proper thing, and probably thinks he has achieved it."

"Yes, Uncle Jerry," added Norman. "Here's your chance. Here's your tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune! Just cultivate Pink's acquaintance and you'll get enough out of him every week to fill your columns."

Mary ignored his teasing, turning again to her mother to say: "I don't want to answer his note. What did he write for, anyway? Why didn't he just come, as I told him he could?"

"That's the way Sara Downs' beau does," explained Norman. "He always makes an engagement so that she'll be sure to have the best room lighted up and Billy out of the way. He's too bashful to talk to the whole family. They usually go out to the kitchen when he comes, because their house is so small."

"Well, this family won't," declared Mary. "He's no 'beau,' anyway. You'll all have to help entertain him."

She had not answered the note when Jack came home at noon, and she passed it to him without comment. He smiled a little over her evident disgust, and repeated in substance what Mrs. Ware had said, that she must not judge him too severely for his lack of social polish.

"He's a diamond in the rough, Mary," he assured her gravely, but with a twinkle in his eyes. "He may be one of the leading citizens of the state twenty years from now, and even if he isn't, he's one of the few young fellows of the settlement, and a decent one at that, and you can't afford to snub him because he is green."

"Green Pink is a new kind of color," teased Norman. "Say, Mary, are you going to put a 'K. O. B.' on your answer?"

Mary ignored his question. It irritated her to be teased about Pink as much as it used to annoy her to be teased about the half-witted Peter Finn.

When, in answer to her note, P. Pinckney Upham called that evening, he did not find her sitting up alone in state to receive him. He was ushered in to the cheerful living-room, where the entire family was gathered around the lamp, putting a new dissected puzzle together. Before he knew how it came about his bashfulness had vanished and he was a part of that circle. When the puzzle was completed Mary brought out a chafing-dish and a bowl of nuts, which she commanded him to "pick out" while Jack cracked them. She was going to try a new kind of candy. Later, when he disclosed the fact that he could play a little on the guitar, Norman brought out his mother's, bidding him "tune up and plunk away."

Now if there was one thing Pink was fond of it was sweets, and if there was one thing he was proud of it was his tenor voice, and presently he began to feel that he was having the time of his life. They were all singing with him, and stopping at intervals to pass the candy and tell funny stories. He was a good mimic and had a keen sense of humor, and he was elated with the consciousness that he had an appreciative audience. In spite of her certainty that the evening would be a bore, Mary found herself really enjoying it, until she realized that Pink was having such a good time that he didn't want to leave. Later she concluded that he wanted to go but didn't know how to tear himself away gracefully.

"Well, I guess I'd better be going," he said when the clock struck ten. It struck eleven when he said it the second time, and it was quarter past when he finally pulled himself out of his chair and looked around for his hat. They all rose, and Jack brought it. With that in hand, he still lingered, talking at random in a way that showed his evident inability to take his leave.

Finally Mrs. Ware put out her hand, saying, "We've enjoyed having you with us so much, this evening, Pinckney. You must come often."

Jack echoed the invitation with a handshake, and Mary added gaily, "And after this, whatever you do, don't write first to announce your coming. We're used to the boys just dropping in informally. We like it so much better that way."

Pink stopped to reply to that, hesitated with his hand on the knob, and leaning against the door, made some remark about the weather. It was evident that he was fixed to stay until the clock struck again.

Mary reached up to the match-safe hanging near the door and handed him a match. "I wish you'd scratch this as you go out, and see how the thermometer stands. It's hanging on the post just at the right hand of the porch steps. Call back what it registers, please. Thirty-six? Oh, thank you! I'm sure there'll be frost before morning. Good night."

She closed the door and came back into the room, pretending to swoon against Jack, who shook her, exclaiming laughingly, "I think that was a frost, right now."

Just then, Norman, who had disappeared an hour earlier, cautiously opened the door of his bedroom a crack. He was clad in his pajamas. Seeing that the coast was clear he thrust out a dishevelled head and recited dramatically:

"'Parting is such sweet sorrow I fain would say goodnight until it be to-morrow.'"

Mary blinked at him sleepily, saying with a yawn, "Let this be a lesson to you, son. You can take this from your Uncle Jerry, that there is no social grace more to be desired than the ability to make a nimble and graceful exit when the proper time comes."

As she turned out her light, later, she said to herself, "I'm glad I don't have to look forward to a whole lifetime in Lone-Rock. One such evening is pleasant enough, but a whole winter of them would be dreadful." Then she went to sleep and dreamed that her little fleet of boats had all come home from sea, each one so heavily laden with treasure that she did not know which cargo to draw in first.



Chapter III

A New Friend


Although some of the applications which Mary sent out did not have as far to travel as the first one, she did not count on hearing from any of them within two weeks. However, it was to no fortnight of patient waiting that she settled down. She threw herself into such an orgy of preparations for leaving home, that the days flew around like the wheels of a squirrel cage.

She could not afford any new clothes, but everything in her wardrobe was rejuvenated as far as possible, and a number of things entirely remodelled. One by one they were folded away in her trunk until everything was so shipshape that she could have finished packing at an hour's notice. Then she insisted on giving some freshening touches to her mother's winter outfit, and on beginning a set of shirts for Norman, saying that she wanted to finish all the work she possibly could before leaving home.

Mrs. Ware used to wonder sometimes at her boundless energy. She would whirl through the housework, help prepare the meals, do a morning's ironing, run the sewing machine all afternoon, and then often, after supper, challenge Norman to some such thing as a bonfire race, to see which could rake up the greatest pile of autumn leaves in the yard, by moonlight.

These days of waiting were filled with a queer sense of expectancy, as the air is sometimes charged with electric currents before a storm. No matter what she did or what she thought about, it was always with the sense of something exciting about to happen. The feeling exhilarated her, deepened the glow in her face, the happy eagerness in her eyes, until every one around her felt the contagion of her high hopefulness.

"I don't know what it is you're always looking so pleased over," the old postmaster said to her one day, "but every time after you've been in here, I catch myself smiling away as broadly as if I'd heard some good news myself."

"Maybe," answered Mary, "it's because I feel all the time as if I'm just going to hear some. It's so interesting wondering what turn things will take. It's like waiting for the curtain to go up on a new play that you've never heard of before. My curtain may go up in any part of the United States. It all depends on which letter it is that brings me a position."

"I should think you'd be a leetle mite anxious," said the Captain, who was in somewhat of a pessimistic mood that day. "They can't all be equally good. You remember what the old hymn says:

"'Should I be carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease Whilst others fought to win the prize, and sailed through bloody seas.'"

"Oh, I'm not expecting any flowery beds of ease," retorted Mary. "I don't mind hard work and all sorts of disagreeable things if they'll only prove to be stepping-stones to carry me through my Red Sea. I don't even ask to go over dry-shod as the Children of the Exodus did. All I want is a chance to wade."

"That's right! That's right!" exclaimed the Captain admiringly. "That's the proper spirit to show. It's a pity, though, that you can't do your wading somewhere around Lone-Rock. We'll miss you dreadfully. And I'm not the only one who thinks so, either. From all I hear there's somebody up the street who would almost rob the mails if doing so would keep you from getting a letter calling you away."

From the twinkle of the eyes which peered at her through the steel-bowed glasses, Mary knew that he was referring to Pink Upham, but before she could reply the mail carrier dashed up on horseback from the railroad station, with the big leather pouch swung across the horse in front of him. It was the signal for every one along the street, who had seen him, to come sauntering into the office to wait for the distribution of the mail. Mary climbed up on the high stool again. She had started out from home, intending to take a tramp far up the mountain road, but stopping in the office to post a letter had stayed on talking longer than she intended.

Pink Upham was one of the first to come in. He had been at the house several times since his first call, and while some of his mannerisms annoyed Mary even more than they had at first, she liked him better as their acquaintance progressed. She could not help being pleased at the attention he gave her slightest remarks. No girl can be wholly oblivious to the compliment of having every word remembered, every preference noted. Once, when they were looking at some soap advertisements, in a most careless off-hand way she had expressed her dislike for strong perfumes. Since then the odor of rose geranium was no longer noticeable in his wake. Once she announced her admiration of a certain kind of scarlet berry which grew a long distance up the mountain. The next day there was a bunch of them left at her door. Pink had taken a tramp before breakfast to get them for her.

There was a family discussion one night about celluloid. Nobody could answer one of Mary's questions in connection with it about camphor gum, and she forgot it almost as soon as it was asked, although she had assumed an air of intense curiosity at the time. But Pink remembered. He thought about it, in fact, as one of his chief duties in life to find its answer, until he had time to consult Mr. Moredock's encyclopedia.

At his last visit to the Wares he had seen a kodak picture of Mary, taken at the Wigwam years before. She was mounted on the Indian pony Washington. She wore short dresses then. Her wide-brimmed Mexican sombrero was on the back of her head, and she was laughing so heartily that one could not look at the picture without feeling the contagion of her enjoyment. There was nothing she liked better than horseback riding, she remarked as she laid the picture aside, but she had not tried it since she was a child. That was one thing she was looking forward to in her promised land, she told him, to owning a beautiful thoroughbred saddle-horse, like Lloyd Sherman's.

Then Pink was shown "The Little Colonel's Corner," for the collection of Lloydsboro Valley pictures were grouped in panels on one wall of the Lone-Rock home as they had been at the Wigwam. First there was Lloyd in her little Napoleon hat, riding on Tarbaby down the long locust avenue, and then Lloyd on the horse that later took the place of the black pony. Then Lloyd in her Princess Winsome costume, with the dove and the spinning-wheel, and again in white, beside the gilded harp, and again as the Queen of Hearts and as the Maid of Honor at Eugenia's wedding.

In showing these pictures to Pink and telling him how well Lloyd rode and how graceful she was in the saddle, Mary forgot her casual remark about her own enjoyment of riding, but Pink remembered. He had thought about it at intervals ever since. Now catching sight of her on the high stool, he hurried into the post-office to tell her that he could secure two horses any morning that she would go out with him before breakfast. His uncle owned the team of buckskins which drew the delivery wagon, and was willing for him to use them any morning before eight o'clock. They were not stylish-looking beasts, he admitted, like Kentucky thoroughbreds, but they were sure-footed and used to mountain trails.

As Mary thanked him with characteristic enthusiasm, she was conscious of a double thrill of pleasure. One came from the fact that he had planned such enjoyment for her, the other that he had remembered her casual remark and attached so much importance to it. She'd let him know later just when she could go, she told him. She'd have to see her mother first, and she'd have to get up some kind of a riding skirt.

Then the Captain threw up the delivery window, and half a dozen people who had been waiting crowded forward to get their mail. Mary waited on the stool while Pink took his turn at the window and came back with her mail. His own, and that for the store, he drew out from one of the large locked boxes below the pigeon-holes. While he was unlocking it Mary looked over the letters he had laid in her lap. There was one from Joyce, one to her mother from Phil Tremont, and one bearing the address in an upper corner of one of the agencies to which she had written. She opened it eagerly, and Pink, watching her from the corner of his eye as he sorted a handful of circulars, saw a shade of disappointment cross her face. Every one else had left the office. She looked up to see the old Captain smiling at her.

"First ship in from sea," he remarked knowingly. "Well, what's the cargo?"

"No treasure aboard this one. It's just a printed form to say that they have no vacancies at present, but have put me on the waiting list, and will inform me if anything comes up later."

"Well, there're others to hear from," the Captain answered. "That's the good of putting your hopes on more than one thing. In the meantime, though, don't get discouraged."

"Oh, I'll not," was the cheerful answer. "You see, I have two mottoes to live up to. One was on the crest that used to be sported in the ancestral coat of arms once upon a time, away back in mamma's family. It was a winged spur with the words 'Ready, aye ready.'

"The other is the one we adopted ourselves from the Vicar of Wakefield: 'Let us be inflexible, and fortune will at last change in our favor.' So there I am, ready to go at a moment's notice, but also bound to keep inflexible and wait for a turn if fortune wills it so. I don't know what the Ware family would do sometimes without that saying of the old Vicar's. His philosophy has helped us out of more than one hole."

The Captain, rather vague in his knowledge as to the old Vicar, nodded sagely. "Pretty good philosophy to tie to," he remarked. Pink, to whom the Vicar was merely a name, one of many in a long list of English novels he had once memorized for a literature recitation, made no response. He felt profoundly ignorant. But remembering Mr. Moredock's hospitable remark that the latchstring of his library was always out for his friends, he resolved to borrow the book that very night after closing hours, and discover what there was in it that had "helped the Ware family out of more than one hole."

As he and Mary left the office together the Captain called after her, "By the way, I noticed a foreign stamp on one of your letters. Mexican, wasn't it? If you're not making a collection yourself, I'd like to speak for it. My little grandson's just started one, and I've promised him all I can get."

Mary paused on the doorstep. "The letter is mamma's, but I'm sure she would not mind if I were to cut the stamp out of the envelope."

In an instant Pink's knife was out of his pocket, and he was cutting deftly around the stamp, while Mary held the envelope flat against the door. He did it slowly, in order not to cut through into the letter, and he could not fail to notice the big dashing hand in which it was addressed to Mrs. Emily Ware. It looked so familiar that it puzzled him to recall where he had seen it before.

"I can bring you a lot more like this, if you want them," said Mary, as she gave the stamp to the postmaster. "Jack and I each get letters from this friend down in Mexico, and he writes to mamma nearly every week."

The Captain thanked her emphatically, and she and Pink started off again, she towards home and he towards the store. A dozen times before closing hours Pink recalled the scene at the post-office, Mary holding the letter up against the door for him to cut out the stamp. What firm, capable-looking little hands she had, with their daintily kept nails, and how pink her cheeks were, and how fluffy and brown the hair blowing out from under the stylish little hat with the bronze quills.

Each time he recalled the letter he puzzled over the familiar appearance of the address, until suddenly, as he was filling a jug at the spigot of a molasses barrel, he remembered. He had seen the same handwriting under a photograph on the mantel at Mrs. Ware's: "Philip Tremont, Necaxa, Mexico." And on the back was pencilled, "For Aunt Emily, from her 'other boy.'" Mary had called upon Pink to admire the picture which had arrived that same day, and had referred to Phil several times since as "The Best Man."

Pink almost let the molasses jug overflow, while thinking about it and wondering why she had given him such a nickname. He resolved to ask her why if he could ever screw his courage up to such a point.

Mary, hurrying home with the letters from Joyce and Phil, eager to hear what was in them, never gave Pink another thought till after supper, when she remembered his invitation and began a search for Joyce's old riding-skirt. It was not in any of the trunks or closets in the house, but remembering several boxes which had been stored in the loft above the woodshed, she made Jack climb up the ladder with her to open them, while she held the lantern. At the bottom of the last box they found what she was searching for, not only the khaki skirt, but the little Norfolk jacket which completed the outfit. Thanks to Joyce's orderly habits they had been packed away clean and whole, and needed only the magic touch of a hot iron to make them presentable.

There was something else in the box which Mary pounced upon and carried down the ladder. It was a bag containing odds and ends of zephyrs and yarns, left from various afghans and pieces of fancy work. Opened under the sitting-room lamp it disclosed, among other things, several skeins of wool as red as the flash of a cardinal's wing. "Enough to make a whole Tam-O'-Shanter!" exclaimed Mary jubilantly, "and a fluffy pompon on top! I can have it ready by day after to-morrow. I've been wondering what I could wear on my head. I simply can't keep a hat on when I ride fast! Here, Norman, be a dear duck of a brother and hold this skein while I wind, won't you?"

Norman made a wry face and held out his arms with pretended unwillingness, but she slipped the skein over his hands, saying, "Item for Uncle Jerry's Column. 'A young gentleman should always spring nimbly to the service of a lady, and offer his assistance with alacrity.'"

"Say," he interrupted in the tone of one having a real grievance. "You've got to quit making a catspaw of me when you want to teach Pink Upham manners. You know well enough that I always pick up your handkerchief and stand until mamma is seated, and things like that, so you needn't hint about 'em to me when he's here. You're just trying to slap at Pink over my shoulders."

"Oh, you don't mind a little thing like that," laughed Mary. "It's for the good of your country, my boy. I'm just trying to polish up one of the pillars of the new state that you and mamma and Jack are so interested in. Besides, Pink is so quick to take a hint that it's really interesting to see how much a few suggestions can accomplish."

"Humph! You're singing a different tune from what you did at first. You thought he was so tiresome and his laugh so awful and that he had such dreadful taste -- "

"I still think so," answered Mary, "but I don't notice his wild laugh so much now that I am used to it, and he has many traits which make him very companionable. Besides, I am sorry for him. He'd have been very different if he'd had your opportunities, for instance."

"Mary is right," agreed Mrs. Ware, smiling at Norman's grimace. "I think it would be a good thing to ask him to stop when you come back from your ride and have breakfast with us."

Norman groaned, then said with a vigorous nod of the head, since his hands were too busy with the skein for gestures, "Well, have him if you want to, but I'll give you fair warning, Mary Ware, if you go to getting off any of your Uncle Jerry remarks on me for his benefit, I'll let the cat right out of the bag."

Mary replied with a grimace so much like his own, that it brought on a contest in which the yarn winding was laid aside for a time, while they stood before a mirror, each trying to outdo the other in making grotesque faces.

Two mornings after that, in Joyce's khaki riding-suit and the new red Tam-O'-Shanter, Mary swung into the saddle while Pink held both horses, and they were off for an early gallop in the frosty October dawn. The crisp, tingling air of the mountains brought such color into Mary's face, and such buoyancy into her spirits that Pink watched her as he would have watched some rare kind of a bird, skimming along beside him. He had never known such a girl. There was not a particle of coquetry in her attitude towards him. She didn't glance up with pretty appealing side-glances as Sara Downs did, or say little personal things which naturally called for compliments in reply. She was like a boy in her straightforward plain dealing with him, her joking banter, her keen interest in the mountain life and her knowledge of wood lore. One never knew which way her quick-winged thoughts might dart. As they rode on he began to feel as if he was thoroughly awake for the first time in his life.

Up to this time he had been fairly well satisfied with himself. A small inheritance safely invested and his one year at college had given him the prestige of a person of both wealth and education in the little town where he had lived until recently. Yet there was Jack, who had not even finished a High School course, and Mary, who had had less than a year at Warwick Hall, on such amazing terms of intimacy with a world outside of his ken, that he felt illiterate and untutored beside them. Even Norman seemed to have a wider horizon than himself, and he wondered what made the difference.

He divined the reason afterward when they came back from their ride and sat at breakfast in the sunny dining-room. It was Mrs. Ware who had lifted their life out of the ordinary by the force of her rare personality. Through all their poverty and trouble and hard times she had kept fast hold on her early standards of refinement and culture, and made them a part of her family's daily living.

Pink felt the difference, even in the breakfast. It was no better than the one he would have had at home, but at home there would have been no interesting conversation, no glowing bit of color in the centre of the table like this bowl of autumn leaves and berries. At home there would have been no attempt at any pleasing effect in the dainty serving of courses. There ham was ham and eggs were eggs, and it made no difference how they were slapped on to the table, so long as they were well cooked. There, meal-time was merely a time to satisfy one's appetite as quickly as possible and hurry away from the table as soon as the food was devoured. Here, the day seemed to take its key-note from the illuminated text of a calendar hanging beside the fireplace. It was a part of The Salutation of the Dawn from the Sanskrit:

"For yesterday is but a dream, And to-morrow is only a vision; But to-day well-lived, makes Every yesterday a dream of happiness And every to-morrow a vision of hope. Look well, therefore, to this day! Such is the Salutation of the Dawn."

The Ware breakfast-table seemed to be the place where they all gathered to get a good start for the day. It was Mrs. Ware who gave it, and gave it unconsciously, not so much by what she said, as what she was. One felt her hopefulness, her serenity of soul, as one feels the cheer of a warm hearthstone.

Pink could not recall one word she had said to stimulate his ambition, but when he rode away on one horse, leading the other, he was trying to adjust himself to a new set of standards. He felt that there was something to live for besides taking in dimes over the counter of a country store. One thing happened at breakfast which made him glow with pleasure whenever he thought of it. It was the quick look of approval which Mary flashed him when he answered one of her sallies by a quotation about green spectacles.

"Oh, you know the old Vicar too!" she exclaimed, as if claiming mutual acquaintance with a real friend. "Don't you love him?"

Pink was glad that some interruption spared him the necessity of an enthusiastic assent. He had not been specially thrilled by the book, so far as he had read, but he attacked it manfully again that night, feeling that there must be more in it than he had wit to discover, else the Wares would not have adopted it as "guide, philosopher and friend."



Chapter IV

The Witch With A Wand


Snow lay deep over Lone-Rock, muffling every sound. It was so still in the cozy room where Jack sat reading by the lamp, that several times he found himself listening to the intense silence, as if it had been a noise. No one moved in the house. He and Mary were alone together, and she on the other side of the table was apparently as interested in a pile of letters which she was re-reading as he was in his story. But presently, when he finished it and tossed the magazine aside, he saw that his usually jolly little sister was sitting in a disconsolate bunch by the fire, her face buried in her hands.

She had pushed the letters from her lap, and the open pages lay scattered around her on the floor. There were five of them, from different employment agencies. Jack had read them all before supper, just as he had been reading similar ones at intervals for the last two months and a half. The answers had always been disappointing, but until to-day they had come singly and far apart. Undismayed, she had met them all in the spirit of their family motto, insisting that fortune would be compelled to change in her favor soon. She'd be so persistent it couldn't help itself.

Five disappointments, however, all coming by the same post, were more than she could meet calmly. Besides, these were the five positions which seemed the most promising. The thought that they were the last on her list, and that there was no clue now left for her to follow, was the thought that weighed her down with the heaviest discouragement she had ever felt in all her life. She had made a brave effort not to show it when Jack came home to supper earlier in the evening. The two ate alone for the first time that she could remember, Mrs. Ware and Norman having been invited to take supper with the Downs family. It was a joint birthday anniversary, Billy Downs and his mother happening to claim the same day of the month, though many years apart.

Mary talked cheerfully of the reports Billy had brought of the two cakes that were to adorn the table, one with fifteen candles for him and the boys, and one with forty-eight icing roses for his mother and her friends. She had put on a brave, even a jolly front, until this last re-reading of her letters. Now she had given away to such a sense of helplessness and defeat that it showed in every line of the little figure huddled up in front of the fire.

Jack noticed it as he tossed aside his magazine and sat watching her a moment. Then he exclaimed sympathetically, "Cheer up, Mary. Never mind the old letters. You'll have better luck next time."

There was no answer. A profound silence followed, so deep that he could hear the ticking of a clock across the hall, coming faintly through closed doors.

"Cheer up, Sis!" he exclaimed again, knowing that if he could only start her to talking she would soon drag herself out of her slough of despond.

"Don't all the calendars and cards nowadays tell you to smile, no matter what happens? Don't you know that

"'The man worth while is the man who can smile When everything goes dead wrong?'"

His question drew the retort he hoped for, and she exclaimed savagely, "I hate those silly old cheerfulness calendars! And deliver me from people who follow their advice! It's just as foolish to go through life smiling at every kind of circumstances that fate hands out as it would be to wear furs in all kinds of weather, even the dog-days. What's the use of pretending that the sun is shining when everybody can see that the rain's simply drenching you and that you're as bedraggled as a wet hen?"

"Well, the sun is shining," persisted Jack. "Always, somewhere. Our little rain clouds don't stop it. All they can do is to hide it from us awhile."

"You tell that to old Noah," grumbled Mary, her face still hidden in her hands. "Much good the sun behind his rain clouds did him! If he hadn't had an ark he'd have been washed off the face of the earth like the other flood sufferers. Seems to me it's sort of foolish to smile when you've been swept clean down and out. Five turn-downs in one day -- "

Her voice broke, and she gave the scattered letters an impatient push with her foot. Her tone of unusual bitterness stopped Jack's playful attempt to console her. He sat looking into the fire a little space, considering what to say. When he spoke again it was in a firm, quiet tone, almost fatherly in its kindness.

"There's no reason, Mary, for you to be so utterly miserable over your disappointments. There is no actual need for you to go out into the world to make your own living and fight your own way. It was different when I was a helpless cripple. Then I had to sit by and watch you and Joyce and mother struggle to keep us all afloat. But I'm able to furnish a very comfortable little ark for you now, and I'd be glad to have you stay in it always. I didn't interfere when you first announced your intention of starting out to seek your fortune, because I knew you'd never be satisfied to settle down in this quiet mining camp until you'd tried something different. But now the question of your staying here seems to have been settled for you, there's no use letting the disappointment down you so completely. What's your big brother for if not to take care of you?"

"Oh, Jack! You're an old darling!" she cried, with tears in her eyes. "It's dear of you to put it that way, and I do appreciate it even if I don't seem to. But -- there's something inside of me that just won't let me settle down to be taken care of by my family. I have my own place to make in the world. I have my own life to live!"

She saw his amused, indulgent smile and cried out indignantly, "Well, you'd scorn a boy who'd be satisfied with that kind of life. Just because I'm a girl is no reason that I should be dependent on you the rest of my days. You wouldn't want Norman to."

"No," admitted Jack, "but that is different. I should think you could understand how a fellow feels about his little sister when he's the head of the family. He regards her as one of his first responsibilities, to look out for her and take care of her."

Mary straightened up in her chair and looked at him with a perplexed expression, saying in a slow, puzzled way, "Jack, it makes me almost cross-eyed trying to see your way and my way at the same time. Your way is so dear and sweet and generous that I feel like a dog to say a word against it, and yet -- please don't get mad -- it is an old-fashioned way. Nowadays girls don't want to be kept at home on a shelf like a piece of fragile china. When they're well and strong and capable of taking care of themselves they want a chance to strike out and realize their ambitions just as a boy would. Joyce did it, and look what she's doing for herself and how happy she is."

"Yes," he admitted. "Her work is her very life, and her success in it means just as much to her as mine here at the mines does to me. But I can't see what particular ambition you'd be realizing in filling any of the positions you've applied for. You couldn't do more than drudge along and make a bare living at first. There'd be very little time and energy left for ambitions."

"Well, I'd be satisfying one of them at any rate," she persisted. "I'd be at least 'paddling my own canoe' and making a place for myself where I'd be really needed. Oh, yes, I know what you're going to say," she added hurriedly, as he tried to interrupt her. "Just what mamma said, that you do need me here to keep things stirred up and lively. That might be all right if we were going to live along this way always. If you'd settle down to be a nice comfortable old bachelor, I could try to be an ideal old-fashioned spinster sister. But you'll be getting married some day, and then I won't be needed at all, and it'll be too late for me to strike out then and be a modern, up-to-date bachelor maid like Miss Henrietta Robbins. I know that Captain Doane says that old maid aunts are the salt of the earth," she added, a twinkle in her eyes taking the place of the tear which she hastily dashed away with the back of her hand, "but I don't want to be one in somebody else's home. If I have to be one at all I want to be the Miss Henrietta kind. But," she admitted honestly, "I'd rather marry some day, after I'd done all the other things I've planned to, and no Prince Charming will ever find his way to Lone-Rock. You know that perfectly well."

Jack threw back his head to laugh at the dolorous tone of her confession, and then grew suddenly sober, staring into the fire, as if her remarks had started a very serious train of thoughts. The snow-muffled silence was so deep that again the ticking of the distant clock sounded through closed doors.

"Sometimes," he began presently, "when I see the way you chafe at the loneliness here, and hate the monotony and long so desperately to get away, I wonder if any girl would be happy here. If I would have a right even to ask one to share such a life with me."

Mary gave him a keen, penetrating glance, her pulses throbbing at this beginning of a confidence. She hesitated to say anything, for fear her reply might stop him, but when he seemed waiting for her answer she said with a worldly-wise air, "That depends on the girl. If it were Kitty Walton or Gay or Roberta, they'd be simply bored to death up here. They're so used to constant entertainment. But if it were somebody like Betty, it would be different. Lone-Rock isn't any lonesomer than the Cuckoo's Nest was, and she loved that place. And this would be a good quiet spot where she could go on with her writing, so she wouldn't have to give up her ambition."

Then, feeling that perhaps she was expatiating too much in the direction of Betty, she added hastily, "But there's one thing I hadn't thought of. Of course that would make it all right for any kind of a girl, even for a Gay or a Roberta. You'd be her Prince Charming, so of course you'd 'live happily ever after.'"

Again Jack laughed heartily, lying back in the big Morris chair. Then reaching out for the paper cutter on the table, he began toying with it as he often did when he talked. But this time, instead of saying anything, he sat looking into the fire, slowly drawing the ivory blade in and out through his closed fingers.

The fore-log burned through, suddenly broke apart between the andirons, and falling into a bed of glowing coals beneath, sent a puff of ashes out on to the hearth. Mary leaned forward to reach for the turkey-wing hanging beside the tongs. There had always been a turkey-wing beside her Grandmother Ware's fireplace. That is why Mary insisted on using one now instead of a modern hearth-broom. It suggested so pleasantly the housewifely thrift and cleanliness of an earlier generation which she loved to copy. She had prepared this wing herself, stretching and drying it under a heavy weight, and binding the quill ends into a handle with a piece of brown ribbon.

Now as she flirted it briskly across the hearth, a tiny fluff of down detached itself from one of the stiff quills, and floated to the rug. When she picked it up it clung to her fingers, and only after repeated attempts did she succeed in dislodging it, and in blowing it into the fire.

"I wish we could settle things by a feather, as they used to in the old fairy tales," she said wistfully, looking after the bit of down. "Just say:

"'Feather, feather, when I blow Point the way that I should go.'

Then there would be no endless worry and waiting and indecision. It would be up to the feather to settle the matter."

"Why not wish for your 'witch with a wand,' as you used to do?" asked Jack. "There used to be a time when scarcely a day passed that you did not make that wish."

Mary's answer was a sudden exclamation and a clasping of her hands together as she turned towards him, her face radiant.

"Jack, you've given me an idea! Don't you remember that's what we took to calling Cousin Kate after she gave Joyce that trip abroad, and did so many lovely things for all of us -- our witch with a wand! I've a notion to write to her and I ask her if she can't help me get a position of some kind. Didn't she endow a library in the little village where she was born? Seems to me I remember hearing something about it a long time ago. Maybe I could get a position in it."

Jack shook his head decidedly. "No, Mary, I don't like your idea at all. She did endow a library, and she's interested in so many things of the kind that she could doubtless pull strings in all directions. But mother wouldn't like to have you ask any favors of her, I'm sure. I wouldn't do it myself, and I shouldn't think you'd want to, after all she's done for us."

"But I'd not be asking her for money or things," declared Mary. "I'd only ask her to use her influence, and I don't see why she wouldn't be as willing to do it for her own 'blood and kin' as she would for working girls and Rest Cottage people and fresh-air babies. I'm going to try it anyhow. I'll take all the blame myself. I'll tell her that mamma doesn't know I'm writing, and that you told me not to."

"But she's been out of touch with us for so long," persisted Jack, frowning. "She promised once, that if Joyce reached a certain point in her work she'd give her a term or two in Paris, and Joyce reached it a year ago. Cousin Kate knows it, for she was at the studio and saw for herself what Joyce was doing, but she was so interested in two blind children that she had taken under her wing, that she couldn't talk of anything else. She had gone down to New York to consult some specialist about them, and she was considering adopting them. She told Joyce that she wouldn't hesitate, only she had made such inroads on her capital to keep up her social settlement work, that there was danger of her ending her own days in some kind of an asylum or old ladies' home. She nearly lost her own sight several years ago. That is why she takes such an especial interest in those two children."

Mary considered his news in silence a moment, then remarked stubbornly, "She might like to have me come on and help take care of the blind children. At any rate it will cost only a postage stamp to find out, and I can afford that much of an investment. I'll write now, before mamma gets back."

Knowing that the composition of such a letter would be a long and painstaking affair, Mary did not risk beginning it on her precious monogram stationery. She brought out some scraps of paper instead, and with the arm of her chair for a desk, scribbled down with a pencil a rough draft of all she wanted to say to this Cousin Kate, who had been the good fairy of her childhood. Many erasures and changes were necessary, and it was nearly an hour later when she read it all over, highly pleased with her own production. She wondered how it would affect Jack, and glanced over at him, so sure of its excellence that she was tempted to read it aloud. But Jack, having read himself drowsy, had gone to sleep in his chair, and she knew that even if she should waken him by clashing the tongs or upsetting the rocker, he would not be in a mood to appreciate her epistle as it deserved.

So she sat jabbing the paper with her pencil till it had a wide border of dots and dashes, while she pictured to herself the probable effect of the letter on her Cousin Kate. Hope sprang up again as buoyant as if it had not been crushed to earth a score of times in the last few months, and she thought exultingly, "Now this will surely bring a satisfactory reply!"

A far-away jingle of sleigh-bells sounded presently, coming nearer and nearer down the snowy road, then stopped in front of the house. Mr. Downs was bringing the birthday banqueters home in his sleigh, according to promise.

Mary sprang up to open the door. At the first faint sound of the bells she had folded the sheet of paper into a tiny square, and tucked it into her belt. She had a feeling that Jack was wrong about her writing to Cousin Kate, and that her mother would not disapprove as strongly as he seemed to think she would, if the matter could be put properly before her. But she intended to take no risks. There would be time enough to confess what she had done when the answer came, promising her the coveted position.

Mrs. Ware and Norman came in glowing from their sleigh-ride.

"You certainly must have had a good time," exclaimed Mary, noticing the unusual animation of her mother's face. "You ought to go to a birthday dinner every night if it can shake you up and make you look as young and bright-eyed as you do now."

"Oh, it isn't that," laughed Mrs. Ware, as Jack took her heavy coat from her and Mary her furs. "We did have a beautiful time, but it is this which has gone to my head."

She took a letter from the muff which Mary had just laid on a chair, and as soon as she could slip off her gloves, began to unfold it without waiting to lay aside her hat.

"It's a letter from Joyce which that naughty Norman has been carrying around all day. He didn't remember to give it to me until he was putting on his overcoat to start home, and discovered it in one of the pockets. I just had to open it while the other guests were making their adieus, and I've read enough to set me all in a whirl. Joyce's long dreamed of happiness has come at last! She's to go to Paris in a few weeks, but first -- she's coming home to spend Christmas with us!"

Mrs. Ware paused to enjoy the effect of her announcement. She was in such a quiver of delight herself that Mary's happy cry of astonishment and Jack's excited exclamation did not do justice to the occasion. Only long-legged Norman's demonstration seemed adequate. Standing on his head he turned one somersault after another across the room, till he landed perilously near Mary, who gave him a sharp tweak of the ear as he came up in a sitting posture beside her.

"Oh, you wretch!" she exclaimed. "To keep such news in your pocket all day! I'm going to tell Captain Doane never to give you any letters again, if you can't deliver them more promptly than that!"

"Sh!" she added, as Norman began a string of excuses for his forgetfulness. "Mamma is going to read it aloud."

"BELOVED FAMILY," the letter began. "Ere you have recovered from the shock of the announcement I am about to make, we shall be dismantling the studio, packing our trunks and making preparations to shift our little establishment from New York to Paris. At least, Miss Henrietta and I expect to go to Paris and carry on the same kind of studio-apartment housekeeping that we have done here. Mrs. Boyd and Lucy have gone to Florida, but they may join us next summer.

"But first, before I put the ocean between us, I'm going home for a glimpse of you all. It is a long journey for such a short visit, but I can't go so far without seeing you all once more, just at Christmas time too, when we've been separated so many Christmases. It is Cousin Kate who has made all this possible. She did not adopt those little blind children after all. She was taken with a spell of typhoid fever while she was trying to make up her mind, and has never been well enough since to consider burdening herself in such a way. She sailed yesterday with her maid for the south of France, by the doctor's orders. Later, if she is better, she is going back to Tours, where she and I had such a happy year. Old Madame Gréville is no longer living in the villa near the Gate of the Giant Scissors, but Cousin Kate hopes to find lodgings near there. She has just spent a week with us while she was making preparations for her journey, and the visit revived all her old interest in my work. She was pleased to find that I am doing practical money-making things like designing book-covers, etc., but she wants me to widen my field, she says.

"She insists on giving me this year abroad, and says it is pure selfishness on her part, because she may want to attach herself to our Paris establishment later on. She is so alone in the world. I am sure that I can make it up to her some day, all that she is doing for me now, in the way that will make her very happy. So I am accepting as cordially as she is giving. When I told her how long I have been away from you all, and that I thought I'd take part of my savings for a flying visit home, she thought I ought to do so by all means, and said that she wanted to add to the happiness of the family, especially mamma's, by sending a handsome Christmas present back with me.

"For several days it seemed as if she would not be able to get exactly what she wanted, but it was finally arranged, just at the last moment, after much trouble on her part. It's perfectly grand, but I've sworn not to even hint at what it is. So expect me Christmas Eve with The Surprise. I'll not write again in the meantime, as I am so very, very busy. Till then good-bye.

"Yours lovingly and joyfully, "JOYCE."

As Mrs. Ware looked up from her reading, everybody spoke at once. "It's almost too good to be true," was Jack's quick exclamation. "What do you suppose the surprise will be?" Norman's eager question. While Mary, clasping her elbow with her hands, as if hugging herself in sheer ecstasy, cried, "Oh, I just love to be knocked flat and have my breath taken away with unexpected news like that! It makes you tingle all over and at the same time have a queer die-away feeling too, like when you swoop down in a swing!"

Mrs. Ware took down the almanac hanging in the chimney corner, and began to turn the pages, looking for the one marked December.

"Oh, you needn't count the days till Christmas," said Mary. "I've been marking them off my calendar every morning and can tell you to a dot. Not that I had expected to take much interest in celebrating this year, but just from force of habit, I suppose. But now we'll have to 'put the big pot in the little one,' as they say back in Kentucky, in honor of our being all together once more."

"All but Holland," corrected Mrs. Ware sadly, with the wistful look which always came into her eyes whenever his name was mentioned. "That's the worst of giving up a boy to the Navy. One has to give him up so completely."

There was such a note of longing in her voice that Jack hastened to say, "But the worst of it is nearly over now, little mother. He'll be home on his first furlough next summer."

"Yes, but the years will have made a man of him," answered Mrs. Ware. "He'll not be the same boy that left us, and he'll be here such a short time that we'll hardly have time to make his acquaintance."

"Oh, but think of when he gets to be a high and mighty Admiral," exclaimed Mary, comfortingly. "You'll be so proud of him you'll forget all about the separation. Between him and the Governor I don't know what will happen to your pride. It will be so inflated."

Mary had laughingly called Jack the Governor ever since Mrs. Ware's complacent remark that day on the train, that it would not surprise her to have such an honor come to her oldest son some day.

"And Joyce, don't forget her," put in Norman, feeling in his pocket for a handful of nuts which he had carried away from the birthday feast. "The way she's started out she'll have a place in your hall of fame, too. And me -- don't forget this Abou Ben Adhem. Probably my name'll lead all the rest. Where do you expect to come in, Mary? What will you do?"

As he spoke he placed a row of pecans under the rocker of his chair, and bore down on them until the shells cracked. When he had picked out a handful of kernels, he popped them into his mouth all at once.

"We'll write your name as the Great American Cormorant," laughed Mary, ignoring his question about herself. "You remember that verse, don't you?

"'C, my dear, is the Cormorant. When he don't eat more it's because he can't.'

"Mamma, didn't he eat anything at all at the Downs'? He's been stuffing ever since he came back -- cake and candy, and now those nuts. It's positively disgraceful to carry food away in your pockets the way you do, Norman Ware."

"I always do when I go to Billy's house," answered Norman, undisturbed by her criticism, and crashing his rocker down on a row of almonds. "And Billy always does the same here. We're not company. We're home folks at both places."

The shells which he threw toward the fire missed their aim and fell on the hearth. Mary pointed significantly toward the turkey-wing, and he as significantly shrugged his shoulders, in token that he would not sweep up the mess he had made. They kept up a playful pantomime some time, while Jack and his mother went on discussing Joyce's home-coming, before he finally obeyed her peremptory gesture. He thought she was in one of her jolliest moods, induced by the glorious news of the letter. But all the time she was silently repeating his question, "Where do you expect to come in, Mary? What will you do?"

Here she was, baffled again. The time she had spent in writing that letter, now tucked away under her belt, was wasted. It was out of the question to appeal to Cousin Kate now, just when she had done so much for another member of the family, and especially when she had sailed away to so vague a place as the south of France, by the doctor's orders. Even if Mary had her address, she felt it would be wrong to bother her with a request which would require any "pulling of strings." For that could not be done without letter writing, and in her state of health even that might be some tax on her strength, which she had no right to ask. Hope, that had soared so buoyantly an hour before, once more sank despairingly to earth. What was she to do? Which way could she turn next?

When bedtime came a little later, Mrs. Ware went in to Norman's room to take some extra cover. Mary lingered to pin some newspapers around her potted plants and move them away from the windows. Jack, standing in front of the fireplace, winding the clock on the mantel, saw her slip a folded paper from under her belt, and toss it into the fire with such a tragic gesture, that he knew without telling that it was the letter on which she had worked so industriously. She saw that he understood and she was grateful that he said nothing.

While they were undressing, Mrs. Ware talked so happily of Joyce's return, that Mary's own glow of anticipation came back. She was not jealous of her sister's good fortune. She had never been that. She was wholly, generously glad for every good thing that had ever come into Joyce's life, and she was so thrilled with the thought of her coming home that she was sure she should lie awake all night thinking about it. But when she snuggled down under the warm covers, it was Norman's question which kept her awake. "Where do you expect to come in, Mary? What are you going to do?"



Chapter V

P Stands For Pink


What happened in the Christmas holidays which followed is best told in the letter which Mary wrote to Phil Tremont on the last day of the old year.

"DEAR BEST MAN:" it began. "Mamma has asked me to write to you this time in her place, as she has succumbed to an attack of 'reunionitis.' She doesn't call it that, but we know well enough that it is nothing but the excitement and unexpectedness of having a whole family reunion which has frazzled her out so completely. She wrote you that Joyce was coming home, but none of us knew that Holland would be with her. He was the surprise -- Cousin Kate's Christmas gift to the family. His furlough is not due till next summer, but she said by that time Joyce would be in Paris, and the chances are that if we didn't get together now we might never again be able to; at least for years and years.

"Cousin Kate is such a solitary soul herself, no relatives nearer than cousins, that she has an immense amount of sentiment for family gatherings, and that is why she gave us such a happy one. She had to go to Washington to arrange it. She has a friend at court in the shape of a senator who was once an intimate school chum of the President's. (We think he was one of her many bygone suitors. Isn't that romantic?) Among them they managed to untie enough red tape to let Holland out.

"You can imagine our astonishment when he walked in. We almost swooned with joy, and I thought for a moment that mamma really was going to, the surprise was so great. You saw him just before you went to Mexico, so you know how big he has grown, and how impressively dignified he can be on occasion. And polite --  My! What a polish the Navy can give! He was so polite that I was awestruck at first, and it was two whole days before I felt familiar enough to dare to refer to the time that he dragged me down the hay-mow by my hair because I wouldn't come any other way.

"It has been a wonderful week; yet, isn't it queer, as I look back on it, there is nothing at all in it really worth putting into a letter. It is just that after the first strangeness wore off, we seemed to slip back into the dear old good times of the Wigwam days. You know better than any one else in the world what they were, for you shared them with us so often. You know how we have always enjoyed each other and what entertainment we found in our own conversation and jokes and disputes, so you'll understand exactly what that week was to us, when I say that it was a slice out of the old days.

"It was better in some ways, however. The future is not such a distressingly unknown quantity as it was then. We don't have to say, 'Let X (a very slim X at that) equal Jack's chances, and minus Y equal Joyce's.' If we could only determine the value of the chances of Mary, we'd soon know the 'length of the whole fish.' 'Member how you moiled and toiled over that old fish problem in Ray's Algebra, to help me to understand it?

"Well, I am the puzzling element in the Ware family's equation. It's our problem to find the extent of my resources. I was dreadfully discouraged before Christmas, when every application I sent out was turned down. It seemed to me that if I had one more disappointment I couldn't possibly bear it. But Joyce has almost persuaded me to give up the quest for awhile, at least until spring. I am a year younger than she was when she went away from home, and she thinks that I owe it to mamma to stay with her till I am out of my teens. Mamma hasn't been very well lately. Sometimes I think I could have a very pleasant winter here after all, if I'd just make up my mind to settle down and forget my ambitions. There are mild social possibilities in two of the new families who moved here last fall, and Pink Upham does everything he can think of to make it pleasant. We are going skating to-night, and have a big bonfire on the bank. To-morrow, being New Year's Day, consequently a holiday for him, we are to have a long sleigh-ride over to Hemlock Ridge. The ladies of some lodge in the settlement over there are to serve a turkey dinner in the school-house.

"I have begun this letter backwards. What I set out to do, first and foremost, was to thank you for the lovely book which you sent with your Yuletide greeting. I read over half of it aloud last night after our Christmas guests departed, and was glad that we had such an interesting story. It kept us from getting doleful.

"By the way, the heroine is called Bonnie, after the song, Bonnie Eloise. And Joyce said that Eugenia told her that there is an American girl visiting the doctor's family near your construction camp, whom you refer to in your letters as Bonnie Eloise. Eugenia says that she plays the guitar and sings duets with you, and is altogether charming. Is Eloise her real name, or do you call her that because she is bonny like the girl in the book? And does she sing as well as Lloyd Sherman? Do tell us about her the next time you write! Your sayings and doings would interest us even if we were looping the loop socially in gay Gotham and dwelt continually 'in the midst of alarms.' But in the Selkirkian stillness of these solitudes our interest in our friends deepens into something amazing.

"Mamma says to tell you that we all spoke of you and quoted you many times this week, and wished daily that you were with us. She sends her love and will write as soon as she is able. With all good wishes for your New Year from each of us,  Yours, downcast but still inflexible,

"Mary."

Phil answered this letter the day it was received, replying to her question about Eloise in a joking postscript, as if wishing to convey the impression that his interest in her was less than Mary's.

"I forgot to say that Eloise is a name I have bestowed upon the young lady who is visiting the Whites, in exchange for the compliment of her having given my name to her dog. He is a lank, sneaking greyhound which never leaves her side, and was called merely Senor, when she brought him to Mexico. Now she has added Tremonti to his title. She herself is baptized Eliza. She is a pretty, kittenish little thing, deathly afraid of cock-roaches and caterpillars, devoted to frills and fetching furbelows, and fond of taking picturesque poses in the moonlight with the slinky greyhound. No, her voice is not to be compared to the Little Colonel's, but it is sweet and sympathetic, very effective in ballads and simple things. We sing together whenever I happen to drop in at the doctor's, which is several times a week, and I am indebted to her for many pleasant hours, which are doubly appreciated in this desert waste of a place.

"Now will you answer a few questions for me? Who is this Pink Upham who is 'doing everything to make the winter pleasant' for you? What is his age, his business and his ultimate aim in life? Is he the only available escort to all the social functions of Lone-Rock? You never mention any other. Don't forget what I told you when I said good-bye in Bauer, and don't forget what you promised me then."

Mary was in the kitchen when that letter was brought in to her. She had just slipped a pan of gingersnaps into the oven, and was rolling out the remainder of the dough to fill another pan. Not even stopping to wipe her floury hands, she walked over to the window, tore open the envelope and began to read. When she came to the end of the postscript she stood gazing out of the window at the back fence, half buried in the drifted snow. What she saw was not the old fence, however. She was gazing back into a sunny April morning in the hills of Texas. She was standing by a kitchen window there, also, but that one was open, and looked out upon a meadow of blue-bonnets, as blue as the sea. And outside, looking in at her, with his arms crossed on the window-sill, was Phil. There was no need for him to write in that postscript, "Don't forget what I told you when I said good-bye in Bauer." She had recalled it so many times in the nine months that had passed since then, that she could repeat every word.

It still seemed just as remarkable now as it had then that he should have asked her to promise to let him know if anybody ever came along trying to persuade her "to join him on a new trail," or that he should have said that he wanted "a hand in choosing the right man," and above all that he should have added solemnly, "I have never yet seen anybody whom I considered good enough for little Mary Ware."

If Mary could have known what picture rose up before Phil's eyes as he wrote that postscript, she would have been unspeakably happy. She had so many mortifying remembrances of times when he had caught her looking her very worst, when he had come upon her just emerging from some accident that had left her drenched or smoked or bedraggled, mud-spattered, ink-stained or dust-covered. Holland's recent reminiscences had deepened her impression that she must have been in a wrecked condition half her time, for he had kept the family laughing all one evening, recalling various plights he had rescued her from.

It would have been most soul-satisfying to her could she have known that Phil thought of her oftenest as he had last seen her, standing at the gate in a white and pink dress, fresh as a spring blossom, her sweet sincere eyes looking gravely into his as he insisted on a promise, but her dear little mouth smiling mischievously as she vowed, "I'll keep my word. Honest, I will!"

As she recalled that promise now, her face dimpled again as it had then over the absurdity of such a thing. "The idea of Phil's thinking that Pink Upham is anybody to be considered seriously!" she exclaimed, as she recalled his uncouth laugh, his barbaric taste in dress, his provincial little habits and mannerisms, which in the parlance of the Warwick Hall girls, would have stamped him "dead common" according to their standards. She was still looking dreamily out into the snowy yard when Mrs. Ware came to the door to inquire with an anxious sniff,

"Mary, isn't something burning?"

Suddenly recalled to herself, Mary sprang to open the oven door, wailing, "My cookies, oh, my cookies! Burnt to a crisp! And the gingerbread man I promised to little Don Moredock, black as a cinder! I'll have to make him another one, but there won't be time to stick in all the beautiful clove buttons that I had this one's suit trimmed with. His coat was like Old Grimes', 'all buttoned down before.' It was Phil's letter that caused the wreck," she explained to her mother, as she emptied the burnt cakes into the fire. "There it is on the table."

Phil's letters were family property. Mrs. Ware carried it off to read, and Mary, taking another pan, proceeded to shape another gingerbread man. As she did so, her thoughts went from it to little Don Moredock for whom it was intended, and then to Pink Upham, who had been the devoted slave of the little fellow with the broken leg ever since the accident occurred. As she recalled Pink's patience and gentleness with the child, she wondered just what sort of an impression he would make on Phil. The more she pondered the more certain she was that Phil would see him through Jack's eyes and little Don's, rather than through hers. And somehow, thinking that, she began to get a different view of him herself.

It was nearly sundown before she found time to run over to the Moredocks' with the gingerbread man, and tell Don the story which it was intended to illustrate. He had never heard it before, and insisted upon her repeating it over and over. He kept her much later than she had intended to stay, and a young moon was shining on the snow when she started home again. Pink Upham, stopping on his way home to supper to leave a feather whirligig he had made for Don, met her going out of the gate as he went in.

Two minutes later he had caught up with her, and was walking along beside her. There was to be a Valentine party at Sara Downs on the fourteenth, he told her. A fancy dress affair. He wanted her to go with him, as his valentine. Now if it had not been for Phil's letter, Mary's eyes might not have been opened quite so soon to the fact that Pink regarded her as the right girl, no matter what she thought of him. But all at once she realized that he was looking down at her as no one had ever looked before. There was something in his glance like the dumb wistfulness that makes a hunting dog's eyes so pathetic, and she felt a little shiver run over her. She didn't want him to care like that! It was perfectly thrilling to feel that she had aroused a deep regard in any one's heart, but, oh, why did it have to be some one who fell so short of her standard of what a true prince must measure up to?

Embarrassed and troubled, she hurried away from him as soon as they reached the gate. The lamps were lighted and supper was ready when she went into the house. She began talking the moment she sat down at the table, but somehow she could not put Pink out of her mind. She kept seeing him as he had stood there at the gate in the snow with the young moon lighting it up. She knew that he had stood and watched her pass up the path and into the house, for she had stolen a hasty glance over her shoulder as she opened the door, and the tall, dark figure was still there.

She talked vivaciously of many things: of little Don's pleasure in her gift, of her fall on the ice on the way over, of Sara Downs' Valentine party, of Phil's letter. When the last subject was mentioned Mrs. Ware remarked, "That snap-shot of 'Eloise' shows her to be a very pretty girl, I think."

"Snap-shot of Eloise!" echoed Mary blankly. "I didn't see it. Where is it?"

"In the envelope. I didn't see it either, until I started to shove the folded sheet back into it. Something inside prevented its going more than half way, and I found it was the little unmounted picture curled up inside. It's on the mantel. Norman, get it for your sister, please."

Mary held the picture under the lamp for a careful scrutiny. So that was Eloise. A slim, graceful girl posing in a hammock, with one hand resting on the guitar in her lap, the other on the head of Senor Tremonti. Her face was in shadow, but she looked dangerously attractive to Mary, who spoke her opinion openly.

"She's an appealing little thing, the clinging-vine sort. If Phil saw her only in the daylight and called her plain Eliza, and could remember that she's a little 'fraid cat whose chief interest in life is frills and fetching furbelows, he wouldn't be in any danger. But you see, he hasn't any of his kind of girls down there -- I mean like the Little Colonel and Betty and Gay, and the moonlight and musical evenings will give her a sort of glamor that'll make her seem different, just as calling her Eloise makes her seem more romantic than when he says Eliza."

"Don't you worry," laughed Jack. "Phil is old enough to look out for himself, and to know what he wants. You can trust him to pick out the kind of wife that suits him, better than you could do it for him."

"But I don't want him to be satisfied with that kind after all the lovely girls he's known," grumbled Mary, putting the picture aside and going on with her supper. Her motherly concern was even greater over this situation than it had been when she thought of him as "doomed to carry a secret sorrow to his grave." She pinned the picture of Eloise to the frame of her mirror when she went to her room that night, and studied it while she slowly brushed her hair.

Once she paused with brush in air as a comforting thought suddenly occurred to her. "Why, I'm in the same position that Phil is. Pink doesn't measure up to my highest ideal of a man any more than Eliza measures up to Lloyd, but he's my chief source of amusement here, just as she is Phil's there. Maybe she lets him see that she's fond of his company and all that, and he hates to hurt her feelings as I hate to hurt Pink's. I'll intimate as much in my letter when I answer his questions, if I can think of the right way to do it."

It was because she could not find the right words to express these sentiments that she delayed answering from day to day, then other things crowded it out of her mind. The Valentine party required that much time and thought be spent on the costumes, and she helped Jack with his. He went as a comic Valentine. Pink begged her to dress as the Queen of Hearts, and she was almost persuaded to do so, thinking that would be the easiest of costumes to prepare, till she guessed from something he let fall that he intended to personate the King himself. Then nothing would have induced her to do it. She knew it would give occasion for the coupling of their names together in the familiar and teasing way they have in little country towns.

So she dressed as an old-fashioned lace-paper valentine. The dress was made of a much-mended lace curtain. The front of the bodice had two square lapels wired at the edges, so that they could be folded together like the front of a real valentine, or opened back like shutters to show on her breast a panel of pale blue satin, on which was outlined two white doves perched above a great red heart. Mrs. Ware painted it, and although it may sound queer in the description, it was in reality a very pretty costume, and the touch of color made it so becoming that Mary's cheeks glowed with pleasure many times during the evening at the comments she overheard on all sides.

Pink's eyes followed her admiringly everywhere she went, but he had little to say to her, except once, as he finished singing a song which Sara Downs had begged for, he leaned over and whispered significantly, "That's your song."

It was Kathleen Mavourneen, and she wondered why he called it hers. On the way home he was so strangely silent that Mary wondered what was the matter. She rattled along, talking with even more vivacity than usual, to cover his silence, and walked fast to keep within speaking distance of several others who were going down their road. They all walked Indian file, the path beaten through the snow was so narrow. Jack had started much earlier, as he was taking old Captain Doane's niece home. The cottage was in sight when the others turned off into another road, and Pink and Mary were left crunching through the snow alone.

Then Pink suddenly found his voice. Clearing his throat he began diffidently, "Mary, I want to ask you something. I want to ask a favor of you."

His tone was so ominous that Mary's heart gave a thump like a startled rabbit's.

"I wish you wouldn't call me 'Pink' like everybody else does. I wish you'd call me a name that no one would use but you. Just when we're by ourselves, you know. I wouldn't want you to any other time. I'd love for you to have your own special name for me just as I have for you."

"What's that?" asked Mary, crunching steadily on ahead, determined to laugh him out of his serious tone if possible. "What name do you have for me? 'Polly-put-the-kettle-on? 'That's my usual nickname. It used to be 'Mother-bunch' and 'Gordo' when I was little and fat."

"I didn't mean a nickname," answered Pink a little stiffly. He was in no humor for joking, and he rather resented her light reply. Her rapid pace had quickened almost into a dog-trot. With a few long strides he put himself even with her, walking along in the deep snow beside the narrow path. Evidently he felt the witchery of the still winter night, with the moonlight silvering the snowy world around them, even if Mary did not. For in spite of the brisk, business-like pace she set, he said presently:

"I've been making up my mind all evening to tell you this on my way home. You've never seemed like an ordinary girl to me. You're so much nicer in every way, that long ago I gave you a name that I always call you to myself. And I wanted to ask you if you wouldn't do the same for me. Of course I couldn't expect you to give me the same sort of a name that I have for you, but I'd be content if you'd just call me by my first name, Philip."

"Philip!" repeated Mary blankly, turning short in the narrow path to stare at him. "Why, I didn't know that that was your name. It's a name that has always seemed to belong especially to just one person in the world. I never dreamed that it was your name. Somehow I had the impression that that first P in it stood for Peter."

"I don't know why," answered Pink in a hurt tone. "I was named for my grandfather, Philip Pinckney, so I don't see why I haven't as good a right to it as any one."

"Oh, of course you have," cried Mary. "I was just surprised, that's all. It's only that I've always regarded it as the especial property of one of my very best friends, I suppose."

"Well, I rather hoped that you counted me as one of your very best friends," was the gloomy response. To Mary's unspeakable relief Jack came swinging up behind them just then with some jolly remark that saved her the necessity of an answer, and the good nights were spoken without any further reference to personal matters.

It was so late that she undressed as quickly and quietly as she could, in order not to awaken her mother in the next room. As she did so she kept thinking, "I wonder what it is he always calls me to himself? I'd give a fortune to know. But I suppose I never will find out, for I'm sure that I hurt his feelings saying what I did about Phil's name. Why, I could no more call him Philip than I could call him mother! Those names belong so entirely to the people I've always given them to."

It was not until she had been tucked warmly in bed for some time, with her eyes closed, that she thought of something which made her sit bolt upright, regardless of the icy wind blowing in through her open windows.

"Philip and Mary on a shilling! Merciful heavens!" she exclaimed in a whisper. "It can't be that that old shilling that I drew out of Eugenia's bridecake really has any power to influence my destiny!"

There was something vaguely alarming in the knowledge that Pink claimed the name of Philip. Long ago Mary had taken the story of The Three Weavers to heart, and vowed that no one could be her prince who did not fit her ideals "as the falcon's feathers fit the falcon." Now she exclaimed almost savagely to herself:

"Why, Pink Upham no more measures up to my ideals than, than -- anything! It's ridiculous to believe that an old shilling could influence my destiny that way. It can't! It sha'n't! I simply won't let it!"

Then, as she lay back on her pillow again and pulled the blankets over her shivering shoulders, she thought drearily, "But, oh, dear, this is going to interfere with my only good times! Whenever he is nice to me I'll think of that dreadful old shilling in spite of myself. I wish I could go away from Lone-Rock this very week!"



Chapter VI

Told In Letters


On the way to the post-office next morning, Mary determined that if she should meet Pink there, as she sometimes did, not even the flicker of an eyelash should show that she remembered last night's conversation. But when she saw the back of a familiar fur overcoat through the post-office window, she felt the color rush into her face.

When she went in, not only was she conscious from his greeting that he remembered, but the look in his eyes said as plainly as words that the name which he kept for her alone had risen almost to his lips. It made her uncomfortable, but she was burning with curiosity to know what that name could be.

There were several people in the line ahead of her, and Pink emptied his locked box before her turn came at the window. She knew that he was waiting outside the door for her, so, when she passed him, she was purposely absorbed in opening the only letter which had fallen to her share. It was a tough-fibred envelope, hard to tear, and her heavily gloved hands made clumsy work of it. Finally she thrust a forefinger under the flap and wrenched it apart. A ragged scrap of yellowed paper fluttered out on to the step. Pink stooped and handed it to her.

"Why, how queer! That's all there is in the envelope," she exclaimed, shaking it, then holding out the jagged bit of paper so that Pink could examine it with her. It was only a scrap torn from a sheet of music, or some old song-book. They read the bars together:

Music: Oh! why art thou silent thou voice of my heart?

If Mary had not been so busy puzzling over why it had been sent, she would have seen a dull red creep into Pink's face, as he recognized it as a line from Kathleen Mavourneen, the song which he told Mary the night before he always regarded as hers.

Suddenly she laughed. "Of course! I see it now! It's just Phil's cute way of reminding me that I owe him a letter. Once, when Jack had not written for months, Phil called his attention to the silence by sending a postal with just a big question mark on it. But this is a much brighter way."

"Yes, I see a few things too," said Pink stiffly. "I'd forgotten that that fellow down in Mexico is named Philip. So he's the only person in the world you consider the name belongs to -- and he calls you -- that!"

His ringer pointed to the last five words under the bar of music.

"He's the only one I've ever known by that name," began Mary, surprised by the unaccountable change in his manner, and unaware that it was a swift flash of jealousy which caused it. To her amazement he turned abruptly and walked away without even a curt "good morning."

She glanced after him in surprise, wondering at his abrupt leave-taking. He was unmistakably offended about something. Sara Downs had told her more than once that he was the most foolishly sensitive person she had ever known, continually getting his feelings hurt over nothing, but this was the first time Mary had ever had an exhibition of his sensitiveness. Conscious that she had done nothing at which a reasonable person could take offence, she looked after him with a desire to shake him for such childishness. Then with a shrug of her shoulders she turned and started homeward.

"That was such a bright, original way for Phil to remind me," she thought, glancing again at the scrap of music. "And it is so absolutely silly of Pink to say in such a tragic tone, 'And he called you that!' There is nothing more personal in Phil's saying 'thou voice of my heart' than there would be in his calling me 'Old Dog Tray' or a scrap of any other song. He's always roaring questions at people in the shape of bits of music. But, of course, Pink doesn't know that," she added a moment afterward, wanting to be perfectly honest in her judgment of him. "But even if he doesn't, it's none of his business what anybody calls me."

The episode, trifling as it was, made a difference in the answer that she sent to Phil. Instead of trying to reply to his questions seriously, as she had intended to do, she was so disdainful of Pink's behavior that she concluded to ignore all mention of him. As she passed the Moredock house, a phonograph, playing away inside for the amusement of little Don, brayed out a rag-time refrain: "I want what I want, when I want it!"

Suddenly the inspiration seized her to answer Phil's reminder of her silence in his own way. She would make a medley of fragments of songs. How to begin it puzzled her, for the only song she could think of, containing his name, was "Philip, my King," and she dismissed that immediately, as impossible. All the way home she whistled under her breath bits of old melodies, one suggesting another, until she had a long list, and she made haste to write them down, for fear she might forget. From the back of an old dog-eared guitar instructor, which she found in the book-case, she copied many titles of ballads, and among them came across the line, "Friend of my soul, the goblet sip." It was one which she knew Phil was familiar with, for she remembered having heard him sing it at the Wigwam. So she promptly chose the first four words as the ones with which to commence. The first part of the letter ran somewhat after this fashion:

"Lone-Rock (Not) By The Sea.

"'FRIEND OF MY SOUL': -- 'The day is cold and dark and dreary.' 'In the gloaming,' 'The swallows homeward fly.' 'The daily question is,' 'What's this dull town to me?' 'Tell me not in mournful numbers' that 'I'd better bide a wee.' 'Oh, 'tis not true!' 'I hear the angel voices calling' 'Where the sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home,' and 'I want what I want when I want it.'"

It took an entire evening to evolve a letter which suited her, and although it was utter foolishness, she managed to give the news and to convey through the cleverly combined titles the fact that she was still struggling to get away from Lone-Rock, that there was no "swain amang the train" to keep her from "going back to Dixie" "in the sweet bye and bye." She also found a way to make complimentary mention of Bonnie Eloise.

That was the last evening, however, which she devoted to trivial things for many weeks. For Jack came home next noon greatly troubled over conditions at the office. The bookkeeper was down with pneumonia. There was no one who could step into his place but Jack, and he already had his hands full with his own responsibilities and duties.

"It is the correspondence which worries me most," he said. "We haven't had enough of that kind of work, so far, to justify us hiring a stenographer, but some days the mail is so heavy that it keeps me pounding on the typewriter an hour or more. Now, Mary, if you had only added shorthand to your many accomplishments, there'd be a fine chance for you to help hold the fort till Bailey gets well."

"I can help do it, anyhow," she declared promptly. "I know how business letters ought to sound -- 'Yours of recent date' and 'enclosed herewith please find' and all that sort of thing. I can scratch off in pencil a sort of outline of what you want said, and then take my time copying it on the machine."

Past experience had taught the family that whenever Mary attempted anything with the eagerness with which she proposed this plan, she always carried it through triumphantly, and Jack's face showed his relief as he promptly accepted her offer.

"No use for you to come down this afternoon," he said. "I'll be too busy looking after other things to give any time to letters."

"But I can be making the acquaintance of the machine," answered Mary. "Madam Chartley's stenographer learned to run hers simply by studying the book of instructions. And if it won't bother you to hear me clicking away I'll put in the whole afternoon practising."

So when Jack went back to the office, Mary went with him, happy and excited over this unexpected entrance into the world of Business.

"Who knows but what this may be a stepping-stone into a successful career?" she exclaimed. "Why didn't I think of applying to you for a position in the very beginning? It would have saved a world of worry and disappointment, and a small fortune in postage stamps."

He had time for only a short explanation of the machine before he was called away, but the book of instructions was clear and concise. She studied the illustrations and diagrams for awhile with her whole attention concentrated on them. Accustomed to picking up new crochet stitches and following intricate patterns from printed directions, it was an easy matter for her to master the intricacies of the new machine. Several times she stopped Jack in passing to ask him a question about some movement or adjustment, but in the main she experimented until she could answer her own questions.

In a little while she could shift the ribbon or flip a sheet of paper in and out with the ease of an expert. Then she began studying the keyboard, to learn the position of the letters, and after that it was only a question of practice to gain speed. Fingers that had learned nimbleness and accuracy of touch in other fields, did not lag long here. Hour after hour she sat at the machine, practising finger exercises as patiently as if the keys were the ivories of a grand piano.

The next letter which she sent to Phil, some days later, was such a contrast to the musical medley that it did not seem possible that they had been written by the same person.

"LONE-ROCK, ARIZONA, April 2d.

"MR. PHILIP TREMONT, "Necaxa, Mexico.

"DEAR SIR: Your favor of the 24th ult. duly received and contents noted. I am much gratified with your reference to my last epistle, and your hearty encore, but I can give no more musical monologues at present. I am engaged as Corresponding Secretary in the office of the Lone-Rock Mining Company. Corresponding Secretary may be too grand a name to give my humble position, but it comes nearer to describing it than any that I can think of.

"First I came in just to help Jack out, while his chief was away and the bookkeeper ill. I helped him with the correspondence and all sorts of odds and ends, and between times practised typewriting, till now I can take dictation on the machine when he speaks at a moderately slow pace.

"Yesterday he received a telegram calling him East to a special directors' meeting, to report on something unexpected that has recently developed out here. So I'm to stay on at the office while he is gone, on a salary! A very modest one it is to be sure, but it is bliss to feel that at last I have found a paying position, no matter how small it is. Isn't it queer? Lone-Rock is the last place on the planet where a girl like me would expect to find anything of the sort to do. Mr. Headley, the chief, is back, of course, or Jack couldn't leave, and I'm watching my opportunity to make myself so useful around the office that they'll all wonder how they ever 'kept house' so long without me.

"Mr. Bailey's pneumonia has been blessed to me if not to him, for it has broken the spell, or hoo-doo, or whatever it was that thwarted all my efforts. Fortune's 'turn' is slowly approaching. Let it come when it will I can now meet it like the wingèd spur of my ancestors, with the cry 'Ready! Aye, ready!'

"Trusting that this explanation is satisfactory, and that we may be favored by a reply at your earliest convenience, I have the honor to remain,

"Yours very truly, "M. WARE.

"(P.S. I must ask you to observe the very tasty manner in which this is typed.)"

The next letter from Mary to Phil was hastily scribbled in pencil.

"DEAR PHIL: -- Jack came home yesterday with a bit of news for the Ware family, which set it into a wild commotion, to say the least. Nobody but the family is to know it for awhile, but I am going to tell you because you're sort of 'next of kin.' Jack said I might, but you mustn't send your congratulations until you are officially notified.

"When Jack went East to that directors' meeting he stopped over Sunday in Lloydsboro Valley, and Betty was home from Warwick Hall on her Easter vacation, and he saw her again, and well -- they're engaged! Isn't it perfectly lovely? I've known for a long time that they have been corresponding. They began it over me while I was at Warwick Hall. It will probably be a long time before they are married. Betty will finish teaching this term at Warwick Hall and then go back to Locust for awhile. Jack is to be promoted to Mr. Headley's place next fall, and I think the grand event will take place the following spring, a year from now.

"You know Betty, and what a perfectly darling saint she is, so I needn't tell you how the entire family rejoices over Jack's good fortune, although we do think too, that she is equally fortunate to have Jack and -- us. Don't you?"

It was May before another letter found its way from Lone-Rock to the little station up in the mountains of Mexico, to which Phil sent a daily messenger on mule-back for his mail. Mary wrote it in the office while waiting for Jack to come in again and go on with his dictation. It had been interrupted in the middle by some outside matter which called him away from his desk for nearly an hour.

"No," she began, "I must confess that it isn't lack of time which has kept me so long from answering your last letter, but merely lack of news. Mr. Bailey is back at his post now as good as new after his spell of pneumonia. I had a busy month while he was out, but now there isn't enough for me to do to justify their keeping me more than an hour or so each morning.

"I am glad to have that much of a position however, for it adds a trifle every week to my bank account, and breaks into the monotony of the days more than you can imagine. I come down just after the morning train gets in and stay long enough to attend to the day's correspondence. Usually it takes about an hour.

"I haven't written for some time because there was nothing to tell. Of course the mountains are beautiful in this perfect May weather, but you wouldn't want to read pages of description. There has been nothing going on socially since the Valentine party. Pink Upham used to stir up things quite often, but he seems to be very much absorbed in his business lately, and I rarely see him. Occasionally I go for a tramp up the mountains with Norman and Billy, and we went fishing twice last week, and cooked our lunch on the creek bank.

"But if we are not doing things ourselves we are enjoying the activities of our friends. Have I ever told you that Lieutenant Boglin is now in the Philippines? He sent me a bunch of photographs from there last week that make me wild to see the place. And Roberta is abroad with her family and is having adventures galore in London.

"Gay is having all sorts of good times at the post, and even old Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby up in Bauer are planning for a trip to the Pacific coast.

"Joyce and Miss Henrietta have shut up the studio for a few weeks, and have gone to Tours to join Cousin Kate and sketch awhile in that lovely chateau region. And that reminds me of the question you asked in your last letter about Jules Ciseaux. I wonder how you happened to think of him. He came to America last year just as he had expected to do, but he got no farther than New York. Joyce told us all about him when she was home last Christmas. She says he has grown up to be a wonderfully interesting young fellow, slim and dark, with a most distinguished air and courtly manner. Something called him back to France before he made his Western trip, and he lamented to her that he could not meet her 'young sister Marie,' whom he 'pictured to be most charming and accomplished.' But I suppose it's destined that we shall never see each other, for he's married now to a little artist whom he met in Paris when he was studying there. He came across her again in New York, and Joyce says she knows now that that is what took him back again so suddenly to Paris. The girl was just starting, and he took passage on the same steamer. They are living now in the home of his ancestors behind the great Gate of the Giant Scissors, and Joyce was entertained there at dinner one night, and was charmed with young Mrs. Jules. She says they are as happy as two Babes in Candyland.

"Oh, I've just thought -- I am doing something, although it may not appeal to your masculine mind as anything worth mentioning. Mamma and I are both at work on some beautiful embroidery for Betty. It is so fine and intricate that we can only do a little at a time, but it is a labor of love, like the touches the old monks used to put on their illuminated missals. Nothing can be too fine and dainty for our dear Betty, and we are counting the months until we can really claim her. Do you suppose you will be back in the States by that time? I truly hope so. In the meantime don't forget your old friends of the Wigwam days, and especially, this member of the House of Ware."



Chapter VII

A Desert Of Waiting


It was so still on the porch where Mary and her mother sat sewing that warm May afternoon that they could distinctly hear the Moredock phonograph, playing some new records over and over. One of them was a quick-step that the military band had often played at Fort Sam Houston, and as Mary listened an intolerable longing for stir and excitement took possession of her. She wanted to be back in the midst of people and constantly changing scenes. She felt that she could not endure the deadly monotony of Lone-Rock another day.

Usually she had much to say as they sat and sewed through the long still afternoons, but to-day the music claimed her attention. It was very pleasing at that distance, but it was disquieting in its effect. She dropped her embroidery into her lap and sat looking out at the narrow grass-grown road winding past the house and over the hill, and ending in a narrow mountain path beyond.

"Mamma," she asked suddenly, in one of the pauses of the music, "were any of our ancestors tramps or gypsies? Seems to me they must have been, or I wouldn't feel the 'Call of the Road' so strongly. Don't you feel it? As if it beckons and you must break loose and follow, to find what's waiting for you around the next turn?"

Mrs. Ware shook her head. "No," she said slowly. "I'm like the old Israelites. When they came to Elim, with its wells and palm trees, they were glad to camp there indefinitely. This is my Elim."

"I wonder, now," mused Mary, "if they really were satisfied. I don't mean to be irreverent, but only last night I read that verse, 'Whether it were two days or a month or a year that the cloud tarried upon the tabernacle, the Children of Israel abode in their tents and journeyed not.' And I thought that among so many, there must have been a lot of them who were impatient to get on to their promised land; who fretted and fumed when day after day the pillar of cloud never lifted to lead them on. I'd have been like that. If we could only know how long we have to stay in a place it would make it lots easier. Now, if I had known last fall that eight months would go by and find me still here in Lone-Rock, I'd have made up my mind to the inevitable and settled down comfortably. It's the dreadful uncertainty that is so hard to bear."

Just then the phonograph started up one of its old records. "I want what I want when I want it!" They both looked up and laughed at each other.

"That is the cry of the ages," said Mrs. Ware merrily. "I've no doubt that even the tribes of Israel had some version of that same song, and wailed it often on the march. But their very impatience showed that they were not fit to go on towards their conquest of Canaan."

"Then you think that I am not fitted yet to take possession of my Canaan?" Mary asked quickly.

"I don't know, dear," was the hesitating answer, "but I've come to believe that every one who reaches the best that life holds for him reaches it through some Desert of Waiting. You remember that legend of old Camelback Mountain, don't you?"

Mary nodded, and Mrs. Ware quoted softly, "No one fills his crystal vase till he has been pricked by the world's disappointments and bowed by its tasks. . . . Oh, thou vendor of salt, is not any waiting worth the while, if in the end it give thee wares with which to gain a royal entrance?"

Mary waited a moment, then with an impatient shrug of her shoulders picked up her embroidery hoops again. In her present mood it irritated her to be told that waiting was good for her. The legend itself irritated her. She wondered how any one could find any comfort in it, least of all her mother, whose life had been so largely a desert of hard work and hard times.

Presently, as if in answer to her thought, Mrs. Ware looked up, saying, "You spoke just now of the call of the road. It is strange how strongly I've felt it all afternoon, only my call takes me backward. I've been living over little scenes that I haven't thought of before in years; hearing little things your father said when Joyce and Jack were babies; seeing the neighbors back in Plainsville. Maybe that is one reason I am not impatient to push on any farther into the future. I have such a beautiful Memory Road to travel back over. I'd rather sit and recall the turns in that than wonder what lies on ahead."

"For instance," suggested Mary, and Mrs. Ware immediately began a reminiscence that Mary remembered hearing when a child. But to-day she realized that there was a difference in the telling. Her mother was not repeating it as she used to do to amuse the children who clamored for tales of Once upon a time. She was speaking as one woman to another, opening a chapter into the inmost history of her heart.

"She recognizes the fact that I'm grown up," Mary thought to herself with satisfaction, and she was conscious that her mother was taking quite as deep a pleasure in this sense of equal understanding and companionship as she.

It was nearly sundown when a slow creaking of wheels and soft thud of hoofs on the grass-grown road called their attention to a short procession of wagons and horsemen, winding along towards the house. A long pine box was in the first wagon, and several families crowded into the others.

"Oh, it's a funeral procession!" whispered Mary, pushing back a little further into the shadow of the vines, so as to be out of sight. "It must be that Mr. Locksley who was killed yesterday over at Hemlock Ridge by a falling tree. Isn't it awful?"

She gave a little shiver and her eyes filled with tears as they rested on the children in the second wagon. There had been a pitiful attempt to honor the dead by following the conventions. The woman who sat bowed over on the front seat like an image of despair, wore a black veil and cotton gloves; and black sunbonnets, evidently borrowed from grown-up neighbors, covered the flaxen hair of three little girls in pink calico dresses, who nestled against her. There was a band of rusty crape fastened around the gray cow-boy hat that the boy wore.

The pathetic little procession wound on past the house and up the hill, then was lost to sight as it passed into a grove of cedars on the right, behind which lay the lonely cemetery. Only a few times in her life had Mary come this close to death. Now the horror of it seemed to blot out all the brightness of the sweet May day, and the thought of the grief-stricken woman in the wagon cast such a shadow over her that her eyes were full of unshed tears and her hands trembled when she took up her needle again.

"It's so awful!" she exclaimed, when they had passed out of hearing. "They were all over at that dinner at Hemlock Ridge that Pink took me to last winter. I remember Mr. Locksley especially because he was so big and strong-looking, like a young giant, almost. I asked Pink who he was, because I noticed how good he was to his family, carrying the baby around on one arm and helping his wife unpack baskets with the other. Yesterday morning when he left the house he was just as well and strong as anybody in the world, Captain Doane told me. He went off laughing and joking, and stopped to call back something to his wife about the garden, and two hours later they carried him home -- like that! In just an instant the life had been crushed out of him."

Her voice broke and she swallowed hard before she could go on.

"I've always thought death wouldn't be so bad if one could die as dear Beth did, in 'Little Women.' Don't you remember how sweetly and gently she faded away, and so slowly that there was no great shock when the end came? She had time to get used to the idea of going, and to say things that would comfort them after she was gone. But to be snatched away like Mr. Locksley -- without a moment's warning -- it seems too dreadful! I don't see how God can let such cruel things happen."

"But think, little daughter," urged Mrs. Ware gently, "how much he was spared. No long illness, no racking pain, no lingering with the consciousness that he was a burden to others! There is nothing cruel in that. It's a happy way for the one who goes, dear, to go suddenly. It is the way of all others I would choose for myself."

"But think of the ones left behind!" said Mary, with a shudder. "I don't see how that poor woman can go on living after having the one she loved best in all the world, torn so suddenly and so utterly out of her life."

"But he isn't, dear!" persisted Mrs. Ware gently. "You do not think because Joyce has gone away to another land, which we have never seen, and an ocean rolls between us, that she is torn out of our lives, do you? She does not know what we are doing, and we cannot follow her through her busy, happy days over there, but we know that she is still ours, that her love flows out to us just the same, that separation cannot make her any less our own, and that she looks forward with us to the happy time when we shall once more be together. That's all that death is, Mary. Just a going away into another country, as Joyce has gone. Only the separation is harder to bear because there can be no letters to bridge the silence. I used to have the same horror of it that you do, but after your father went away I learned to look upon it as God intended we should. Not a horrible doom which must overtake every one of us, but as a beautiful mystery through which we pass as through an open gate, with glad surprise at the things that shall be made plain to us, and with a great sense of triumph."

As she spoke, the light of the sunset seemed to turn the mountain trail up which she was gazing, into a golden path which led straight up to the City of the Shining Ones, and its radiant glow was reflected in her face. Mary's eyes followed hers. Somehow she felt warmed and comforted by her mother's strong faith, but she said nothing. Only sat and watched with her, the gorgeous colors of the sunset that were transfiguring the gray old mountain.

If there were only some way of recognizing at their beginning, the days which are to be hallowed days in our lives! We know them as such after they have slipped by, and we enshrine them in our memories and go back to live them over, moment by moment. But it is always with the cry, "Oh, if I had only known! If I had only filled them fuller while I had them! If I had not left so much unasked, unsaid!"

Unconscious that this was such a time, Mary sat rocking back and forth in the silence that followed, drifting into vague day dreams, as they watched the changing colors over the western mountain tops. Then a click of the back gate-latch called them both back to speech, and Norman came around the corner of the house swinging a string of fish. He announced that Billy Downs had helped catch them and was going to stay to supper to help eat them.

Billy usually stayed to supper three or four times a week, and on the nights when he was not there Norman was at his house. The two boys were inseparable, and a pleasant intimacy had grown up between the families. That night as usual, he went home at nine o'clock, but came running back almost immediately, bareheaded and breathless. His mother had been taken suddenly ill. The only doctor in the place had been called to a case on the other side of the mountain, and nobody knew when he would be home. His father and Sara were nearly scared stiff, they were so frightened, and wouldn't Mrs. Ware please come and tell them what to do?

It was the beginning of a long siege, for no nurses were to be had in the little settlement, and there were only the neighbors to turn to in times of stress and trouble. What true neighborliness is, in the fullest meaning of the word, can be known only in pioneer places like this. Hands already full of burdens stretched out to help lighten theirs, and for awhile one common interest and anxiety made the families of Lone-Rock as one.

But most of the women who came to offer their services had little children at home, or helpless old people who could not be left long alone, or more work than one pair of hands could manage. The only two of experience, not thus burdened, were Mrs. Ware and old Aunt Sally Doane. So they took turns sitting up at nights, and did all they could on alternate days to relieve poor frightened Sara and her anxious father.

Mary, not experienced enough to be left in charge in the sick room, did double duty at home. She did the baking for both families, sometimes three; for many a time old Aunt Sally, too worn out to cook, went home to find a basket full of good things spread out for her and the Captain on the pantry shelves. The Downs family mending went into Mary's basket, and Billy's darns and patches alone were no small matter. Several times a week she slipped over to sweep and dust and do many necessary things that Sara had neither time nor strength to do.

Remembering how valiantly the neighbors had served them during Jack's long illness, Mary gladly did her part, and a very large one towards relieving the stricken household. When she saw Mr. Downs' anxious face relax, at some evidence of her thoughtfulness, and heard Sara's tearful thanks poured out in a broken voice, she was glad that fate had kept her in Lone-Rock to play the good angel in this emergency. If she had not been at home, Mrs. Ware could not have been free to take charge of the invalid, and it was her skilful nursing, so the doctor said, which would pull her through the crisis if anything could.

After the first week, Mrs. Ware came home only in the afternoon each day, to sleep. While she was doing that, Mary tiptoed softly around the house till her tasks were done, careful not to disturb the rest that was so precious and so necessary. Then she took her mending basket out on the front porch, where she could meet any chance comers before they could knock, or could chase away the insistent roosters who tantalizingly chose that corner of the yard to come to when they felt impelled to crow.

It was hard to sit there alone through the long still afternoons while her mother slept. There were a hundred things she wanted to talk about, so many questions she wanted to ask, so many little matters on which she needed advice. There was not even the Moredock phonograph to listen to now, for it had not been wound up since the beginning of Mrs. Downs' illness, lest its playing disturb her. All she could do was to sit and stitch as patiently as she could, till she heard the bedroom door open, and then fly to make her mother a cup of tea and have a tempting little supper ready for her when she should come out, dressed and ready to go back to another exhausting vigil.

The few minutes while Mrs. Ware sat enjoying the dainty meal were the best in the day for Mary, for she poured out her pent-up questions and speeches, reported all that had gone on since the last time she sat there, and crowded into that brief space as much of Jack's sayings and Norman's doings as she could possibly remember.

"Oh, it'll be so good to have you home again to stay!" she would say every time when Mrs. Ware rose to start back, ending her good-bye embrace with a tight squeeze. "I miss you so I can hardly stand it. The house is so still when you are gone, that if a fly happens to get in its buzz sounds like a roar. You can't imagine how deathly still it is."

"Oh, yes, I can!" laughed Mrs. Ware. "I've been left alone myself. I don't need to imagine. I've experienced it."

Mary hung over the gate to which she had followed her mother, and looked after her down the road, thinking, "That never occurred to me before. Of course, if I miss her as I do, quiet as she is, she would miss a rattletybang person like me twice as much. I had never thought of her getting lonely, but she'd be bound to if I went away. How'd I feel if she'd gone with Joyce and I had to stay here day after day alone, and know that I'd never have her again except on flying visits, and that she was wrapped up in all sorts of interests that I could never have a part in?"

All that evening she thought about it, and all next morning; and when Mrs. Ware came home in the afternoon she met her with a serious question:

"Mamma, when I'm away from home and you're here by yourself, do you miss me as much as I do you?"

"Oh, a thousand times more!" was the quick answer.

"Then I've made up my mind. Promised Land or no Promised Land, I'm not going away to stay until Jack brings Betty here to take my place."

Taken by surprise, the look which illuminated Mrs. Ware's face for a moment showed more plainly than she had intended Mary to know, how much it had cost her to consent to her going away. After that if there were times when Mary was tempted to pity herself and look upon that decision as a great sacrifice, one thought of her mother's happy face and the glad little cry that had welcomed her announcement, immediately dispelled any martyr-like feeling.

"Such good news rests me more than any amount of sleep can do," declared Mrs. Ware, as she slipped into her kimono and drew down the window shades. "You don't know how the dread of having to give you up has hung over me. Every time that you've gone to the post-office since last October I've been afraid to see you come home -- afraid that you were bringing some summons that would take you away."

"Why, mamma!" cried Mary, surprised to see that there were tears in her eyes, "I didn't dream that you felt that way about it. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew that you'd stay if I asked it, and I couldn't block the road in which you were sure you would find your highest good, just for my own selfish pleasure. Oh, you don't know," she added, with a wistfulness which brought a choke to Mary's throat, "what a comfort you've been to me, ever since the day you came back from school, after Jack's accident. You've always been a comfort -- but since that time it's been in a different way. I've leaned on you so!"

Deeply touched past all words, Mary's only answer was a kiss and an impulsive hug, before she turned away to hide her happy tears. All afternoon as she sat and sewed, the words sang themselves over and over in her heart: "You've always been a comfort," and she began planning many things to keep them true. She would do something to stir up a social spirit among her mother's small circle of friends; start a club, perhaps, have readings and teas and old-fashioned quilting bees; even a masquerade party now and then. Anything to give an air of gaiety to the colorless monotony of the workaday life of Lone-Rock. So with her energies turned into a new channel she at once set to work vigorously mapping out a campaign to be put into effect as soon as Mrs. Downs should be once more on her feet.

It was a happy day when Mrs. Ware came home saying that her services were no longer needed. The family could manage without her, now that a sister had come up from Phoenix to help the invalid through her convalescence.

"It is high time! You are worn out!" said Jack, scanning her face anxiously.

It was pale and drawn, and after a quick scrutiny he rose and followed her into the next room, saying in a low tone, "Mother, I believe you've been having another one of those attacks. Have you?"

"Just a slight one, last night," she confessed. "But it was soon over."

He closed the door behind him, but low as the question had been, Mary's quick ears caught both it and the answer, and she pounced upon him the moment he reappeared, demanding to know what they were talking about. He explained in an undertone, although he had again closed the door behind him when he came back to the dining-room.

"That winter you were at Warwick Hall she had several queer spells with her heart. The pain was dreadful for awhile, but the doctor soon relieved it, and she made me promise not to tell you girls. She said she had been over-exerting herself. That was all. It was that time the Fitchs' house caught fire while they were away from home. She saw it first and ran to give the alarm and help save things, and after it was all over she had a collapse. I made her promise just now that she'd go to bed and stay there till she is thoroughly rested. She's seen Doctor Bates. He gave her the same remedies she had before, and she insists she's entirely over it now."

With a vague fear clutching at her, Mary started towards her mother's room, but Jack stopped her. "You mustn't go in there looking like a scared rabbit. It will do her more harm than good to let her know that you've found out about it. And really, I don't think there's any cause for alarm, now that the attack is safely over. She responds so quickly to the remedies that she'll soon be all right again. But she must take things easy for awhile."

All the rest of that day Mary was troubled and uneasy, notwithstanding the fact that her mother dressed and came out to the supper-table, seemingly as well as usual. Twice in the night Mary wakened with a frightened start, thinking some one had called her, and, raising herself on her elbow, lay listening for some sound from the next room. Once she stepped out of bed and stole noiselessly to the door to look in at her. The late moon, streaming across the floor, showed Mrs. Ware peacefully sleeping, and Mary crept back, relieved and thankful.



Chapter VIII

A Great Sorrow


Norman cut his foot the following day, which was Saturday; not seriously, yet deep enough to need a couple of stitches taken in it, and to necessitate the wearing of a bandage instead of a shoe for awhile. Sunday morning, by the aid of a broom stick, he hopped out to the hammock in the shady side yard, and proceeded to enjoy to the fullest his disabled condition. For some reason there was no service in the little school-house which usually took the place of a chapel on the Sabbath, and he openly rejoiced that his family would be free to minister to his comfort and entertainment all day long.

The hammock hung so near the side window of the kitchen that he could look in and see Mary and his mother washing up the breakfast china in their deft, dainty way. Jack was doing the morning chores usually allotted to his younger brother. It was with a sense of luxurious ease that Norman lolled in the hammock, watching Jack bring in wood and water, carry out ashes and sweep the porch. In his rôle of invalid he felt privileged to ask to be waited upon at intervals, also to demand his favorite dessert for dinner. He did this through the kitchen window, taking part in the conversation which went on as a brisk accompaniment to the quick movements of busy hands.

It was a perfect June day, the kind that makes one feel that with a sky so fair and an earth so sweet life is too full to ask anything more of heaven. Time and again in the pauses that fell between their remarks, Mary's voice jubilantly broke out in the refrain of an old hymn that they all loved: "Happy day, oh, happy day!" And when Jack's deep bass out on the porch and Mrs. Ware's sweet alto in the pantry took up the words to the accompaniment of swishing broom and clattering cups, Norman hummed them too, like a big, contented bumblebee in a field of clover.

Years afterward Mary used to look back to that day and fondly re-live every hour of it. Somehow every little incident stood out so vividly that she could recall even the feeling of unusual well-being and contentment which seemed to imbue them all.

They had spread the table out under the trees at Norman's insistence, and she had only to close her eyes to recall how each one looked as they gathered around it. She could remember even the pearl gray tie that Jack wore, and the way Norman's hair curled in little rings around his forehead. And she could see her mother's quick smile of appreciation when Jack slipped a cushion into her chair, and her affectionate glance when Norman reached out and fingered a fold of her white dress. Both the boys liked to see her in white, and never failed to comment on it admiringly when she put it on to please them.

All afternoon they stayed out-doors, part of the time reading aloud in turn; and that evening in the afterglow, when the western mountain tops were turning from gold to rose and pearl and purple, they sat out on the front porch watching the glory fade, and ending the day with Jack's favorite song, "Pilgrims of the Night."

And the reason that this day stood out so vividly from all the others in her life was because it was the last day that they had their mother with them. That night the old pain came again, just for an instant, but long enough to stop the beating of the brave heart which would never feel its clutch again.

There are some pages in every one's life better skipped than read. What those next few hours brought to Mary and the boys can never be told. She found herself in her own room, after awhile, lying across the foot of her bed and trying to thrust away from her the awful truth that was gradually forcing itself upon her consciousness. Dazed and bewildered, like one who has just had a heavy blow on the head, she could not adjust herself to the new conditions. She could not imagine an existence in which her mother had no part. She wondered dully how it would be possible to go on living without her. Aunt Sally Doane came in presently and took her in her arms and said the comforting things people usually say at such times, and Mary submitted dumbly, as if it were a part of a bewildering dream. At times she was sure that she must wake up presently and find that she had been in the grip of a dreadful nightmare. It was that certainty which helped her through the next few hours.

It helped her to a strange calmness when Jack came in to ask her about the trip to Plainsville. She was the one to decide that he must go alone to the quiet little God's Acre at their old home, because Norman's foot would not allow him to travel, and she could not leave him behind with just the neighbors at such a time. It was the sound of Norman's sobbing in the next room which made her decide this, and yet at the same time she was thinking, "This is one of the most vivid dreams I ever had in my whole life, and the most horrible."

Hours after, when all the neighbors had gone but Aunt Sally and the old Captain, who stayed to keep faithful vigil, Mary stole out of her room to look at the clock. It seemed as if the night would never end. A dim light burning in the living-room showed that everything there was unchanged, while the old clock ticked along with its accustomed clatter of "All right! All right!" Surely, with the daylight everything would be all right, and would awaken to the usual round of life. Anything else was unbelievable, unthinkable!

On the way back to her room Mary's glance fell on her mother's sewing basket in its accustomed corner. A long strip of exquisitely wrought embroidery lay folded on top. It was the piece which she had finished for Betty on the day that Mrs. Downs was taken ill, that afternoon when they sat and watched the little procession file over the hill to the grove of cedars. How plainly Mary could recall the scene. How clearly she could hear her mother saying, "It is a happy way for the one who goes, dear, to go suddenly. It is the way of all others I would choose for myself."

And then with a force that made her heart give a great jump and go on throbbing wildly, Mary realized that she was not dreaming, that her mother was really gone; that this bit of embroidery with the needle sticking just where she had left it after the final stitch, was the last that the patient fingers would ever do. Dear tired fingers, that through so many years had wrought unselfishly for her children; so unfailing in their gentleness, in their power to comfort!

With a rush of tears that blinded her so that she could no longer see the beautiful handiwork which seemed such a symbol of her mother's finished life, Mary rushed back to her room to throw herself across the bed again, and sob herself into a state of exhaustion. Then after a long time, sleep came mercifully to her relief.

When she awakened, the early light of a June dawn was stealing into the room, and the birds were singing jubilantly. She lay there a moment, wondering why she was so stiff and uncomfortable. Then she was aware that she was still dressed, and memory came back in a rush, with a pain so overwhelming that she felt utterly powerless to get up and face the day which lay ahead of her, and all the stretch of dreary existence beyond it.

An irresistible impulse seemed drawing her towards her mother's room. Presently she opened the door a little way and stood looking in. Then step by step she advanced into the room. It looked just as it had the day before in its spotless Sabbath orderliness, except that the rosebuds in the glass vase on the table had opened into full bloom in the night. The white dress that Mrs. Ware had worn the day before lay across a chair, the sleeves still round and creased with the imprint of the arms that had slipped out of them.

As Mary stood by the bed, looking down on the still form with the smile of ineffable peace on its sweet face, her first thought was that she had never seen such gentle sleep; and then the knowledge slowly dawned on her, overwhelmingly, with a great feeling of awe that stilled her into utter calm, that that was not her mother lying there; only the familiar and beloved garment that had clothed her. She had slipped out of it as her body had slipped out of the white dress, lying there across the chair. A holy thing it was, to be sure, hallowed by the beautiful spirit which had tabernacled in it so long, and bearing her mother's imprint in every part, as the white gown still held the imprint of the form that had worn it; but no more than that.

Somehow there was a deep strange comfort in the knowledge, even while the mystery of it baffled her. And her mother's words came back to her as forcibly as if she were hearing them for the first time:

"She is still ours. Her love flows out to us just the same. The separation cannot make her any less our own! . . . That's all that death is, Mary, just a going away into another country, as Joyce has done. . . . A beautiful mystery through which we pass as through an open gate, with glad surprise at the things that shall be made plain to us, and with a great sense of triumph!"

Now, as Mary faced this mystery, a belief began to grow up in her heart, so soothing, so comforting, that she felt it was surely heaven-sent. Somewhere in God's universe, this sunny June morning, her mother was alive and well. She was loving them all just as tenderly and deeply as she had loved them yesterday, when they all worked together, singing "Happy Day." And just as it would have grieved her then to have seen them mourning over any sorrow, so it would grieve her now to know that they were heart-broken over her going away.

Mary picked up the white dress with reverent fingers and laid her cheek against its soft folds a moment before she hung it away in the closet. Then she turned again to that other garment which had clothed her mother so long; the form which was so like her, and yet so mysteriously different, now that her warm, living personality no longer filled it.

"Dear," she whispered, her eyes brimming over, "you were too unselfish to let me see your loneliness when I wanted to go away to my Happy Valley; now that you have gone to a happier one to be with papa, I mustn't think of my part of it, only of yours."

There was untold comfort in that thought. She clung to it all through the hours that followed, through the simple service, and through Jack's going away, and she brought it out to comfort Norman when the two were left alone together.

"She's just away," she repeated, trying to console him with the belief which was beginning to bring a peace that passed her understanding. Every room in the house seemed to bear the imprint of the beloved presence, just as they had done during those weeks when she waited every day for her mother to come home from the Downs.

"We must think of her absence in that way," she repeated, "as if it is only till nightfall. We can bear almost anything that long, if we take it only one day at a time. It's when we get to piling up all the days ahead of us and thinking of the years that we'll have to do without her that it seems so unbearable. And you know, Norman, if she were here she'd say by all means for you to go with Billy when he comes along with the buggy. She'd want you to spend all this afternoon in the bright out of doors instead of grieving here at home."

"But what about leaving you here alone?" asked Norman, with a new consideration for her which touched her deeply.

"Oh, I shall be busy every minute of the time until you get back. I must write to Joyce and Holland. They'll want to know every little thing. I feel so sorry for them, so far away -- "

"They'll never get done being thankful now, that they came home last Christmas," said Norman in the pause that followed her unfinished sentence.

"And I'll never get done being thankful that I didn't go away," rejoined Mary. "There comes Billy now. You can hop out and show him what to do."

It had been arranged that Billy Downs should stay with them during the few days of Jack's absence, to keep them company and to do Norman's chores, which his disabled foot prevented him doing himself. Soon after dinner the two boys started off in the old rattle-trap of a buggy to drive along the shady mountain roads all afternoon in the sweet June weather, and Mary went to her letter-writing. It was a hard task, and she was thankful that she was alone, for time and again in telling of that last happy day together she pushed the paper aside to lay her head on the table and sob out, not only her own grief, but her sympathy for Holland and Joyce so far away among strangers at this heart-breaking time. She had one thing to console her which they had not, and which she treasured as her dearest memory: her mother's softly spoken commendation, "You've always been a comfort. I've leaned on you so."

By the time the boys came back she had regained her usual composure, for she spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden, weeding borders and doing some necessary transplanting, and finding "the soft mute comfort of green things growing," which gardens always hold. Next day in folding away some of her mother's things she came across a yellowed envelope which contained something of more permanent consolation than even her garden had given. It was a copy of Kemble's beautiful poem, Absence, traced in her mother's fine clear handwriting. The ink was faded and the margin bore the date of her father's death. Several of the lines were underscored, and Mary, reading these in the light of her own experience, suddenly found the key to the great courage and serenity of soul with which her mother had faced the desolation of her early widowhood.

"What shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted ere I see thy face?

.   .   .   .   .   .

"I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee In worthy deeds, each moment that is told While thou, beloved one! art far from me.

.   .   .   .   .   .

"I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task time . . .

.   .   .   .   .   .

"So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine."

Up till this moment there had been one element in Mary's grief which she had not recognized plainly enough to name. That was a sort of pity for the incompleteness of her mother's life; the bareness of it. The work-worn hands folded in their last rest seemed infinitely pathetic to her, and some of her hardest crying spells had been when she thought how little they had grasped of the good things of life, and how they had been taken away before she had a chance to fill them herself as she had so long dreamed of doing. But now, in the light of these underscored lines, the worn hands no longer looked pathetic. They seemed rather to have been folded with a glad sense of triumph that they had made such "a noble task time" out of the dreary blank.

"And I shall do the same," whispered Mary resolutely, pressing her lips together in a tight line, as she slipped the paper back into its yellowed envelope and laid it aside to show it to Jack on his return.

So many household duties filled her time, that it was over a week before she resumed her daily trips to the post-office. The first time she went the old Captain's first question was:

"Of course you'll stay right on here in Lone-Rock."

"Oh, yes," was the quick answer. "As long as the boys need me." Then with a wan little smile, "I've begun to think it was never intended that I should reach my Promised Land, Captain Doane."

"Does look like it," assented the Captain gravely. "About everything there is has stepped in to stop you. Well, your staying here is surely Lone-Rock's gain."

"I shall certainly try to make it so," was Mary's answer. "Next week I'm going to start a cooking class for the little Mexican girls. Mamma and I had been talking it over for several weeks, and she was so interested in the plan that I couldn't bear not to carry it out now, for it was her idea. We found ten that will be glad to learn. I'm to have the class in our kitchen, and Mr. Moredock has promised to donate the materials for the first half-term and Mr. Downs for the second. I'm going down to the store now to order the first lot."

"Make Pink donate something, too," suggested the Captain.

"Oh, he has, already. He's given a keg of nails and some tools to Norman and Billy, so that they can teach practical carpentry to some of the Mexican boys by showing them how to patch up their leaky shanties. Norman is a first-class carpenter for his age. It was Pink's suggestion that they should do that. I'm so grateful to him for getting Norman interested in something of the sort. It seemed as if he could never get over the dreadful shock -- and -- everything."

"I know," nodded the Captain, understandingly. "And there's nothing like using your hands for other people to lift the load off your own heart."

The lessons in cooking and carpentry were only a few of the things that went to the making of "a noble task time" out of the little mother's absence. They kept her always in their lives by loving mention of her name, quoting her daily, recalling this preference and that wish, and settling everything by the question "would mamma want us to do it?" And gradually time brought its slow healing, as God has mercifully provided it shall, to all wounds, no matter how deep, and the daily round of living went on.



Part II



The Torch


Make me to be a torch for feet that grope Down Truth's dim trail; to bear for wistful eyes Comfort of light; to bid great beacons blaze, And kindle altar fires of sacrifice. Let me set souls aflame with quenchless zeal For high endeavors, causes true and high. So would I live to quicken and inspire, So would I, thus consumed, burn out and die.

Albion Fellows Bacon.



Part II



Chapter I

Betty's Wedding


Spring had come to Lloydsboro Valley earlier than usual. Red-bud trees glowed everywhere, and wild plum and dogwood and white lilac were all in bridal array. At The Locusts the giant trees which arched over the long avenue had not yet hung out their fragrant pennons of bloom, but old Colonel Lloyd, sauntering down towards the gate, was clad in a suit of fresh white duck. Usually he waited until the blossoming of the locusts gave the signal for donning such attire.

As he neared the gate he quickened his pace, for he had caught sight of a slim girlish figure hurrying along the path from Oaklea, and a graceful little hand waved him a greeting. It was Lloyd, coming home for the daily visit which she had never failed to make since her wedding day, six months before.

"Good mawning, grandfathah deah," she called gaily from a distance. Then added as she joined him and lifted her face for the customary kiss, "How comes it that you are all diked up in yoah white clothes so early in the season? Don't you know that we haven't had blackberry wintah yet, and it's bound to turn cold again when they bloom? Or have you heard so much about the wedding that you just naturally put on white?"

The old Colonel playfully pinched her cheek, and linking his arm in hers, turned to go back toward the house with her.

"Well, Mrs. Rob Moore, if you must know, my actions are guided by the thermometer and not by the almanac, and I haven't heard much about this wedding, except that a young Lochinvar has come out of the West to carry away our little Betty before we are ready to give her up. It's too much to lose you both within half a year of each other."

"How utterly you have lost me!" teased Lloyd. "You see me mawning, noon and night. When I'm not at The Locusts you're at Oaklea, or at the othah end of the telephone wiah. Heah I am, come to spend the whole live-long day with you, and you say you have lost me. Own up, now. Honest! I'm yoah same little girl that I've always been. I haven't changed one bit."

"I know," he admitted, smiling down affectionately into the glowing face lifted to his. "It might have been worse. But it will be losing Betty in reality when she goes. Arizona is a far country. I wish that young jackanapes had never seen her. There are plenty of fine fellows back here in Kentucky she might have had, and then we'd have had her where we could see her once in a while. How long has it been since she came to The Locusts to live?"

"Twelve yeahs, grandfathah," said Lloyd, after a pause, in which she counted backward. "She's been just like a real sistah to me, and I feel worse than you do about giving her up. Lone-Rock does have a dreadfully dismal fo'saken sawt of sound. But I can ovahlook that for Jack Ware's sake. He's such a splendid fellow."

The Colonel made no answer to that, for he fully agreed with her, but changing the subject said in an aggrieved tone, "I suppose that even the few days that are left to us will be so taken up with folderols and preparations that we'll scarcely see her. It was that way when Eugenia had her wedding here; caterers and florists turning the house upside down. And it was the same way with yours. So many people in the house always going and coming, so many things to be planned and discussed and decided, that I scarcely got a word in edgeways with you for a whole week before."

"It will not be that way this time," Lloyd answered. "It has been less than a yeah since Jack's mothah died, so Betty wouldn't have anything but a very quiet affair on that account. It is to be so simple and so different from any wedding that you've evah seen that you'll nevah know it's going to take place till it is all ovah. There's to be no flurry or worry about anything. Mothah wanted to make a grand occasion of it, but Betty wouldn't let her. There'll not be moah than half a dozen guests."

They had reached the house by this time, and on again being assured that Lloyd intended to remain all day, the Colonel left her and turned back to take his usual morning walk, which her coming had interrupted. The telephone bell rang just as she entered the door, so Lloyd ran up-stairs to her own room, knowing that her mother would be busy for a few minutes with giving the daily household orders. Lloyd's own ordering had been done nearly an hour, for Rob's business necessitated an early breakfast to enable him to catch the eight o'clock car into the city. He did not return until six, so she could stay away from home any day she chose, with a clear conscience. She took her housekeeping seriously, however, and had turned out to be a most capable and thorough-going little housekeeper, but with experienced servants who had taken charge of Oaklea for years her cares were not heavy.

Her room had been kept for her, just as she had used it, all through her girlhood, and Mom Beck put fresh flowers in it every day. Lloyd always darted in for a quick look around, even when she came for only a short while. There was a glass bowl of pink hyacinths on her desk this morning, and she sat down to make a list of several things which she wanted to suggest for the coming event. Presently there was a rustle of stiffly starched skirts in the hall, and she looked up to see Mom Beck in the doorway. The old black face was beaming as she called: "How's my honey chile this mawnin'?" Then without waiting for an answer, she added, "Miss Betty said to tell you she's up in the attic rummagin', and wants you to come up right away."

Passing on down the hall, Lloyd paused beside her mother, who sat with telephone receiver to her ear, long enough to seize her in an overwhelming embrace that muffled the conversation for an instant, then hurried up the attic stairs to find her old playmate. The little dormer windows were all thrown open, and the morning sun streamed in across the motley collection of chests, old furniture and the attic treasures of several generations.

On a camp-stool in front of a little old leather trunk, sat Betty. It was the same shabby trunk that had held all her earthly possessions when she left the Cuckoo's Nest years before, and she was packing it with some of those same keepsakes to take with her on her wedding journey to her new home in the far West. A bright bandanna was knotted into a cap to cover her curly brown hair, and a long gingham apron protected her morning dress from the attic dust.

Somehow, as she sat over the old trunk, carefully folding away the relics of her childhood, she looked so like the little Betty who had fared forth alone from the Cuckoo's Nest to the long ago house-party at The Locusts, that Lloyd exclaimed aloud over the resemblance. The three years of teaching at Warwick Hall had given her a certain grown-up sort of dignity, added a sweet seriousness to the always sweet face; but the wistful brown eyes and sensitive little mouth wore the same trustfulness of expression that they had worn for the mirror in the little room up under the eaves at her Cousin Hetty's.

As Lloyd's bright head appeared at the top of the stairs, Betty glanced up, calling gaily, "You are just in time, Lloyd, to see the last of these things. Don't they take you back? Do you remember the first time you ever saw this?"

She dangled a little white sunbonnet by the string, and Lloyd, picking her way between boxes and barrels, reached out her hand for it, then dropped to a seat on the rug which had been spread out to receive the contents of the trunk.

"Indeed I do remembah it," she exclaimed. "You had it on the first time I evah saw you -- travelled in it all the way to Louisville. I was so scandalized to see you arrive in a sunbonnet, that I could scarcely keep from letting you know it."

"And this," continued Betty, holding up an old-fashioned basket of brown willow with two handles and a lid with double flaps, "this was my travelling bag. My lunch was in this, and my pass, and five nickels, and the handkerchief that Davy gave me, with Red Ridinghood and the wolf printed in each corner. Here's that self-same handkerchief!" she cried, lifting the lid to peep in.

Scattered all around on the rug at her feet were many articles to be packed in the trunk, but for the next half-hour the work went slowly. Each thing that Lloyd picked up to hand to her suggested so many reminiscences to them both that they made little progress. One was a newspaper, bearing the date of Lloyd's first house-party. It was beginning to turn yellow, and Lloyd scanned the columns, wondering why Betty had saved it. Then she came to a poem marked with a blue pencil, and cried:

"Oh, Betty! Heah's yoah first published poem! The one called 'Night.' How wondahful we all thought it was that you should have something printed in a real papah, when you were only twelve. Don't you remembah, you had the measles when we carried it in to show it to you? But yoah eyes were so bad you couldn't see, and it was so pitiful. You asked to feel it. I had to guide yoah poah little groping fingah down the page and put it on the spot. It almost broke my heart!"

"I know," answered Betty. "I thought that I was going to be blind always, and that my long, long night had begun. And it seemed queer that the only thing I had ever published should be called Night. That was a terrible experience."

She laid the paper carefully back into the portfolio from which it had slipped, and picked up the next thing, a box of typewritten manuscript.

"My ill-starred novel -- my story of Aberdeen Hall," she laughed. "Don't you remember the night at the Lindsey cabin when I read it aloud, and each one of you girls made such a solemn ceremony of wrapping it up? Gay furnished the box, Lucy the paper, and Kitty tied it with a fresh pink ribbon slipped out of her nightgown. And you put on the big red sealing wax seals."

"With the handle of the old silvah ladle that had the Harcourt family crest on it," interrupted Lloyd eagerly. "I can see it now, a daggah thrust through a crown, and the motto, 'I strive till I ovahcome!'"

"That was an appropriate motto," laughed Betty. "It nearly killed me when the novel came back from the publisher. I'd have burned it on the spot if it hadn't been for your grandfather. But what he said encouraged me to put that motto into practice. I'm glad now that I didn't burn the manuscript, for I've lived to see its many faults, and to be thankful that the publishers didn't accept it. I'd be heartily ashamed now to claim it as mine before a critical public. But it has much that is good in it, and I'll do it over some day and send it out as it ought to be. In the meantime -- "

She interrupted herself with a glad little cry. "Oh, I didn't tell you. I've been so joyful thinking that Jack is coming to-night, that I forgot I hadn't told you my good news. You know I've been working all winter on a book of school-girl experiences. Well, I sent it to the publishers several weeks ago, and I've just had their answer. They are so pleased with it that they want me to go on and make a series of them. The letter was lovely. I'll show it to you when we go down-stairs. It makes me feel as if fame and fortune might be just around the corner."

"Oh, Betty!" was the breathlessly joyful answer. "I'm so glad! I'm so glad! I've always told you you'd do it some day. It's a pity -- " She stopped herself, then began again. "I was about to say that it's a pity you're going to be married, because you may be so taken up with yoah housekeeping and home-making that you'll nevah have time for yoah writing. But, on second thought, I can't say it. I know from experience that having Rob and a home like mine are bettah than all the books that anybody could write."

"Jack will never be a hindrance to authorship," asserted Betty positively. "He's already been the greatest help. He's so proud of everything I write, and really so helpful in his criticisms that he is a constant inspiration."

At this mention of him she reached forward and began to scrabble things hastily into the trunk.

"Here I sit, dawdling along with this packing as if the morning were not fairly flying by, and he'll be here on the five o'clock train. There's so much to do I don't know what to touch first."

Thus inspired to swift action, Lloyd began to help vigorously, and the pile of relics were soon out of sight under the travel-worn old lid. Souvenirs of their boarding-school days at Lloydsboro Seminary, of Christmas vacations, of happy friendships at Warwick Hall, went in in a hurry. Her old tennis racquet, a pennant that Rob had sent her from college, a kodak album of Keith's that they had filled together one happy summer, Malcolm's riding whip, all in at last, locked in and strapped down, ready for their journey to their new home.

Down-stairs there was other packing to do, but Mrs. Sherman was attending to that with the assistance of Mom Beck and Alec. All the stores of household linen, which was her gift to her beloved god-daughter, from whom she was parting so reluctantly, were carefully folded away. The chest of silver from Papa Jack, all the collection of bric-a-brac and fancy work sent in by many friends in the Valley, Lloyd's gift, a Persian rug, and the old Colonel's, a large box of carefully selected books, had already been shipped to Lone-Rock, to transform the plain old living-room into a thing of beauty. The etching which the Walton girls sent would help largely in that transforming process, also the beautiful painting of beech trees which Mrs. Walton gave, knowing that Betty loved the stately old trees as dearly as did she herself.

It was Betty's great regret that The Beeches was closed at the time and the family all away, for she longed to have these especial friends with her on her happy day. Elise was still in school at Warwick Hall, Mrs. Walton visiting Allison in her beautiful Washington home, and Kitty had gone to San Antonio for another visit with Gay Melville at the post. The wedding was to be so very quiet and simple that she could not ask any of them to come so far to be present, but she wished for them all over and over.

Eugenia would have come had it not been that it was too far to bring little Patricia for such a short visit, and she was not willing to leave her behind. She wrote a long letter, recalling her own beautiful wedding, at which Betty had been a bridesmaid, and added, "If you're only half as happy as I am, Betty, dear, you'll never regret for an instant giving up the grand career we all prophesied for you. But in order to remind you that it is still possible for you 'to be famous though married,' Stuart and I are sending you the most efficient typewriter we can find in the shops. It has already gone on to await you in Lone-Rock."

Ever since the arrival of the first gift, a little silver vase from Miss Allison McIntyre, which would always suggest the donor's love of flowers and her garden which she shared lavishly with the whole Valley, Betty had been in a beatific state of mind over the loving favor showed her by her friends. Her pleasure reached high tide, however, when the last one arrived, a box marked from Warwick Hall. It was from Madam Chartley. The box was so big that they made all sorts of wild guesses as to its contents. Layer after layer of paper and excelsior were lifted out, and all they could find was more wrappings. At last, from the very centre, Alec lifted out a fragile cup and saucer, which Betty recognized with a cry of astonishment and delight.

"One of the ancestral teacups! I didn't suppose Madam would part with one of them for anybody!"

She turned the bit of delicate china so that Mrs. Sherman could see the crest, and the motto, "I keep tryste." The note folded inside brought happy tears to her eyes, for it said that she was the only one to whom one of these treasured heirlooms had been given. Madam felt deeply that a spiritual kinship existed between her old ancestor Edryn and the little friend who had kept tryst so faithfully in all things.

Jack came at five o'clock. He was to be the guest of Oaklea, but most of his time was spent at The Locusts. That night, when moonlight and springtime filled the valley with ethereal whiteness and sweetness, he and Betty sat out on the porch. Three generations of Romance made enchanted ground of the whole place. In the library an older Jack and Elizabeth sat recalling the night like this when they had entered their Arcady. Outside, under the arching locusts, up and down, up and down, paced the old Colonel in the moonlight. But not alone; for every lilac-laden breeze that stirred the branches whispered softly, "Amanthis! Amanthis!"

Once Jack looked at Betty, sitting beside him in the broad shaft of moonlight, its glory streaming across her white dress and fair face and said, "It's like that song, 'Oh, fair and sweet and holy,' out here. Why couldn't we have the wedding on the porch, where I first saw you, instead of in the house? Right here in this moonlight that makes you look like a snowdrop."

"Would you really like to have it out here?" asked Betty, pleased by the idea herself and pleased because he suggested it. "It would be a very simple matter to have it so, and there'll be nobody critical enough among our few guests to call us sentimental if we do."

So it came about that the wedding next night was the simplest and most beautiful that any one there had ever witnessed. Besides the two families, Miss Allison and Alex Shelby were the only guests; Alex, because of the part he had played in restoring Jack to health, and Miss Allison, because no occasion in the Valley seemed quite complete without her. She had been too closely bound up with all the good times of Betty's little girl days and her happy maidenhood, not to be present at this time.

Betty had said, "I want my last evening at The Locusts to be just like the first one that I ever spent here, in one way. Then Lloyd sang and played on her harp. I've missed it so much since she took it over to Oaklea. I'd love to have the memory of her music one of the last that I carry away with me."

So that night, when she stepped out on the porch all dressed for her bridal, she found the harp standing in one corner, gleaming in the moonlight like burnished gold. Fair and tall, it impressed her as it had done when it first struck her childish fancy, that its strings had just been swept by some one of the Shining Ones beyond, who were a part of the Pilgrim's dream. She was standing beside it when Lloyd and Rob and Jack walked over from Oaklea. Her filmy white dress, exquisitely cloud-like and dainty, was as simple and girlish as the one she had worn the night before; but this time Jack did not compare her to a snowdrop. The moonlight gave such an unearthly whiteness to her gown, such a radiance to her upturned face, that he, too, thought of the Pilgrim's dream, and likened her to one of the Shining Ones herself.

With that thought came the memory of a beloved voice as he had heard it for the last time at the end of a perfect Sabbath, singing of those "Angels of Light," that had been so very real to him since they first trailed comfort through his earliest lullabies. Man as he was, something like a poignant ache seemed to grip his throat till he could not speak for a moment, because "the little mother" was having no part in this, the crowning happiness of his life.

Later, Miss Allison and Alex dropped in as informally as if they had come to make an ordinary evening call, and they all sat talking awhile. Then Lloyd took her place at the harp and sang the songs that Betty loved best, till the moon rose high enough to send a flood of silvery light between the tall white pillars. There was a little stir around the hall door, and Lloyd, seeing the colored servants, who had gathered there to listen, step back respectfully, gave a signalling nod. The old minister, who had just arrived by the side door, came out past them.

Lloyd's fingers went on touching the harp-strings, so softly that it seemed as if a wandering breeze had tangled in them. Every one rose as the minister came out, and Jack, taking Betty by the hand, led her directly to him. There was no need of book to prompt the silver-haired old pastor. He had joined too many lives in the course of his long ministry, not to know every word of the solemn ritual.

There in the fragrant stillness of the moon-flooded place, with the odor of the lilacs and the snowy wild-plum blossoms entrancingly sweet, and the melody dropping softly from the harp-strings like a fall of far-off crystal bells, they gave themselves to each other:

"I, John Alwyn, take thee, Elizabeth Lloyd."

"I, Elizabeth Lloyd, take thee, John Alwyn."

"Until death us do part."

It was all so sacred and beautiful and still, that even Rob felt the tears start to his eyes, and no one moved for a full moment after the benediction. Even then there was not the usual buzz of congratulations that always follows such a ceremony; but the tender embraces and heartfelt hand-clasps showed that the spell of the solemn scene was still upon them.

Suddenly lights streamed out through all the windows, the dining-room doors were thrown wide open, and Alec bowed the party in to the bridal repast. It, too, was as simple as all that had gone before, save for the towering cake in the centre.

"We just had to have that a mammoth and a gorgeous affair," explained Lloyd, "to send around to all Betty's admiring friends and old pupils who could not be asked to the ceremony. We'll be busy for a week sending off the little boxes."

"No," she replied later, to Alex Shelby, "Betty wouldn't have any of the usual charms and frills, like 'something borrowed, something blue.' She says she's lost faith in them since so many of them that she's known of at different weddings have failed to come true. Besides, everybody heah has their fate already settled. We all know about yoah engagement to Gay, even if it hasn't been announced. You'll be the next to go. You don't need a ring in a cake, or the bride's bouquet thrown over the bannistah to tell you that."

Later, when it was time to start to the station, and Betty had joined them again in her travelling dress, the old Colonel looked out to see what was delaying the carriage.

"It's not coming at all, grandfathah deah," explained Lloyd. "The baggage has gone on ahead and Betty wants to walk. She said she'd rathah go that way, just as if she were only saying good night to you and mothah and Papa Jack, and would be back in a little while. She doesn't want it to seem like a long good-bye. She wants her last look at you all to be heah at home."

But, in spite of everybody's efforts to make it appear that this was just a casual going away, only a temporary separation, Betty found the parting almost more than she could bear. She clung to her god-mother a moment at the last, wanting to sob out all her love and gratitude for the beautiful years she was leaving behind her, but there were no words deep enough. Her last kiss was given in silence more eloquent than speech. At the bottom of the steps she whisked away the tears which would gather despite her brave resolve to fight them back, and turned for one more look at the House Beautiful before she left it to go farther on her pilgrim way.

There they stood, the three who had filled her life so full, who had taken the place of father and mother and indulgent grandfather in her life. She smiled bravely as she gave them a parting wave of her hand. She could not let tears dim her last sight of those dear faces. Another wave for Mom Beck and Alec Walker and old Aunt Cindy, who stood behind them calling their blessings and good wishes after her. Then she went on with the others.

The moonlight filtered down through the trees, casting swaying shadows on the long white avenue. Rob, walking ahead with Lloyd, looked back when they came to the "measuring tree," to say to Miss Allison and Alex, who were just behind:

"It doesn't seem natural for a crowd of this size to start out on a night like this in such a quiet way. We always used to sing. Strike up, Alex!"

Instantly there was wafted back to the watchers on the porch the words of a familiar old song:

"It was from Aunt Dinah's quilting party I was seeing Nellie home."

How many scores of times had that song echoed through the valley! They had sung it crunching through the snow with their skates on their shoulders; they had hummed it strolling through starry August nights when the still air was heavy with the smell of dew-laden lilies. Now, once more they sang it, like boys and girls together again, and Betty wiped her eyes with a little thrill of pleasure when Jack's voice joined in the chorus. She had never heard him sing before and she did not know that he had such a deep, sweet voice. It pleased her, too, to know that he was familiar with the song and could join in with the others as readily as if he had always had a part in her happy past.

At the gate she turned for one more look at the house, with its lights streaming from every window, and wondered when she would ever see it again.

"But no matter how long it may be," she thought, "I can carry the cheer of those lights with me always, wherever I go. It's been such a happy, happy home."

When they reached the station there were only a few moments to wait for the train. She stood holding Lloyd's hand in silence while the others talked, until they heard it rumbling down the track. It was a fast express that stopped only by special order, and then only long enough to throw the trunks on, so the leave-taking was over in a rush. In another instant she was sitting with her face pressed against the window pane, peering out for a last glimpse of the place. She saw just one quickly vanishing light as they sped by, and whispered, "Good-bye, dear Valley."

A sudden feeling of homesickness took possession of her for one long moment. Then Jack's hand closed over hers, holding it in a warm, strong clasp, and she knew that he understood just what that parting meant to her. Instantly there sprang up in her heart the knowledge that all she had left behind was as nothing to the love and sympathy that was to enfold her henceforth.



Chapter II

Towards The Canaan Of Her Desire


In Phil Tremont's office desk, in an inner drawer reserved for private papers, lay a package of letters fastened together by a broad rubber band. "From the Little Vicar," it was labelled, and Mary's astonishment would have been great, could she have known that every letter she had ever written him was thus preserved. He had kept the first ones, written in a childish, painstaking hand, because they chronicled the doings of the family at Ware's Wigwam in such an amusing and characteristic way. The letters after that time had been few and far between until her final return to Lone-Rock, but each one had been kept for some different reason. It had contained a particularly laughable description of some of her Warwick Hall escapades, or some original view of life and the world in general which made it worth preserving.

Then when Mrs. Ware's letters ceased, and at Phil's urgent request Mary took up her mother's custom of writing regularly to him, he kept them because they revealed so much of herself. So brave, so womanly, so strong she had grown, bearing her great sorrow as the Jester did his hidden sword, to prove that "undaunted courage was the jewel of her soul." All during the lonely summer after her mother's death he expected to go to see her in the fall, but the work which held him in Mexico was not finished, and too much depended upon its successful completion for him to ask for leave of absence.

Then, just as he was about to start back to the States, his chief was taken ill, and asked him to stay and fill his place in another engineering enterprise which he had made a contract for. It was an opportunity too big for Phil to thrust aside, even if his sense of obligation had not been so great to the man who had helped make him what he was. So he consented to stay on another year. The place to which he was sent, where the great new dam was to be constructed, was further in the interior. His papers, brought over on mule back, were a week old when they reached him, and Mary's letters attained an importance they might not have had otherwise, had he been in a less lonely region.

It was with great satisfaction that he heard of Jack's marriage. He felt that Mary would be more satisfied to stay on in Lone-Rock indefinitely now that she had Betty's companionship. Her letters were enthusiastic about the new sister, whom she had long loved, first with the admiration of a little girl for an older one, then with that of a pupil for an adored teacher. Now they seemed of the same age, and of the same mind about essential things, especially the pedestal on which they both placed Jack.

Betty fitted into the family as beautifully as if she had always been a part of it, Mary wrote soon after her arrival. She loved Lone-Rock the moment she laid eyes on it, and made friends with everybody right away. She thought it an ideal place in which to write, and already was at work on the series which the publishers had asked for. Norman was "simply crazy" about her, and Jack was so happy and proud that it did one's heart good to see him.

As for Mary herself, it was easy for Phil to see the vast difference that Betty's coming had made in her life. He laid these letters aside with the others as they came, thankful for the happy spirit that breathed through them, for now he was convinced that she "really felt the gladness she had only feigned before." She was all aglow once more with her old hopes and ambitions. Despite her efforts to hide it he had discerned how dreary the days had been for her hitherto, and now he was glad he could think of her with the background she pictured for him. Betty's coming had brightened it wonderfully. But just as he was beginning to be sure she was satisfied and settled, a little note came to disturb his comfort in that belief. It was evidently scrawled in haste and began abruptly without address or date.

"'And it came to pass . . . when the cloud was taken up . . . they journeyed!' Oh, Phil, the signal to move on has come at last! I have no idea what it will lead to. It may be to the wells of some Elim, it may be to that part of the wilderness 'where there is no water to drink.' But wherever it may be I'm convinced that Providence is pointing the way, for the call came without my lifting so much as a little finger. It came through Madam Chartley. I'm to be secretary for a friend of hers, a Mrs. Dudley Blythe of Riverville, at a big salary -- at least it seems big to me -- and I'm leaving in the morning. That's all I know now, but I'll write you full particulars as soon as I'm settled.

"Manuella, the clever little Mexican maid who has tided us over various emergencies, is coming to help Betty with the work, so that the writing may not be interfered with. Yours, once more on the march towards the Canaan of her desire,

"M. W."



The next was a note scribbled at some junction near the end of her journey.

"Five hours late, so we've missed connection and are side-tracked here, waiting for the fast express to pass us. Nothing at all has happened as there usually does on my travels, and I've met no interesting people. But I've had a really thrilling time just guessing what my future is to be like. I've imagined Mrs. Dudley Blythe to be every kind of a woman that would be likely to employ a secretary, from a stern-eyed suffragette to a modern Mrs. Jellyby interested in the heathen. All I've had to build on was Madam Chartley's night letter and Mrs. Blythe's telegram in answer to mine, and naturally that was slim material.

"What I'm hoping is, that Mrs. Blythe is a grand society dame, who needs a secretary to attend to her invitations and list of engagements. I'd like for her to be that, or else a successful writer who wanted me to type her manuscript. It would be so lovely to be behind the scenes at the making of a book, and maybe to meet a lot of literary lions at close range. I've blocked out enough scenes from those two situations to fill a two-volume Duchess novel. But, in order to keep from being too greatly disappointed, I tell myself that it's not at all probable that Mrs. Blythe will be either of those things. Most likely she's in a big mail-order business of some kind that requires a large correspondence, and I'll be tamely quoting prices on hats, hair-goods or imported trimmings for the next dozen years. I am 'minded that:

"'There are two moments in a diver's life. One when, a beggar, he prepares to plunge, One when, a prince, he rises with his pearl. Festus, I plunge!'

"More anon.              MARY."



*    *    *    *    *


"June 15, RIVERVILLE.

"Here I am, bobbing up serenely with something, but still unable to say whether it be pearl or pebble. Mrs. Blythe is not the grand personage I pictured her to be, for there was no liveried footman to meet me at the station, no carriage in waiting. Nor is she an author. Mrs. Crum, the landlady of this caravansary, told me that. I rattled up in a 'bus to the number of the house given in Mrs. Blythe's telegram, and found it to be a comfortable looking boarding-house on a quiet side street, shaded by scraggly old sycamores. Mrs. Blythe had engaged a room for me here, and left a note telling me where and how to find her in the morning.

"It was so near supper-time that Mrs. Crum had to go right down-stairs before I could ask any more questions, and I followed in a very few moments. I am disappointed in one thing. I had hoped to be in an interesting private family. I had hoped that Mrs. Blythe would want me to stay in her house, but I think I shall like it here.

"My room is big and airy and simply furnished, the supper was good, and as far as I can see I'm lots better off than Jo was in 'Little Women,' when she left home to be a governess. For one thing, there is no old bearded professor in the background to work on one's sympathies and get interested in, in lieu of some one better. Of course Professor Baher was dear in lots of ways, but I never could forgive Jo for marrying that bewhiskered old Teuton.

"So far as I have discovered, the boarders are all widows and orphans, though the oldest orphan is old enough to vote, and is a reporter on the Riverville Herald. He sat next to me at the table, at supper, and I found out from him that my first guess was partly correct, even if there was no liveried footman to meet me at the station. Mrs. Blythe is one of the social leaders of Riverville and has a lovely home. But this city isn't large enough to justify any one's keeping a social secretary. He said so. It's just a big, commonplace, hustling manufacturing town like a hundred others in the middle West. I didn't like to ask any personal questions about Mrs. Blythe of Orphant Annie. (That's the name I couldn't help giving the young reporter in my own mind. He was introduced as Mr. Sandford Berry.) He looks the character to perfection; sort of old for his years, spry and capable, as if he'd spent his youth in doing the chores and shooing the hens away. Besides, he gave me a lot of wise advice, as if he were a full-fledged man of the world and I a little hayseed from the West who didn't know enough to get out of the way of a go-cart. He has pale blue pop eyes, and an alert little blond mustache, and his whole air seems to say, 'The gobelins'll git you, if you don't watch out.'

"He took it for granted that I knew all about my future employer, and, of course, I didn't tell him any better. I just tried in a roundabout way to lead him on to talk of her. He is very enthusiastic about her work, though I gathered only a vague idea of what it is, despite my clever manoeuvring to find out. He called her a grand little woman. As he has interviewed her several times he knows her personally. What he said was certainly encouraging, but he finished his supper so soon after he began to talk about her that I came up-stairs still knowing very little more than when I went down.

"A street light glimmered in the front windows, so that I did not turn on the gas at first, but sat looking down at the people strolling along the pavement below. The house stands very close to the street, so that I could hear everything any one said in passing, and it seemed to bring me right into the thick of things, as I so often wished to be, back there in the desert. The warm, wet smell of the freshly sprinkled streets, the whiff of an occasional cigar, the sound of a street piano in the next block, all seemed so strange yet so friendly and sociable. It made me feel for a little while -- oh, I can hardly explain it -- as if the old Mary Ware that I used to be was a million miles away, and as if the Mary Ware sitting here in Riverville was an entirely different person. I couldn't make it seem possible that the 'me' who was sitting there in the hot June dusk, looking down on the lively streets, was the same person who only a few days before had no other excitement in life than making Jack's coffee or ironing Norman's shirts back in the hills of Arizona.

"I wasn't homesick or lonesome in the least, but I had such a queer, untied, set-adrift sensation, like the man must have had who wrote that hymn, 'Lo, on a narrow neck of land, 'Twixt two unbounded seas I stand.' The yesterdays are one sea, and the to-morrows another, and me, waiting between them, just a scrap of humanity -- a stranger in a strange city -- wondering and wondering and wondering what the next day would bring.

"Then I began to be almost afraid of what I'd undertaken, and all of a sudden grew so cold and depressed that I wished I was back in my own little room in Lone-Rock. The shutters of the back window had been closed all this time, and when I got up to light the gas and write to Jack of my safe arrival, I opened them to see what kind of an outlook I was to have from that window. You can imagine my surprise when I found that it gave me a glimpse of the river. Such a wide, full, sweeping river, with just enough of a young moon over it to define its banks, and remind me of the beautiful silvery Potomac that I used to watch from my window at Warwick Hall.

"A big steamboat came gliding around the bend, with a deep musical whistle that sent the same kind of an echo booming along the water, and there were lights twinkling from every deck and from the wharves along shore to which it was headed. Somehow it made me think of a song that we used to sing at the Wigwam, and that Holland always sang wrong, for some unaccountable reason insisting on saying 'shining' instead of 'margin.'

"'At the shining of the river, lay we every burden down.'

"The wide silvery tracks that the crescent moon and the wharf lights made reassured me, and I stopped worrying about the future, and laid my burden of apprehension and depression right down, and just sat and enjoyed the sight. Presently I saw a little launch put out from the wharf and go chugging merrily over towards the far side, and suddenly I realized that that other shore was Kentucky. I was in sight of my Promised Land, although my particular portion of it was several hundred miles away. I had been so occupied with other things that I had forgotten what part of the map I was on.

"I stood right up, so excited that I could hardly keep from squealing and whirling around on my toes, as I used to do. My first impulse was to run and tell somebody of my discovery. Then I remembered with a sort of shock that there wasn't anybody I could tell. Not a soul in the whole city who cared. For a moment that thought made me utterly and wretchedly homesick. But it all passed away the moment I began my letter to Jack and Betty. I think the reason that this epistle to you has grown longer and more garrulous than usual, is because you have assured me so often of your interest in all my comings and goings, and it seems so good to pour out everything to somebody who cares to hear. So, I am sure, you will rejoice with me in the discovery that my back window looks away to the dim shores of my Promised Land, and that that view will help me 'to hold out faithful to the end,' as old Brother Petree used to say in prayer meeting."

*    *    *    *    *


"June 22.

"I didn't intend to write so soon again, but your letter has just come with all those kodak pictures of your bachelor quarters, and the big dam, and the different views of your mountain background. I am so glad to have them, especially the ones that have you in them, and most especially that one of you in the camp chair with the hat on the back of your head. You look exactly as if you were about to speak, and I have stood that one on my table, and am looking at it now as I write. I am glad you sent it, for really I am becoming so engrossed with my new work, that I need some reminder of my past life to keep me from forgetting what manner of person I used to be. I have had such an absorbing week.

"To begin with, I found that Mrs. Blythe, who is comparatively a young woman, although she has two sons away at school, is one of the old Warwick Hall girls. She wears the alumni pin, with Edryn's crest on it and the motto 'I keep tryste.' And she adores Madam Chartley and everything connected with the school. After I discovered that I knew everything would be all right no matter what she set me to doing.

"She had a dressmaker there fitting a gown for her, when I was ushered into her room, and there wasn't a thing in it to suggest her need of a secretary except a frivolous looking little desk in one corner. She talked to me about Warwick Hall all the time she was being fitted until a neighbor dropped in to ask her to pour tea for her at an informal reception next day. I 'sized her up,' as the boys say, as a pretty little woman fond of dainty clothes and good times, one who would always shine at a social function and be popular because she is such a winsome, sweet little thing, but not much more than that.

"When the dressmaker left, Mrs. Blythe crossed over to the desk and opened it, and it was so chuck full of papers and letters and business-like looking legal documents, that they began to pour out all over the floor.

"She said in a laughing way that that was the reason she needed another pair of hands, and then turned and gave me a searching look with those dark eyes of her, as if she were taking my measure, and said:

"'I hope that Madam Chartley was not mistaken and that you will prove equal to the task, for it is a big undertaking I've called you to help me with -- The awakening of a State!'

"I was as astonished as if a fluffy little kitten had opened its mouth, and instead of gently mewing, had roared out, 'Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!' Luckily she was so busy sorting the papers and stuffing them back into pigeon-holes that she didn't see my face, or she couldn't have gone on in such a matter of course way to explain what she wanted me to do. She said I must become so thoroughly familiar with the situation that I could answer most of the letters that come to her, without her dictation, and in order to do that she'd have to take me over the ground that she had been over, and let me see for myself just what had aroused her to undertake the work she was engaged in. That just as soon as she could give the cook her daily orders we'd start right out.

"While she put on her hat and little face veil, she explained that she had become interested in the first place while taking flowers to a crippled child in the tenement district. Seeing how absorbed she seemed in getting her hat and veil on 'just so,' I couldn't help thinking that she must have taken up her charities as so many society women do, who are impulsive and kind-hearted, just as a fad to help occupy their leisure hours. But it wasn't long before I found how mistaken I was in my judgment of her.

"We took a street-car, and on the way she explained that she was going to show me what might be seen in almost any town of its size in the United States, and in many of its villages. We stopped on a shady street corner and passed a row of houses on a respectable looking street. She told me that she had grown up in Riverville and had walked up and down that street nearly every day of her life, and that she never knew till last year that those respectable fronts of houses opened on to interiors and into back yards that were a disgrace to any civilization. The other property owners on that block were perfectly horrified when she published a description of it, with photographs of the worst spots. It stirred up a great deal of talk and indignation, but nobody did anything to make it better, and soon the interest died out and people forgot.

"I wish you could have seen her face when she told me that and when she said, 'But I made up my mind that I would change conditions if I had to fight a lifetime and fight single-handed, and I'll fight to the death!'

"When I saw the determination in her face, not only did I wonder how I could have been so mistaken in my first estimate of her, but I felt a queer responsive thrill at her enthusiasm, that made me sure she can succeed in anything she attempts.

"Well, I've read of slums and have always taken it as a matter of course that it was one of the evils to be expected in a large city, but I never thought to see with my own eyes what I saw that day, in an ordinary town like Riverville. Maybe living so long as I have done on the clean, fresh desert and in the pure air of the hills, made it seem worse to me, but anybody would have been horrified at what she showed me. When I exclaimed over the filth and foul odors, as we picked our way over the ash-piles and garbage and slimy pools in one back yard, and said that people might at least keep themselves clean, even if they were poor, she turned on me, her eyes fairly blazing.

"'That's what everybody says!' she exclaimed. 'That's why I brought you here, to prove to you that these tenants are not to blame. Look! This house was originally built for two families, but ten families are crowded into it now, with only one cistern to provide water for the whole lot. And every drop of it has to be carried to the different stories in buckets. No wonder they have to be "sparin' of water," as little Elsie Whayne complained, when I found her crying over her line full of yellow-gray, half-clean clothes. She had come from the country, where she had had an unlimited supply, and couldn't get used to hoarding every drop. The landlord won't provide city water, and there is no law to make him do it.'

"As she spoke the nasty, greasy contents of a dishpan came splashing over the railing of the porch above us, into the court where we were standing, and we barely escaped being drenched with it. A few drops did reach me, and when I expressed my disgust most forcibly, Mrs. Blythe said apologetically, 'Don't blame the poor woman. She has no other place to throw it. The landlord won't provide drains and there is no law to make him do it. And up-stairs, I am going to show you three rooms without windows, where people live and eat and sleep by lamplight, without a ray of sunshine or a breath of fresh air. All that they get of either air or light must filter through other stale, overcrowded rooms. And if you wonder, as I did, why the landlords do not cut windows in these dark rooms, and mend the leaky roofs and the dangerous stairways, you'll find the answer is the same. There is no law to make them do it. The houses bring good rents as they stand, and the public is not awake to the fact that these places in their midst are responsible for the greater part of infection and disease that menace the whole town. That is the cause I am giving myself to, and the cause that I want to make yours also. We must wake up the State. We must make them pass a law that will wipe out these plague spots already existing and prevent the growth of any more. A law that will allow no renter to make money off a house that is not decent to shelter human beings.'

"That is a sample of the places she showed me, places where the plaster was off the walls in great patches, and the paper hung in greasy tatters, and where we encountered so many nauseating sights and smells that by the time we were back at her house I didn't have any appetite for lunch. She told me that it affected her that way too, at first, and it got so that a procession of white-faced, wailing babies began to appear to her in the dead of night and cry for her to help them; to give them a chance to breathe in the stifling midnight, a chance to claim their birthright of clean water and air and sun. And she added, 'When you get to seeing things at night you're ready for work.'

"Already she has written hundreds of letters on the subject, to individuals and to clubs who have influence, and I am to help her with hundreds more. We are to send one to each member of the Legislature. I think it is great fun to be mixed up with 'affairs of State,' and I shall feel so grand having a hand in writing to senators and representatives. I'm going with her to some of the near-by towns to take photographs of the worst places. We're to have a collection representing every town and city in the State, and mount them on large posters for the public to see. That part of the work will be intensely interesting. I don't mind pounding away at the typewriter from daylight till dark, but I must confess to you what I'll not tell any one at home. The other part of the work, the contact with the suffering and misery and dirt that we see daily simply makes me sick.

"I asked Orphant Annie how he supposed a dainty little woman like Mrs. Blythe stands it, and he said she had answered that question herself in a poem that she had written by request for the Riverville Herald. I was so surprised to know that she is a poet too, that he said he'd look up the verses for me. He did, and brought me a copy of them when he came that night at dinner. He doesn't seem as pop-eyed now that I know him better, and he says some very bright things occasionally. This is the poem. I am sending it so that you'll see how mistaken I was at first in assuming that Mrs. Blythe was just a kind-hearted little social butterfly, who had taken up housing betterment as a fad. Some of the divine fire that inspired the great reformers of all the ages must burn in her soul, or she couldn't have written this poem that she calls The Torch.

"'Make me to be a torch for feet that grope Down Truth's dim trail; to bear for wistful eyes Comfort of light; to bid great beacons blaze, And kindle altar fires of sacrifice!

"'Let me set souls aflame with quenchless zeal For great endeavors, causes true and high. So would I live to quicken and inspire, So would I, thus consumed, burn out and die.'

"Mr. Berry says that is just what Mrs. Blythe is, a torch to set others aflame. He has heard her talk to clubs and societies about her work, and he says that she is so convincing that before the summer is over she'll have me blazing like a house afire, the biggest beacon in the bunch. But I don't think much of Orphant Annie as a prophet. It is just one of his ways of always saying the gobelins'll git you. I know they'll never get me to the extent of making me 'speak in meetin'.' Now you know just what it is I have gone into, and can picture the daily life quite accurately of Yours as ever, Mary Ware, late of Lone-Rock, now Reformer of Riverville."



Chapter III

The Supreme Call


That was the last letter which Phil received from Mary for many weeks, although he wrote regularly to the address she gave of the boarding-house on the sycamore-shaded street. Several times she sent a postal with a scribbled line of acknowledgment, but the days were too full for personal affairs, and at night she was too tired to attend to her own correspondence, after pounding on the typewriter so many hours.

She had attacked her new duties with all the zeal and force that had characterized her "snake-killings" on the desert. Habit alone made her do that, and pride added another motive. She was determined to justify Madam Chartley's opinion of her. Not being able to write shorthand she worked overtime to gain extra speed on the typewriter, so that she might take dictation directly on the machine. Now, all the neatness and system which had made her housekeeping so perfect in its way, made her a painstaking and methodical little business woman. Her neatly typed pages were a joy to Mrs. Blythe. Her system of filing and indexing brought order out of confusion in the topsy-turvy desk, and she soon had the various reports which they referred to daily, labelled and arranged in the different pigeon-holes as conveniently as the spice boxes and cereal jars had been in the kitchen cabinet at home.

It was not long before Mrs. Blythe began handing letters over to her as Jack had done, saying briefly, tell them this or thus, and leaving her to frame the answer in the best style she could. This spurred her on to still greater effort, and she made up her mind to become so familiar with every branch of the subject that she could give an intelligent answer to any question that might be asked. Once she wrote home to Jack:

"I am beginning to see now some of the things that my Desert of Waiting in Lone-Rock taught me. I couldn't fill this position half so satisfactorily if I hadn't had the training that you gave me in your office in all sorts of business forms and details. I am especially thankful for the letters you made me answer in my own words. Mrs. Blythe turns over two-thirds of her mail to me now to be answered in that way. She has had many invitations lately from clubs in neighboring towns, asking her to go and explain what it is she wants them to do, and she feels that she can't afford to miss a single opportunity of the kind. Every time she gives a talk she gets more people interested in the cause, and they in turn interest other people, and that sends the ball rolling still farther. Really, it is getting to be as exciting as a game of 'Prisoners' Base,' seeing how many we can get on 'our side,' and when she is out of town and I am left to 'guard base,' I surely feel as if I am 'It,' and had the whole responsibility on my shoulders."

It must be confessed that it was Mary's pride in doing her work well which made her a competent helper, more than any personal interest which she took in Mrs. Blythe's plans. After the first round of visits to the tenements she kept away from them as much as possible. The first month's salary was accorded a silent jubilee in her room. Most of it had to go for board and some few things she needed, but she started a savings account and locked away her bank-book with the feeling that she was laying the corner-stone of her home in the Happy Valley. True, there wasn't the same joy in planning for it that there had been when she looked forward to her mother sharing it with her, but it was with a sense of deep satisfaction that she opened her account and carried home the little book with its first entry.

On one of the occasions when Mrs. Blythe was away from home for several days, an indignant letter came from some one in a town where she had spoken the previous week, demanding to know why she was making such a fight to have a law passed which would work hardship to worthy landlords who were good citizens and prominent in all public charities. It named a man in Riverville as a sample of the kind of citizen she was trying to injure, and demanded so threateningly her reasons for doing so, that Mary was troubled by its covert threats. Mrs. Blythe would not be back till the end of the week, Mr. Blythe was in New York, and there was no one in Riverville whom she knew well enough to discuss the situation with. After worrying over it all one day and night, quite unexpectedly she found out what she wanted to know from Sandford Berry.

He came out on the side porch where she was sitting after an early lunch, and paused to light a cigar. Something prompted her to refer casually to the man who had been spoken of in the letter as a model citizen, and to ask if the reporter knew him.

"Oh, yes, he's a charitable old cuss," was Mr. Berry's elegant answer. "His name leads all the subscription lists a-going; but I'll give you a tip on the side, if you're after him to get a bit of local color for any of your documents. Just make some excuse to visit some lodging houses he owns on the corner of Myrtle and Tenth Streets. Diamond Row they call it, because they say he gets the worth of his wife's gorgeous diamonds out of it in rents every year, and she has the most notable ones in town. It's the worst ever! I don't think Mrs. Blythe has discovered it yet. I didn't get into it myself until the other day, when I had to go to report an accident, but we newspaper men unearth all the sights that are to be seen, eventually."

"Would it be all right for me to go -- I mean safe?" asked Mary hesitatingly.

"Sure!" was the cheerful answer. "It's safe as far as the people you'll meet are concerned. I can't say as much for the germs."

"But I haven't a shadow of excuse for going," faltered Mary. "I couldn't walk into a hovel out of sheer curiosity without some reason for intruding, any more than I could into a rich person's home. I haven't any more right to do the one than the other."

"That's what they all say," answered Sandford Berry. "But there is a difference. You'll find that those tenants are glad of a chance to tell their troubles to some one. Oh, of course, they'd spot you if you went poking in for no reason but curiosity, but anybody with tact and a desire to get at the real inwardness of things for the purpose of bettering them would find a welcome. Those people know the difference."

He puffed away in silence a moment, considering a way to help her as he had often helped Mrs. Blythe, and taking it for granted that Mary was just as eager for his suggestions as the other one had been.

"You might tell them you are looking for an old woman from the country who knits some sort of lace for sale. There used to be one there. At least, I've seen an old woman who used to be always knitting, sitting at a corner window. I don't know whether she sold it or not, or whether she was from the country. But it will do for an opening wedge, and with her to start on you can easily get into conversation with any of them." Then, as Mary still hesitated, he added, "If you really want to investigate and feel anyways backward about it, I'll walk down that far with you and show you where it is. It happens to be on my beat."

Mary really had no wish to go. She shrank from contact with something which the experienced Mr. Berry pronounced "the worst ever." But he was waiting so confidently for her to put on her hat and accompany him, that there seemed nothing else for her to do.

"Get an eye on those basement rooms," he advised her as he left her at the corner of Myrtle and Tenth Streets, and pointed out the steps leading to the underground rooms in Diamond Row. With the helpless feeling of one who cannot swim, yet is left to plunge alone into icy water, Mary stood at the top of the steps until she was afraid her hesitation would attract attention. Then plucking up her courage, she forced herself to walk down and knock at the open door.

What she saw in her first quick glance was a girl no older than herself, lying on a dirty bare mattress, a woman bending over a wash-tub, and a baby crawling around the floor. What she saw in her second horrified glance was that a green mould stood out on the walls, that both plaster and lath were broken away in places, so that one could peer through into an adjoining cellar. Evidently the cellar had water standing in it, from the foul, dank odor which came in through the holes. And the water must have seeped through into this room at times, for some of the planks in the floor nearest the wall were rotting.

The woman looked up listlessly without taking her arms from the tub, as Mary made her faltering inquiry for the old lady who made lace, and answered in some foreign tongue. Then she bent again to her rubbing, in stolid indifference to the stranger who had made a sudden descent on her home. Mary was too inexperienced to know that one cause of her indifference was that she was too underfed and overworked and mentally stunted by her hideous surroundings to care who came and went around her.

Mary turned to the girl on the musty mattress. It wasn't actual starvation which drew the skin so tightly over her cheek-bones and gave the pinched look to her face, for there was food still left on the cluttered table, where flies buzzed over the unwashed dishes in sickening swarms. It was the disease which had claimed a victim, sometimes several, from every family in turn who occupied the room, because it had never been properly disinfected. Not even the sunlight could get in to do its share towards making it fit for a human dwelling, for the only windows of this half-underground room were narrow transoms near the ceiling, and the only air reached it through the door at the bottom of the steps.

The girl was evidently asleep, and, after one more glance, Mary turned with a shudder and hurried back up the steps. She hesitated to make a second attempt but nerved herself to it by the thought of the questions Sandford Berry was sure to ask of her. On the first floor she knocked at several doors, and although she found no clue to the old lace knitter, she soon found a welcome from a voluble old Irish woman, who hospitably invited her in. Her eyes were that bad, she explained, that she couldn't see to do much. Her family worked in the factory all day, and she was glad of some one to talk to.

The door into the hall stood open, and presently another woman strayed in, scenting entertainment of some kind, and then a much younger woman followed, a slatternly creature with a sickly looking baby in her arms. Old Mrs. Donegan talked freely of her neighbors after Mary had tactfully won her confidence. She told her that most of them worked in the factory. The Polish woman in the basement washed for some of the factory hands, and although she worked all day and often far into the night, it took nearly all she could make to pay the rent. There wasn't enough to buy medicine for the girl, who was dying of consumption.

"Why don't they leave here and go out to the country?" asked Mary. "People out there need help, and they could at least have clean water, and clean grass to lie on. They'd be better off out under the trees than in that basement."

Mrs. Donegan's dim eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Did you ever see a rat caught in a trap?" she asked. "It can't help itself. It can't get out. No more can they. They can't even speak English."

"Don't you go to telling the landlord we complained," whined the woman with the baby. "He'd turn us out. Rents are so high everywhere that I tramped for days to find this place. The others was worse than this."

Mary's evident friendliness and warmly expressed interest soon started all three of the women to telling tales of Diamond Row. Mrs. Donegan's were the worst, as she claimed the distinction of being the oldest inhabitant. The one that aroused Mary's greatest indignation was of a child which had been drowned in the cellar ten years ago. The inside staircase going to the basement ran down over the cellar in some way, and it was so rotten in parts that it gave way one day and he fell through. It was in the spring, when the river was so high that the cellar was half full of backwater, and the child drowned before they could get him out.

Mrs. Donegan gave a dramatic account of it, omitting none of the gruesome details, for she had been fond of the pretty golden-haired boy of three, and sympathized with all the ardor of her warm Irish heart with the old grandmother, who was one of her best friends.

"That's sorrow for you," she exclaimed, shaking her head dismally. "If you could only see the poor old creature now, so crippled up with the misery in her bones that she can't leave her chair, and nothing for her to do all day but sit and eat her heart out with longing for little Terence. Ah, he was the fine lad, always hanging on his granny's chair and putting his little curly head on her shoulder to be petted. She keeps one of those curls always by her in a little box on the table, and like the sunshine it is. Come in and see it now. Do," she urged hospitably. "It's always glad she is to talk about him and cry over the sad end he come to."

Mary drew back, protesting that she couldn't bear to. It was all so horrible. "What did they do about it afterwards?" she asked.

"Nothing," was the answer. "The lad's father, Tim Reilly, was too poor to bring suit, and it cost something to move, and they couldn't get anything better for the same price. So they just stayed on, although his wife and the poor old granny almost wept their eyes out at the sight of that staircase for many a month. It was all written up in the papers, with pictures of Terence and the cellar. Lots of people came to look at the house, and there was a piece in the paper saying that the stairway was a death-trap, and that the owner ought to have the charge of murder laid at his door, and that an indignant public demanded that he put in a new one. Mrs. Reilly keeps one of these same papers by her to this day. She keeps it for the picture of Terence that's in it."

"How long was it before he put in the new stairway?" asked Mary, seeing that some response was expected of her.

The old woman leaned over and shook her finger impressively. "It's the gospel truth I'm telling you, never a one has been put in to this day. They just patched up the old one with a few new planks, and all rotten it is and tearing loose again, as you may see for yourself if you'll follow me."

But Mary refused this invitation also, and a little later took her leave, unutterably depressed by all that she had seen and heard. Mrs. Donegan, with the other women to refresh her memory, had counted up forty funerals which had taken place in Diamond Row in the eleven years that she had lived under its leaky roof.

Mary was through supper that night when Sandford Berry strolled in. "Well," he said, pausing to put his head in at the parlor door, where she sat glancing over the evening paper. "What luck?"

"Oh, it was perfectly hideous!" she exclaimed, and proceeded to pour out the story of her visit so indignantly that he nodded his approval.

"I see that you got your local color all right. It's fairly lurid."

"And I did something else," confessed Mary. "I tried to find the owner of the place, Mr. Stoner, and paint the picture for him. But he was in Europe. So was his wife. And then I found out who his agent was, and I went to him and asked him why he didn't fix the place up. He was as coolly polite as an iceberg, but he told me in so many words that it was none of my business. That it was his business to look after the interests of his employer and collect the rents, and not to humor the whims of a few fussy women who had more sentiment than sense."

"Then what did you say?" laughed Sandford.

Mary's eyes flashed angrily, and her cheeks grew redder and redder as she talked.

"I told him it was not rents alone he was collecting, but blood-money, and that the owner of that tenement was as responsible for the forty deaths inside its walls as if he'd deliberately poisoned them. And I told him I'd make it my business from now on to see that the people knew the truth about him. And then I got so mad that I knew I'd burst out crying if I stayed another minute, so I flounced out and left him staring after me open-mouthed, as if I'd flown at him and pecked him."

The reporter laughed again and started on towards the dining-room, but paused to look back with a wise nod of the head, which aggravated Mary quite as much as the knowing tone with which he exclaimed, "I told you so! I told you that when the torch once set you to blazing you'd be the biggest beacon fire in the bunch!"

That night Mary dreamed of that basement room with the mould on the walls and the water seeping in from the adjoining cellar, and of the girl dying of consumption on the musty mattress. And all the forty sufferers who had sickened and died from the unsanitary conditions of the tenement trooped through her dream, and held out their feverish thin hands to her, imploring her to help. And she answered them as she had answered the agent, "I'll make it my business. I'll tell your story all over the state and all over the land until the people demand a law to save you."

It was a hot July night, and Mary, waking in her big many-windowed room, sat up almost gasping. She wondered what the heat must be like in those tenement rooms without any windows, with half a dozen or more people crowded into each one. Slipping out of bed she drew a low rocker to the window overlooking the river, and with her arms crossed on the sill, looked out into the darkness. There was only the starlight to-night, and the colored lights of the wharf boats along the bank. She could not see the dim outline of the Kentucky shore, but it was a comfort to know that it was there.

Presently she lifted her head and looked up, her lips parted and a half frightened throbbing in her ears. It had come over her with an almost overpowering realization that those voices she was hearing were like those which Joan of Arc heard. It was the King's Call summoning her again as it had summoned her at Warwick Hall. Then it was all vague and shadowy, the thing she was to do. Now she knew with what great task she was to keep tryst. She was to help in this struggle to free these poor people from the conditions which bound them. She was to help them reach out for their birthright, which was nothing more than a fair chance to help themselves.

Gazing up at the stars, a great wonder swept over her, that she, little Mary Ware, had been called to a destiny even greater than that of the Maid of Orleans. For was it not greater to enlist a nation in such warfare than to ride at the head of an army and spur men on to bloodshed? This battle, once won, would give not only this generation of helpless poor their chance for health and decent homes, but would lift the handicap from their children and all their children's children who might come after them.

Once, as she sat there, the thought came to her that if she devoted herself to this cause she might be an old woman before it was accomplished, and that she would have to give up all hope of the home she had long planned to have eventually in the Happy Valley. Even in her exalted mood it seemed a great sacrifice to make, and a long time she sat there, counting the cost.

"To live in scorn of miserable aims that end in self -- " She started as if a real voice had spoken in her ear. "That is what mamma used to say so often," she thought. "That is the way she lived. But can I keep it up for a whole lifetime, clear to the end?"

It was the years that lay behind her which helped her to an answer. The years, which, could they have been marked like Edryn's would have been bejewelled with the tokens of little duties faithfully performed. No pearls showed white like his to mark them, no diamond gleamed where Sorrow's tear had fallen, no amethyst glowed in purple splendor to mark her patient meeting with Defeat, yet she had earned them as truly as he, and in the earning had fitted herself for this fuller fealty.

The sky had lightened until the far shore of the river was dimly visible when she stood up and held out her hands towards it in a mute gesture of surrender. Like Edryn she had heard the supreme call, and like him she answered it:

"Oh, heart, and hand of mine, keep tryst! Keep tryst or die!"

She was still in the same exalted mood when she sat down next day to answer the angry letter which had started her on her search after "local color." All her indignation of the previous day came back, and she pictured the foul conditions of the basement room as realistically as a photographer could have done, ending with the underscored statement:

"The man you are defending is living luxuriously on the rents he collects from this death-trap and others like it, and yet refuses through his agent to drive one nail in it to make it more fit to live in. A man who gives out as alms, with one hand, what he wrings with the other as blood-money from the victims of his miserly greed, deserves to have a trumpet sounded before him as the hypocrites do, and we shall continue to sound it until public sentiment compels him to be as humane as his pretensions."

When Mrs. Blythe came back and found this fiery response on her desk awaiting her signature, she smiled at first, then recognized gratefully that this burst of indignation meant that a new ally had been born to the cause. But she had to explain tactfully to Mary that while her answer was a just one, it was not wise to anger the man still farther by sending it.

"I shall have to ask you to rewrite that last page," she said regretfully. "Send your description of Diamond Row, just as it is, and the agent's refusal to do anything to better it, but leave out the personal tirade that follows. It may relieve your feelings but it will do the cause harm by arousing an opposition which means the loss of many votes when the question comes up before the Legislature next winter.

"But I'll tell you what I'd like," she added, seeing the shade of disappointment that clouded Mary's face for a second. "I'd like to have that description published in The Survey, and I'd like to take you with me this afternoon to the meeting of a committee of the Commercial Club, and have you tell them about this visit, just as you have told it in this letter. It's one of the most realistic things I ever read. It fairly makes my flesh creep in places."

Mary gave a gasp of astonishment, unable to believe at first that Mrs. Blythe was serious. To be pushed forward as a magazine writer and a public speaker, both in one day, was too much for her comprehension.

"Oh, Mrs. Blythe! I couldn't make a speech in public!" protested Mary, half frightened at the mere thought.

"I don't want you to," was the placid answer. "I merely want you to come with me and sit at a big table with a dozen or more people around it, and answer the questions that we put to you about what you've seen. You're not afraid to do that, are you?"

"No, if that's all," admitted Mary hesitatingly. "It's never been any trouble for me to do just plain talking. It used to be that my difficulty was I never knew when to quit."

"I'll attend to that part of it," laughed Mrs. Blythe.

So it came about that afternoon that Mary sat at the big directors' table in an upper room of the Commercial Club building, and told once more the story of her visit to the tenement on Myrtle and Tenth Streets. She began it a little hesitatingly, with a quicker beating of pulses and a deepening of color, but gradually she lost her self-consciousness. The inspiration of many interested listeners gave her a sense of power. She was conscious of the breathless silence in which her story held them. She felt rather than saw that no one stirred, and that they were all moved by the story of the old blind grandmother, grieving over the golden curl that was all that was left to her of the child who was her sunshine. When she mimicked the agent's voice and manner, the ripple of appreciation which passed around the table gratified her more than the applause which followed. It showed that she had made what Sandford Berry would have called "a decided hit."

"You will do it again," Mrs. Blythe said when the meeting was over and they were on their way home, and Mary nodded assent. She didn't mind any amount of "just plain talking," especially when it succeeded in arousing such interest as this first effort had done. She told the same story several times that week in Riverville to small audiences, and then again in Maysport, in a room so large that she had to stand in order to make herself heard. But even then she was not embarrassed, for Mrs. Blythe was standing too. She had turned in the midst of her own talk to say quite naturally, "You tell them about that part of it, Miss Ware. You can make them see it more plainly than I."

Again Mary, in the midst of profound silence, saw eyes grow misty with sympathy and saw faces light up with indignation at her recital. It never occurred to her to write home that she had spoken in public. She didn't really count it as such, for, as she told Sandford Berry, it wasn't a real speech. It was just as if she had seen a case that needed the attention of a Humane officer, and had stopped in off the street to report it. It was Mrs. Blythe who made the real speeches, who put their duty so clearly before the people of Riverville that before August was over a Better Homes society had been organized, and a score of members enrolled as active workers.

When Mary had time to stop and think, she realized that she was truly in the thick of things at last, for the more she tried to interest people the more necessary she found it to go often to the tenements for fresh pictures of their need. And sometimes a day that began by sending her to a needy family on Myrtle Street, ended by taking her to a musicale or a lawn fête in one of the most beautiful homes of the city. Mrs. Blythe's introduction of her everywhere as her friend, rather than her secretary, would have opened Riverville doors to her of its own self, but, aside from that, Mary won an entrance to many a friendship on her own account. She was so sincerely interested in everything and everybody, so glad to make friends, so fresh in her enthusiasm, and so attractive in all the healthy vigor of heart and body which a sturdy outdoor life had given her.



Chapter IV

"Pink" Or Diamond Row


The long hot summer was followed by a September so dry and dusty that the town lay parched in the sweltering heat.

"Doesn't it make you feel like a wilted lettuce leaf?" Mary said to Sandford Berry one noon when they met at the boarding-house gate on their way in to dinner. "I've been down to Myrtle Street all morning, and some of those crowded rooms are so stifling that I don't see how the inmates breathe."

"You ought to keep away from them," advised Sandford with a critical glance at her. "They're making you pale and thin. They're getting on your nerves."

"I know it," admitted Mary, "but the more they get on my nerves, the more I feel obliged to go."

She took her place at the table languidly, and merely tasted the iced bouillon which the waitress put before her. She felt faint and needed food, but it was hard to force herself to swallow while the smell of the unwholesome places she had visited seemed still in her nostrils. The remembrance of some of them rose sickeningly before her and she pushed her plate aside.

"You take my advice and stay away from those places," said Sandford again, noticing the movement. "What's the use of wearing your sympathies to a frazzle over what can't be helped? They're sapping the life out of you, and you're doing them no good -- that is, no lasting good. It only affords temporary relief."

"You know nothing about what I am doing," retorted Mary, irritated by his comments and provoked at herself for feeling irritation over what she knew was prompted by friendly interest. Yet when she went to her room after having barely tasted her dinner, she stood a moment in front of the mirror, recalling his remarks. She had to admit that the first was true. There were blue shadows under her eyes. All the fresh color and the sparkle was gone from her face. She looked as she felt, worn and exhausted.

"But I am doing them some good," she protested to herself, and in proof of it took from a drawer the little memorandum book in which she set down her daily expenses. She went back over the accounts of the month just past. Nothing for herself except board and carfare, but the other entries filled several pages: "Ice, fresh eggs, cream, beef juice, ice, alcohol, towels, ice -- "

Each time the word ice met her eye she recalled the parched lips that had moaned for it, the feverish hands that had clutched it so greedily when she brought it, and she thought if Sandford Berry could only see what she had done for some of the poor souls who "got on her nerves" he'd change his opinion about her efforts to help them being of no avail. But the next moment a mood of depression seized her, weighing down on her so heavily that hot tears started to her eyes.

"He's right! It isn't of any lasting good," she thought. "It's like the ice that brings relief for a moment, but is melted and gone the next! And my salary is all gone, and so is nearly everything that I saved the month before. There isn't a dollar left to my credit in the savings bank. What is the use of going on this way, when all one can do amounts to no more than a drop in the bucket?"

Mary had sat up late the night before, finishing a lot of letters that Mrs. Blythe was anxious to have mailed as soon as possible. It was midnight when she covered her typewriter, and the heat and a stray mosquito which had eluded both Mrs. Crum and the screens, made her wakeful and restless. That accounted for her physical exhaustion, while the experiences of the morning were enough to send her spirits to the lowest ebb.

She told herself over and over, as she lay across the bed and tried to reason herself into a more cheerful frame of mind, that it was only natural that she should feel as she did, and that when she was rested the world would look as bright as usual. On account of her late work the night before, Mrs. Blythe had given her nothing to do to-day. It was to see protégés of her own that Mary had gone to the tenements. She might have passed the morning with a book, down on the bank of the river under the willows, where there was a cooling breath now and then from the water. But, haunted by Elsie Whayne's hollow-eyed little face, she could not go off and enjoy her holiday alone in comfort.

For weeks Elsie had seemed burning up with a slow fever, and it was for her Mary had spent the last of her salary on alcohol for cooling rubs, and for ice and for some thin, soft ready-made gowns. Poor little country-bred Elsie, who had cried over her line of gray clothes because she could not wash them clean in the scanty amount of water allotted to each room in the crowded house, cried again over the snowy whiteness of the new gowns. They were such a joy to her that it was pitiful to hear her exclamations over them.

And Mary, seeing the wreck that fever had made of the pretty child, who had come to the tenement abloom with health, wrote down one more black crime against the man who was responsible for the fever, because he would not clean up the plague-infested spots on which it fed and grew.

It is bad enough to be ill when one has every luxury in a quiet room to oneself, where deft-fingered nurses keep noiseless watch to minister to the slightest need; but to suffer as the children of the tenements must, with not even a whole bed to oneself sometimes, oh, the pity of it! And to have to lie as some of them do, all through the stifling days, panting and gasping in the fumes of an ill-smelling lamp, because the four dark walls have not a single window -- oh, the shame of it!

Mary never encountered the first sight without wishing impulsively that her eyes had never been opened to such things. She was so much happier before she knew that such conditions existed in the world. But she never came across the second that a sort of fierce joy did not take possession of her at the thought that she did know, and that she was helping in a fight to wipe out such dreadful holes, which are all that some families have to call home.

She fell asleep presently, and lay motionless until a banana man went by in the street below, with loud cries of his wares underneath her window. Then she roused up with a start, to find herself cramped from long lying in one position with her clothes on.

"I might as well make myself comfortable and spend the whole afternoon resting," she concluded; so slipping off her dress, she opened the closet door to take down a long white kimono which hung on one of the back hooks. In reaching around to get it she upset a pile of boxes on the corner shelf, and one of them tumbled open at her feet. It was full of odds and ends which she did not use often, and as she replaced them her attention was called to the box itself. It was the big one that Lieutenant Boglin had brought to the train filled with candy, the morning that they left San Antonio.

How far away that time seemed, and how far Bogey had dropped out of her life: Bogey and Gay and Roberta and all those other good friends who had filled such a big place in her thoughts. She hadn't heard from any of them for months, and lately she had scarcely thought of them. For that matter Jack and Norman and Joyce and Phil had dropped far into the background. They were no longer her first thought on waking, and the most constant thought throughout the day. It was a different world she was living in now. She wondered what old Captain Doane would think of it; and Pink Upham --  Then she smiled, remembering that it had been weeks since she had given a thought to either of them. And yet, only three months before they had been a part of her daily living and thinking at Lone-Rock.

All at once a longing for the clean, quiet little haven up in the hills came over her like an ache. She was homesick for the restful mountains, where there were no slums, no fever-infested spots such as she had been in all morning, no loathsome mouldy walls, no dank, foul odors. She pictured the little home not as it stood when last she saw it, brightened with all Betty's bridal gifts, with Betty as mistress, but as it was at that last Christmas reunion, in all its dear shabby homeliness. The sun shone in across the clean faded carpet, and every old chair held out its arms in friendly welcome.

She could see herself stepping around the kitchen getting supper. How shiningly clean everything was! What peace brooded over the place, and what a deep sense of calm and well-being and contentment pervaded it. And her mother sat by the window, looking up from her sewing now and then to smile or speak. Sometimes she hummed softly to herself some old tune like Hebron:

"Thus far the Lord hath led me on --  Thus far His power prolongs my days!"

Burying her face in the pillow, Mary cried softly for what could never be again. It seemed to her, for that heart-breaking little while, that all the heaven she could ever ask would be just to go back to the little home and find it as it used to be, with her mother there, and Jack and Norman, nothing changed. She longed to spend the rest of her life right there in that cottage which she had once been so anxious to get away from, doing the same tasks, day after day, that had once seemed so trivial and monotonous. She lay there picturing the whole scene, making herself more miserable every instant, yet finding a sorrowful sort of pleasure in thus torturing herself.

She could recall the very pattern of the oil-cloth on the kitchen floor, the brown crocks, the yellow mixing-bowl, the little black-handled knife she always pared the vegetables with. One by one she took them up. She went the whole narrow round of things, from kindling the fire in the stove with the fresh-smelling pine chips in the box, to putting the tea to brew in the fat little earthenware pot that had been one of Grandmother Ware's treasures. She drew the biscuits from the oven, and brought up the cream and butter from the spotless white cellar. How good and fresh they looked! How good and fresh they tasted!

Faint from having eaten no dinner, it made her sob to think how hungry she was, with a hunger that nothing could appease, since what she wanted most existed only in memory now. She went on with her pictures, summoning the family to the table, hearing Norman's answering whoop from the woodshed, and Jack's hearty "All right! I'll be there in a jiffy, Sis!" Then she sobbed harder than ever, remembering that her summons could never again be answered by an unbroken circle.

Presently, exhausted by the heat, her long fast and her crying spell, she fell into a deep sleep. The banana man passed back again under her window, calling his wares as loudly as before, but she did not hear him. An Italian with a hand-organ stopped in front of the house and ground out several popular noisy airs, but no note of it reached her. There was a dog fight on the corner, a terrific pow-wow of yelps and snarls; still she did not stir. Two, three hours went by. Then she was aroused by a rustling sound at her door, and opening her eyes, saw that some one was slipping a letter under it.

She lay blinking at it lazily for a moment, then, hanging over the side of the bed as far as she could without falling out, tried to pick it up. It was just beyond her reach, but with the aid of a slipper she managed to touch it and drag it near enough to get her fingers on to it. Doubling up the pillow under her head, she lay back, leisurely scanning the envelope. It was post-marked Lone-Rock, and she knew by a glance at the heavily shaded flourishes of the address that it was from Pink Upham.

Earlier in the week, when Riverville was the boundary of her interests, a letter from him would have had scant attention. But coming at this time, when a homesick mood brought the old life so vividly before her that it had suddenly become very dear and desirable, she opened it eagerly. It was the first one she had received from him, for she had told him on leaving Lone-Rock that she could not correspond with him; that she would be too busy with Mrs. Blythe's letters to write many of her own.

As she glanced down the first page she saw why he had disregarded her wishes. He had news of such great importance to himself that he naturally expected her to take a friendly interest in it. She smiled with pleasure as she read. Good old Pink! He deserved to have things come his way. If she hadn't spent so much for the relief of Diamond Row, she would have been tempted to send him a telegram of congratulation. It would please him immensely, she knew. A mine in which he had a small amount of stock that was regarded as almost worthless, had suddenly proved to be valuable, and he had been offered so much for his shares that he could buy out the Company's store at Lone-Rock and build a house bigger and better in every way than Mr. Moredock's. He had closed the deal and bought the store, and he would build the house if -- here Mary turned another page -- if she would consent to become Mrs. Pinckney Upham.

Mary sat straight up in bed, the better to reread this startling paragraph. Her face colored slowly as she rapidly scanned what followed. It was a manly letter, although here and there it sounded as if phrases and whole sentences had been copied from some Guide to Etiquette and Social Correspondence. She had filled his life entirely from the first day of their acquaintance, he told her. She had been an inspiration, a guiding star to all that was high and noble. He loved her devotedly, humbly and more greatly than any woman had ever been loved before, and his whole life should be given to making her happy.

When she had finished, Mary lay back on the pillow and stared out of the window into the branches of a sycamore tree that leaned across it. A very tender feeling crept up into her heart for this man who was offering her so much. She had not realized before what a beautiful, what a solemn thing it was to be counted first in somebody's life; to know that she really was its guiding star, its inspiration. At this distance Pink's little mannerisms, which had always annoyed her, shrank out of sight, and she remembered only how considerate he was, how carefully he remembered every wish, how important he regarded her slightest word. It would be lovely to be taken care of always by one who would do it in such fashion; to be shielded and considered, and surrounded with every comfort that a boundless affection could suggest.

Again it came over Mary with overwhelming force how good it would be to go back to the clean, sweet life of the hills; the simple, wholesome country life that she loved, and never again have to help lift the burden of other people's poverty, or puzzle over the problem of their wrongs. For a little space she lay and imagined what it would be like to be back in Lone-Rock, in the new house Pink would build for her. She could picture that, for she knew that every detail would be planned to accord with her wishes, and she could see just the way it would be furnished, and how she would make it the centre of hospitality and good cheer for all of Lone-Rock; and how she and Betty would visit back and forth, and the family celebrations they'd have on anniversaries and holidays. All this she could see quite clearly and pleasantly. She could even see Pink on the other side of a little table spread for two, praising her muffins, and carefully cutting out the choicest parts of the tenderloin for her. She was positive he would do both.

That might be very pleasant for a few times, but suppose they should live to celebrate their silver wedding? Alack for Pink, that a mental arithmetic problem suddenly popped into her mind!

If there are three meals in one day, and three hundred and sixty-five days in one year, in twenty-five years through how many meals would they have to sit opposite each other? She did not try to multiply the numbers, only whispered in a sort of groan, "there'd be thousands and thousands! I don't believe I could stand it, for no matter how good and kind he is, there's no denying it, his visits always begin to bore me before they're half over!"

She got up and began to dress presently, stopping twice in the process to reread the letter, once with her hair hanging, once with her dress slipped half way on. She wanted to make sure of some sentences which she could not entirely recall.

"I wonder what mamma would say," she thought, wistfully. She walked over to the mantel, where a photograph of Mrs. Ware stood in a silver frame. It was one which Joyce had colored, and was so life-like that Mary's eyes often sought it questioningly. Now she leaned towards it, gazing into the sweet face that seemed to smile helpfully back at her until she found the answer to her own question.

"You always liked him," she whispered. "You always saw the best in him and made excuses for him. You would have been so happy to have had me settle in Lone-Rock if you had been there. But I couldn't care for him as you did for papa, and it wouldn't be right unless I did."

She did not answer the letter then. Just as she was sitting down to supper a telephone message came from Mrs. Blythe, saying that they would call for her in a little while to take her out on the river for a moonlight ride. Mary was glad that the excursion was on one of the big steamboats instead of a little launch, for in the larger party gathered on it, no one noticed when she wandered off by herself and sat apart, leaning against the deck railing, and gazing dreamily over the shining water. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to think of some way to answer Pink, which would hurt him as little as possible. She knew just how he would stride into the post-office and unlock the drawer that held her letter, and how his face would brighten when he saw it. He always did show so plainly everything he felt. And then the grim hurt look would come into his eyes, and she knew just how his mouth would straighten into a grim line when he read it. Oh, for his sake she wished that she didn't have to tell him that what he wanted with all his good, big, generous heart could never be.

Was it the band playing Kathleen Mavourneen, or was it something else that suddenly made her think of Phil and her parting promise to him at Bauer. Some one had come asking her to join his trail, just as Phil had prophesied, but she needn't keep her promise in this case, because there was only one answer possible. She would stick to her own trail and go on her way alone. But -- there was a queer little thrill of comfort in the thought -- somehow it was nice to know that somebody wanted you, and that you didn't have to be an old maid. She would keep that letter always, her first and, probably, her last proposal.

Again the band was repeating that refrain of Kathleen Mavourneen, and the notes rang out tremulously sweet over the water:

"Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?"

She recalled the scrap of music Phil had torn out and sent to her with that question on it, and that suggested the other song, Bonnie Eloise, whose name he had given to the girl with the greyhound. She wondered if Phil ever wrote to her now. Maybe at this very moment he was sitting in his bachelor quarters down in Mexico, looking out at the moonlight and dreaming about Eloise. She hoped not, for somehow, without cause or reason, she had conceived a strong dislike for her.

Some friends of Mrs. Blythe's came hunting Mary just then, to carry her off to the hurricane deck, where something of especial interest was going on. There was no more time for serious meditation, and the combination of youth and mirth and moonlight worked its magical charm. By the time the boat had made its return trip, Mary was restored to her usual normal self, and to the equanimity that the heat and the slums and Pink's letter had upset. When the lights of the town streamed out across the river to meet them, she was rested and refreshed, ready to take up the next day's work with her usual enthusiasm.

It was late when she reached home, but her long sleep in the afternoon made her wakeful, and she sat up till after midnight trying to compose a satisfactory answer to Pink's letter. It was a depressing task, and she tore up page after page, in her effort to make her refusal as kind as possible, and yet to make him understand that it was final.

When it was finished and sealed she drew another envelope towards her, intending to address it to Phil. Then she hesitated and pushed it aside, saying:

"I'd better wait until I'm in a more cheerful frame of mind. If I write now it'll be so full of slums and disappointments that it'll give him the doldrums."



Chapter V

Mary And The "Big Opportunity"


The cheerful frame of mind came soon, but it was nearly a month before that letter was written. Unlike the others which preceded it, this one was not thrust under the rubber band that held the many missives from "The Little Vicar." It was slipped into Phil's pocket; for the package, with all the rest of the contents of the private drawer in his desk, reposed in the bottom of his trunk. His work in Mexico was done and he was starting back to the States.

He had expected to buy his ticket straight through to New York, and retrace his steps as far as Lloydsboro Valley later. Rob Moore had written him that Lloyd was arranging for a house-party during the Thanksgiving holidays, and that he and Alex Shelby and Mary Ware were to be included among the guests, and for him to make his plans accordingly.

Mary's letter also mentioned this house-party. She had been invited but could not accept. She had been too extravagant the month before, she told him in a joking way.

"I have squandered my princely income on paltry trifles, and now must pay the penalty. I must see the door of Paradise slam in my face and shut me away into outer darkness. But, seriously, even if I could afford the trip, I could not take so much time. Mrs. Blythe needs me. We are straining every nerve to accomplish certain things before the next session of the Legislature, when the bill for better housing is to be brought up. Oh, I am sure that you understand, knowing how I love the Valley and the blessed people in it, that a house-party at Oaklea, just that alone, would be little short of heaven for me. But to meet the Best Man there, and Kitty Walton and Katie Mallard and all the rest -- well, I can't talk about it calmly. The thought of missing it is too grievous to mention in public. Enough said. Only the lonely pillow and the midnight hour shall hear my plaint.

"I couldn't possibly bear the disappointment if we were not so busy. Mrs. Blythe is massing her forces like a major-general, and I am too deeply interested in the fight to let my personal affairs stand in the way. Three months ago, in my innocence and ignorance, I could not have believed that any fight would be necessary. I would have taken it for granted that all one had to do was to put the plain facts before the public and show what a danger and disgrace such houses are to a community, and it would rise up of its own accord to change conditions. I was utterly amazed when I found that there are respectable men who not only will do nothing to help, but will throw all their weight on the other side, and spend hundreds of dollars to prevent the passage of such a law.

"And I've learned a lot about politics, too. I've come to see that it's just a great, greedy hand, reaching out to get the best of everything for itself. You don't see how it could want to interfere with anything like giving people decenter houses to live in, and wiping the causes of disease out of the world, but it does, and it dips in just where you'd least expect it. That is why Mrs. Blythe is so anxiously watching the results of the city election, which is to be held next week.

"Mr. Stoner, the owner of Diamond Row, is one of the candidates for office, and if he gets in he'll have it in his power to pull lots of wires against us in the Legislature. There is almost no hope of defeating him. Don't think that Mrs. Blythe has gone in personally for politics or anything like that, because she hasn't. But she has waked up a lot of influential people to work for her cause, and induced one of the foremost men in the senate to introduce the bill. Also she has managed to get an invitation to explain it all to a big audience that will be in the Opera House next week, before the election.

"We are so excited over that, for it is one of the Big Opportunities that we hope will count for a great deal. She has a love of a new gown to wear, and a big black hat with plumes, and her speech is certainly soul-stirring. I wish you could hear her. It's nothing but 'the short and simple annals of the poor,' but when she gets done there won't be 'a dry eye in the house.' That's the highest praise that the Riverville Herald can give, and it gives it to her so often that it has become a household joke at the Blythes."

When Phil slipped this letter into his pocket he had changed his mind about buying a ticket to New York. He had decided to take a roundabout route by way of Riverville, with the privilege of a short stop-over. He intended that Mary should be one of the guests at the house-party, and he knew that the only way to persuade her was to go in person and answer each objection as it was raised. She had written jokingly of her disappointment, but her very effort to make light of it seemed pathetic to him, and showed him how deeply she felt it.

All the way up from Mexico his thoughts kept drifting back to her. He wondered if he would find her greatly changed. She had passed through so much in the time he had been away, yet he was sure that he would find her the same sturdy, valiant little soul that had challenged his admiration when she was a child. He wondered what effect her mother's death had had upon her, and what had been the outcome of her association with a woman like Mrs. Blythe, one who made addresses in public. He hoped that Mary wouldn't imbibe any strong-minded, women's rights notions to detract from her feminine charm. He was glad she had mentioned so enthusiastically the "love of a gown, and the big, black plumed hat" that Mrs. Blythe was to wear.

It would take a great deal to eradicate Mary's love of pretty clothes. That trait of hers had always amused him. He recalled more than one Sunday at Ware's Wigwam when she insisted on putting on her "rosebud sash" to wear walking on the desert, when there was nothing but the owls and the jack-rabbits to take notice. And he recalled the big hat-box she had squeezed into the automobile that day in New York, when he took the girls out to the Wayside Inn, and how blissfully she peeped at the lilac-trimmed concoction within from time to time.

A hot box delayed Phil's train awhile on the first day of his journey, and a disabled engine on another, so that he missed the St. Louis connection, and was a day late getting into Riverville. It happened most unfortunately for his plans and the limited time he had to spare, that it was the very day of the "Big Opportunity," when Mrs. Blythe was to speak in the Opera House, to a crowd which would assemble to hear several other speakers, one of national importance.

Phil did not discover this until after he had reached the hotel. Ha wanted his meeting with Mary to be as great a surprise to her as it had been the day he met her coming across the field of blue-bonnets in Bauer. But he also wanted to be sure of finding her at home when he called. So while he waited for his late luncheon to be served, he walked into the telephone booth and called up the boarding-house. Mrs. Crum took his message, with the answer that Miss Ware had not been at the house for over a week. She had been so busy that she was spending her nights as well as her days with Mrs. Blythe, and probably would not return to her room for another week. She advised him to call up Mr. Dudley Blythe's residence.

The maid answered his ring at that place, and asked that he leave a message for Mrs. Blythe, who was resting and could not be disturbed, as she was to speak at the Opera House in a little while. Miss Ware? No, the maid could not say where she was, but had heard her say something had happened which called her down on Myrtle Street. She knew that Mrs. Blythe had arranged to meet her there in her auto on her way to the Opera House. Probably they would be back about six o'clock.

Phil hung up the receiver impatiently. He hadn't come all the way from Mexico to listen to a speech on housing reform, but, under the circumstances, he had no other choice if he was to find Mary before dark. Then he laughed outright, thinking of her amazement if she should happen to catch sight of him in the audience. He supposed she would naturally sit near the front, and he could easily locate her. He didn't dare run the risk of suddenly sitting down beside her. One never knew what Mary would say or do when very much surprised. It would be better to send an usher with a note, asking her to meet him at the entrance and then -- well, Mary should decide how and where they should spend the rest of the afternoon together. It was a chilly, gray day in early November, a trifle cold either for an auto spin or a ride on the river. But they must go to some place where they could have a long, uninterrupted talk, and he could tell her all he had come to Riverville to say.

With his pulses quickening at the thought, he left the hotel for a brisk walk along the river, until time to go to the place of meeting.

Meanwhile Mary was having an exciting experience down at Diamond Row. A message had called her there just as they arose from the lunch-table.

"Oh, why couldn't it have come sooner," she mourned, "before I was all dressed up so spick and span for your grand speechifying occasion? I always feel as if I ought to be fumigated when I come back from there. More than likely it's just another complaint that old Mrs. Donegan wants to lodge against the universe. She seems to think lately that it owes her a special grudge, and that my ears are Heaven-ordained funnels for her to pour her troubles into."

But it was not Mrs. Donegan's troubles this time which summoned her, although that excitable old woman met her, crying and wringing her hands. It was for a neighbor's misfortunes that she invoked Mary's aid. Dena Barowsky, a frail girl in the room above hers, who supported a family by her work in the factory, had had a bad fall.

"Both legs broken and all hurted inside she is!" wailed Mrs. Donegan, eager to be the first to tell the bad news.

"Where is she?" asked Mary. "Where did it happen? At the factory?"

Half a dozen eager voices interrupted each other to tell her. It seemed as if all the inmates of the tenement had gathered on the stairs and the landing to discuss the accident in sympathizing little groups. It was something which might have happened to any one of them. Dena Barowsky had come home from the factory at noon to fix a bite and sup for her old father, who was worse than usual, and while going down the rickety stairs to the cellar for some reason, had fallen. A loose board had tripped her, so that she pitched against the bannister, which was so rotten that it broke under her weight, and she fell headlong into the cellar.

A doctor was in the room with her now, examining to find how badly she was hurt, Mrs. Donegan explained. The saints only knew what would become of the family if it should be so that she was laid up long. Her father was bedridden, and her mother so queer in her head that she did nothing but sit in a corner and mutter to herself all day long. Luckily there wasn't more than a foot of water in the cellar, and they got her out right away. It had been half full when little Terence Reilly fell in, for that was the time of the backwater in the spring freshets.

Following half a dozen self-appointed guides, Mary picked her way to the stairway and looked down. The broken piece of rotten timber, the gaping hole in the splintered bannister, the dark gleam of the water beneath, told their own story. One long, horrified look was enough for Mary. The others hung over the spot as if it held some unexplainable fascination, pointing out the step which tripped her first, the rusty nail to which still clung a shred of her dress torn out in falling, the jagged splinter that must have been the one which made the gash in her face.

With a shudder Mary turned away and asked to be taken to Dena's room. At the opening of the door a strong odor of anesthetics rose above the mouldy smell of the unventilated apartment, which was made still closer by the inquisitive neighbors whom the doctor's orders had not been able to bar out. Despite his sternness they gathered in the corners, watching the white-faced girl on the bed. She was moaning, though unconscious. This was not the first time Mary had met the young doctor in such places. He looked up with evident relief at her entrance.

"It's a case for a district nurse," he said, when he had explained briefly in a low tone the seriousness of the injuries. He spoke purposely in medical terms so that the old father, sobbing childishly on the opposite bed, could not understand the gravity of the situation.

"I'll find the nurse at once and send her just as soon as possible," promised Mary. "I can telephone from the corner grocery."

She hurried out, thankful for the Organized Charities which made such help possible, and remembering with a queer mixture of resentment and gratitude that it was the owner of this disgraceful Diamond Row, Mr. Stoner himself, who had made such a generous contribution to the Association that they were able to hire an extra nurse for this part of town.

"If he had only gone at the root of the matter," wailed Mary, inwardly, "and used the 'ounce of prevention,' there would have been no need for this great 'pound of cure.' There wouldn't have been this dreadful accident."

At the foot of the landing she was halted again by old Mrs. Donegan, who was haranguing an interested crowd while she waited for Mary's appearance. She was waving a time-yellowed and tattered newspaper in their faces, and calling attention to the headlines and pictures on the front page.

"We want you should take it to Mrs. Blythe, and let her put it in the great speech she'll be after making this day. The whole town ought to know what happened this ten years gone on account of that same stairway. Mrs. Reilly didn't want to let the paper go. She couldn't bear the thought of losing that picture of little Terence. But I took it from her, and told her you'd never let it out of your hands till you brought it back safe to her. That it was for the good of us all you'd be using it."

The telephone was in use when Mary entered the grocery, and while she waited for her turn, she glanced through the paper that Mrs. Donegan had thrust into her hands. She had already seen the marked account of the funeral on one of her visits to old Mrs. Reilly, for she had been asked on that trying occasion to read it aloud; but she had not read until now the article on the opposite page, which gave a graphic description of the tenement in which the accident occurred, and which indignantly called attention to the criminal negligence which had caused the death of a tenant. No names were given, but Mary knew that Burke Stoner owned the premises then, and that in the ten years he had collected nearly fifty thousand dollars in rents from the inmates of Diamond Row. She had been busy collecting statistics as well as other kinds of information since her first interview with his agent, and the recording angel was not the only one who had a long list of black figures set down against his name. Mary kept hers on a page by itself in a neat little memorandum book, biding her time to sound the promised trumpet before him.

It was a very grim and determined Mary who came out of the corner grocery five minutes later. She had been able to locate the nurse much sooner than she expected to, and was on her way back to Dena's room to report that help was coming. And when a little later the honk of Mrs. Blythe's machine sounded at the curbstone in front of Diamond Row, she climbed into her seat beside her friend without a glance at the new gown and the picture hat she was wearing for the first time. That omission in itself showed Mrs. Blythe that something was wrong, for usually Mary was keenly interested in her appearance, and never failed to express her admiration of anything which she especially admired.

"What's gone wrong?" asked Mrs. Blythe, as they whirled around a corner and turned into a pleasanter part of the town.

For once Mary waited before speaking, taking a deep breath and pressing her lips tightly together. Then she answered in a tense way:

"I feel as if I'd witnessed a murder! I can't get poor Dena's moans out of my ears, nor the sight of that broken stairway with the water underneath out of my mind!" Then reminded by the perplexed expression of Mrs. Blythe's face that she was talking in riddles, she gave an account of the accident, and repeated old Mrs. Donegan's plea that the story of the staircase with its double tragedy be told that afternoon, in order that public sentiment might be aroused in behalf of the people of the tenements.

"I wish it had been Mr. Stoner himself who fell through those rotten stairs!" stormed Mary, her face white with indignation and her eyes blazing angrily. "I never felt such a mighty wrath rise up in me before! I could stop right here on the street corner and call out his name so all the town could hear. I'd like to shout 'Here's your model citizen! Here's the kind, benevolent man who buys your praise with his gifts to the poor. Look what he has done for the Reillys and for Dena!' It isn't as if he didn't know what condition the place is in. He'd been warned that the steps were unsafe, even before the first accident. And to think he let it go on ten years after it had been condemned and cost one life -- "

She stopped abruptly, finding words futile to express her feelings, and Mrs. Blythe, taking the crumpled sheet, hastily scanned it. They were turning into Main Street when she finished, and with a glance at the clock in the front of the car she told the chauffeur to go around by Mr. Blythe's office.

"It may make us a little late for the first speech," she said, "but I must ask Mr. Blythe's advice. I shall tell this story of the two accidents of course. It will illustrate one point I am trying to make better than anything else I could say. But I don't know how personal I ought to make it. It would be a centre shot at the enemy, and might help to defeat Stoner in the election day after to-morrow if I could mention him by name, and emphasize the big rents he collects from those working girls and factory men, but it may not be wise for me to do it, in the interest of the bill. It might antagonize all his party, as he is one of the most influential of the local bosses. I must ask Mr. Blythe just how far I can go."

Two minutes later they stopped at the office, and Mary, watching from her seat in the car, saw Mrs. Blythe go in and the stenographer rise hurriedly from her desk beside the big front window, and come forward. Evidently what she was telling Mrs. Blythe was very unexpected and agitating, for she came out looking pale and frightened, and spoke only the one word, "Home," as she sank back limply in her seat.

"Dudley was taken suddenly ill a little while ago," she explained in hurried gasps. "Miss Nellie says it was something like an apoplectic stroke. They have been telephoning everywhere to find me. It must have happened just as I left the house. They have taken him home in an ambulance. Hurry, Hardy!"

Except for Mary's shocked exclamation of sympathy and alarm, no word was spoken until the house was reached. Mary ran up the stairs with Mrs. Blythe, stood a moment in the upper hall when the other left her, and then went on to the alcove at the end, which had been fitted up as a little office. There she sat down to wait. Three physicians, personal friends of Dudley Blythe, were in the room with him. The housemaid was running back and forth getting what was necessary, and the next door neighbor had come in.

There was nothing that Mary could do, and the moments of waiting seemed endless. A programme of the afternoon's meeting lay on the desk, and from time to time she glanced at it nervously, and then at the clock. The time for the first speech passed. The second one must have been well under way when Mrs. Blythe came out into the hall and saw her sitting in the alcove. Mary started up and went towards her impulsively, both hands out.

"Oh, isn't there something I can do?" she whispered.

"Not in there," was the answer in a low tone. "The doctors give me every encouragement to believe that he will come out of this all right, but I don't know -- I'm so frightened and upset."

She passed her hand across her eyes, as if trying to remember something, then exclaimed, "It's just come to me! I had forgotten about that meeting. It's almost time for me to go on to speak, but, of course, I can't do that now. I couldn't leave him in the critical condition he is in, no matter what is at stake. There's only one thing to do, and that is to send you in my place. You'll have to go, Mary, and tell them why I couldn't come, and explain what it is that -- "

"Oh, Mrs. Blythe!" interrupted Mary, aghast. "I couldn't! I couldn't possibly! There's not a moment to prepare for it!"

"But you must," was the answer in a tone so firm and compelling that it brooked no denial.

"There's no other way out -- you know every phase of the situation. You've explained it over and over in your letters and to small audiences. Your sympathies have just been worked up to white heat by Dena's accident --  Oh, you're splendidly prepared, and you can't fail me now, Mary. Not at a time like this!"

Her voice broke and the tears came into her eyes, at which sight Mary drew one deep breath and surrendered.

"Well -- I'll do the best I can," she promised, "but I've barely time to get there."

With one squeeze of the hands which she had caught in hers, Mrs. Blythe released her, saying gratefully, "Oh, I knew you wouldn't fail me! Go -- and Godspeed!"

Breathless, speechless, Mary found herself climbing into the automobile, with a dazed feeling, as if some one had sounded an alarm of fire and she was blindly fumbling her way through smoke. In a vague way she was conscious that she was facing one of the big moments of her life, and she wondered why, when she needed to centre all her thoughts on the ordeal that confronted her, they should slip backward to a trivial thing that had happened years ago at Lloydsboro Valley.

It was at the tableau at The Beeches, when the curtain was rising on the scene of Elaine the Lily Maid, lying on her funeral barge, in her right hand the lily, in her left the letter. Miss Casey, the reader, had lost her copy of the poem, and everything was going wrong because there was no one to explain the tableau, and Mary sprang to the rescue. She could hear her own voice ringing out, beginning the story: "And that day there was dole in Astalot!" And she could feel the Little Colonel's arms around her afterward, as she cried, "You were a perfect darling to save the day that way." And Phil had come up and called her a brick and the heroine of the evening. Now she wondered why that scene in detail should come back so vividly, until something seemed to tell her she was to take it as a sort of prophecy that she was to be as successful in her second rising to meet an emergency as she was in her first.

When she entered the side door of the hall, the speaker whose place on the programme immediately preceded Mrs. Blythe's had just taken his seat in the midst of hearty applause, and the orchestra had begun a short selection. In the shelter of some large palms at the side of the stage she gave the chairman Mrs. Blythe's message, and sat down to wait. The orchestra sounded as if it were miles away. She had often used the expression, a sea of faces. As she looked across the expanse of those upturned before her now, they seemed indeed a sea, and took on a wave-like motion that made her dizzy. Then she happened to glance down at the little signet ring she always wore. "By the bloodstone on her finger" she must fail not in proving that undaunted courage was the jewel of her soul.

When she looked out again, through the screen of palms, she could distinguish individual faces in the great mass. There was Judge Brown and Senator Ripley and Doctor Haverhill. And down in front, at the reporters' table, was Orphant Annie. She couldn't help smiling as she anticipated his surprise when he should see her taking Mrs. Blythe's place. He was so close that he had already caught sight of her, and his pale, prominent eyes were gazing at her with a solemn, quizzical expression which made her smile. The thought of the surprise in store for him steadied her nerves, and as she began to enjoy the humor of the situation, gradually the loud knocking at her heart quieted. The buzzing in her ears stopped. Her icy cold hands, which she had been holding clenched, relaxed and grew warm again, and she came consciously out of what seemed to be a waking dream.

Then the call of the hour marshalled all the forces of her mind in orderly array. The vital words to say, the vital thing to do stood clearly before her. With her fear all gone she looked out across the house waiting for her summons to speak. When she rose it was with Mrs. Blythe's "Godspeed" giving her courage. When she went forward, it was with the exalted feeling of a soldier into whose hand a falling general has thrust a sword, and commanded him to take a rampart. She would do it or die.



Chapter VI

Phil Walks In


Meanwhile, Phil Tremont, on the outer edge of the big audience, looked in vain for Mary or for some one answering to the description she had given of Mrs. Blythe. Several times he shifted his seat, slipping farther around towards the stage. In one of the brief intervals between speeches, while the orchestra played, he questioned an usher, and found that Mrs. Blythe had not yet arrived, and that when she came she would probably wait in one of the wings until time to be introduced to the audience.

With an impatient glance at his watch he changed his seat once more, this time to one in the section nearest the stage, but still in a back row. He wanted to make sure of seeing Mary before she could see him. He decided that if she did not make her appearance by the time Mrs. Blythe arrived he would go back behind the scenes and look for her. Maybe Mrs. Blythe would station her there somewhere as prompter, for fear that she might forget her speech. If that were the case it would be a pity to distract the prompter's attention, but it was a greater pity that the few hours he had to spend with her should be wasted in idle waiting.

Several people who had glanced up admiringly at the handsome stranger when he took his seat, watched with interest his growing impatience. It was evident that he was anxiously waiting for some one, from the way he alternately scanned the entrance, looked at his watch and referred to the programme. When Mrs. Blythe's name on it was reached he leaned forward, clutching the back of the chair in front of him impatiently till the chairman came to the front of the stage.

The next instant such an audible exclamation of surprise broke from him that several rows of heads were turned inquiringly in his direction. He felt his face burn, partly from having attracted so much attention to himself, partly from the surprise of the moment. For following the chairman came not the dainty little Mrs. Blythe in her love of a new gown and the big plumed hat, but Mary herself. There was such a pounding in Phil's ears that he scarcely heard the chairman's explanation of Mrs. Blythe's absence, and his announcement that Miss Ware had brought a message from her to which they would now listen.

Several curious emotions possessed him in turn, after his first overwhelming surprise. One was a little twinge of resentment at her speaking in public. Not that he was opposed to other women doing it, but somehow he wished that she hadn't attempted it. Then he felt the anxiety and sense of personal responsibility one always has when a member of one's own family is in the limelight. No matter how competent he may be to rise to the occasion, there is always the lurking dread that he may fail to acquit himself creditably.

Phil had been thinking of Mary as he saw her that last morning in Bauer, all a-giggle and a-dimple and aglow, romping around the kitchen with Norman, till the tinware clattered on the walls. But it was a very different Mary who faced him now, with the old newspaper in her hand and the story of Dena's wrongs burning to be told on her lips. It is proof of how well she told it that her opening sentence brought a hush over the great audience and held it in absolute silence to the end. And yet she told it so simply, so personally, that it was as if she had merely opened a door into Diamond Row and bidden them see for themselves the windowless rooms, the mouldy walls, the slimy yards, Elsie Whayne and Dena, and the old grandmother fondling the sunny curls of little Terence.

When she finished, old Judge Brown was wiping his eyes, and portly Doctor Haverhill was adding to the general din of applause by pounding on the floor with his gold-headed cane. The chairman rose to announce the last speaker on the programme, but Phil did not wait for anything more. He had seen Mary pick up the coat which she had left hanging on the chair behind the palms, and leave the platform. At the same time Sandford Berry started up from his place at the reporters' table and hurried after her.

Immediately Phil slipped from his seat and dashed down the aisle along the side wall, to the door leading into one of the wings. Not familiar with the back exits, he stumbled into several wrong passages before he found some one to start him in the right direction. Despite his haste, when he reached the street, Mrs. Blythe's automobile was just whirling away from the curbstone, and Sandford Berry was coming back from putting Mary into it. He had the newspaper in his hand which she had brought from Diamond Row. It was for that he had hurried after her, promising to use it to good advantage and return it to her in the morning. She had refused at first, remembering old Mrs. Donegan's caution not to let it out of her hands, and it was that brief parley which held her long enough for Phil to reach the street and catch a fleeting glimpse of her.

He looked around for a taxicab or a carriage, but there was none in sight. A policeman on the next corner directed him to a trolley car, and told him where to transfer in order to reach Dudley Blythe's residence. As he swung up on to the platform of the car he looked at his watch again. It was half-past four o'clock. It was past five when he reached the house. A tie-up of cars on the track ahead was accountable for the delay.

Mary, in the machine and by a more direct route, had reached home nearly half an hour before. She found a trained nurse in attendance on Mr. Blythe. He had regained consciousness and, though still unable to speak, was so much better that they were sure of his ultimate recovery. Mrs. Blythe came out into the hall to tell her the good news.

"There's no need to ask you how you got through," she exclaimed, slipping an arm around her in an impulsive embrace.

"I know you did splendidly, and I'll be in your room in a few minutes to hear all about it. Now, run along and lie down awhile. You look so white and tired -- no wonder, after all you've been through to-day."

If Mary had been at the boarding-house she would have thrown herself down on the bed and gone without her supper. She felt so exhausted and collapsed. But under the circumstances she felt that the obligations of a guest required her to keep going. The evening meal was always somewhat of a formal affair here, but she decided not to dress for it as usual. Mr. Blythe's illness would change everything in that regard. She was so tired she would just bathe her face and brush her hair while she still had energy enough to move, and then would stretch out in the big lounging chair in the firelight, and be ready for Mrs. Blythe any time she might happen to come in. It took only a few moments to do all this, and just as she finished, Mrs. Blythe came in with a cup of hot tea.

"Drink it and don't say a word until you have finished," she ordered.

Mary obeyed the first part, sipping the tea slowly as she lay back luxuriously in the big chair, but she couldn't help commenting on the strange, strange day that had brought so many unexpected things to pass.

"Isn't it a blessed good thing," she exclaimed, "that we can't know when we get up in the morning all that the day has in store for us? You'd have been nearly crazy if you'd known all day that Mr. Blythe was going to have that stroke of paralysis, and I'd simply have gone up in the air if I had dreamed that I had to take your place on the programme. Nothing could have happened that would have surprised me more."

But even while she spoke a still greater surprise was in store for her. Both had heard the doorbell ring a moment before, but neither had paid any attention to it. Now the maid came in with a message for Mary.

"A gentleman in the library to see you, Miss Ware. He wouldn't give his name. He just said to tell you that he was an old friend passing through town, and that he couldn't go till he had seen you."

"Who can it be?" exclaimed Mary, pulling herself slowly up from the sleepy hollow chair, much puzzled. "If it's an old friend, it must be some one from Lloydsboro Valley. Everybody else is too far away to drop in like that. But why didn't he send up his card, I wonder?"

"Probably because he wants to surprise you," answered Mrs. Blythe. "If it's any one you'd care to invite to dinner, feel perfectly free to do so."

With a word of thanks and a hasty peep into the mirror, Mary started down stairs, wondering at every step whom she would find. Time had been when she would have pictured an imaginary suitor waiting for her below, for it had been one of her pastimes when she was a child to manufacture such mythical personages by the score. What they were like depended on what she had just been reading. If fairy-tales, then it was a blond-haired prince who came to her on bended knee to kiss her hand and beg her to fly with him upon his coal-black steed to his castle. If she had been dipping into some forbidden novel like Lady Agatha's Career, then the fond suppliant was a haughty duke whom she spurned at first, but graciously accepted afterward. Through many a day-dream, slender lads and swarthy knights in armor, dauntless Sir Galahads and wicked St. Elmos had sued for her favor in turn, with long and fervent speeches. She did not know that there was any other way. And it had always been in moon-lighted gardens that these imaginary scenes took place, with nightingales singing in rose vines and jessamine arbors.

She had quit dreaming of such things since she came to Riverville. Romance had little place in the hard, sad world with which her work brought her in contact. So no such fancies passed through her mind now as she went down the stairs; nothing but a keen curiosity to know which of her old friends it was who waited below.

Dusk had fallen early that gray November evening, but the library was aglow with the cheerful light of an open fire. Some one stood before it, gazing down into the dancing flames, a tall, familiar figure, broad-shouldered and erect. There was no mistaking who it was waiting there in the gloaming. Only one person in all the world had that lordly turn of the head, that alert, masterful air, and Mary acknowledged to herself with a disquieting throb of the pulses that he was the one person in the world whom of all others she wished most to see.

"Oh, Phil!" she cried happily from the doorway.

He had not heard her coming down the stairs and along the hall, so softly was it carpeted, but at the call he turned and came to meet her, both hands out, his handsome face suddenly radiant, as if the sight of her brought unspeakable pleasure. Not a word did he say as he reached out and took her hands in his and looked down into her upturned face. But his eyes spoke. Their very smile was a caress, and the strong, warm hands clasping hers closed over them as if they had just found something that belonged to them and were taking undisputed possession.

There was no need for him to tell her all that he had come to say. She felt it throbbing through the silence that was as solemn as a sacrament. Their eyes looked into each other's searchingly. Then, as if from the beginning of time they had been moving towards this meeting, he announced simply, "I've come for you, dear. I'm starting on a new trail now, and I can't go without you."

If that first hour of their betrothal had little need of words, there was call for much speech and many explanations before he bade her good night. Mary learned first, to her unbounded amazement, how near he had come to asking her to marry him more than two years before, when he parted from her in Bauer.

"But you were not more than half-way grown up then," he said. "I realized it when I saw you romping around with Norman. I couldn't say anything then because it didn't seem fair to you. But I had to bind you in some way. That's why I made you promise what you did about letting me know if any other man ever crossed your trail. I wanted to claim you then and there and make sure of you, for I've always felt in some way or another we belonged to each other. I've felt that ever since I first knew you, Little Vicar."

There flashed across Mary's mind the remembrance of a conversation she had overheard on the porch at The Locusts one night, and of Phil's voice singing to Lloyd, to the accompaniment of a guitar:

"Till the stars are old, And the sun grows cold, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold."

But if the faintest spark of jealousy glowed in Mary's heart, it was extinguished at once and forever by another recollection -- a remark of Phil's as they once waited on the side-track together, going up to Bauer after the San Jacinto festival. It was just after she had confessed to the unconscious eavesdropping that made her a hearer of that song.

"Yes," he said, "that time will always be one of the sweetest and most sacred of my memories. One's earliest love always is, they say, like the first white violet in the spring. But -- there is always a summer after every spring, you know."

Who cares for one little violet of a bygone spring when the prodigal wealth of a whole wonderful summertime is being poured out for one? So when Phil said again musingly, "It does seem strange, how we've always belonged to each other, doesn't it?" Mary looked up with a twinkling smile to say:

"How could it be otherwise with Philip and Mary on a shilling?" And then she showed him the old English shilling which she wore on her watch-fob, the charm which she had drawn from Eugenia's wedding cake. To Phil's unbounded amusement she told the story of dropping it into the contribution plate that Christmas service, and getting lost in the streets of New York in trying to rescue it from the bank where it had been taken for deposit.



Chapter VII

Her Great Renunciation


Mary went back to her work next day, but not to the same old treadmill. It could never be that again. The thought that Phil was waiting for her, working to provide a home for her, glorified the most commonplace day, and came between her and her most disagreeable tasks. It was uppermost in her mind when she made her visits to the tenements, and often caused her to pause and ask herself why the gods had picked her out to make her the most blessed among mortals. What had she done that life should bestow so much more on her than it had on poor Dena and Elsie Whayne?

Somehow the sharp contrast between her lot and theirs hurt her more each time that it was forced upon her notice. It began to make her feel personally responsible, if not for the difference between them, at least for making that difference less. Why she owed it to them to do anything to make their lives more livable, she could not tell, but the obligation to do so weighed upon her more heavily every day.

Maybe if her endeavors had not been so effectual she might not have felt the obligation so keenly, but she could not fail to see the difference that her visits made to the families in the Row. Sometimes she counted over the things she accomplished, as one might count the beads of a rosary, not from any sense of pride in what she had done, but as a sort of self-justification; asking herself, since she had done that much, could more be reasonably expected.

It was through her efforts that Dena was sent to a hospital and some one provided to take care of the invalid father and demented mother. It was because she had interested charitable people in their behalf that Elsie Whayne found a home in the country once more, and old Mrs. Donegan's eyes had such skilful treatment from a specialist that she was able to use them again. There were a dozen instances like that, but best of all, she realized that she was responsible in a direct way for the miraculous change that took place in Diamond Row itself.

The morning that Phil went away she was too much occupied to care for such trivial matters as the daily papers. She did not even glance at the Riverville Herald to see if it mentioned the fact that she had taken Mrs. Blythe's place on the programme. It was not until late that afternoon that she found there was quite a glowing tribute to her ability as a speaker. Sandford Berry had written it. He had also done more. In a way they have in newspaper offices he had taken the paper that Mary loaned him, traced the article denouncing Burke Stoner to its source, and found that the man who had written it was now a prominent lawyer in Riverville. He had been employed on the editorial staff of the Herald for a short time ten years before. Armed with permission to use his name if necessary, in verifying the article, Sandford Berry had electrified the town the morning after Mary's talk, by printing her description of Diamond Row, and her burning appeal to the people of Riverville to rise up and wipe out the disgrace in their midst. She had not mentioned Burke Stoner's name, nor was her name mentioned in connection with this article. It was for political reasons solely that the Herald made capital of it, stringing sensational headlines across the front page in startling black letters: "One of to-morrow's candidates responsible for death of one tenant and maybe two. Shameful condition of Tenth and Myrtle Street tenements, from which millionaire owner collects many thousands a year rental."

There was a picture of Burke Stoner, surrounded by a circle of condemning snapshots of the basement room which had filled Mary with such horror on her first visit, the stairway labelled "Death-trap of ten years' standing," and a portrait of little Terence Reilly, reproduced from the first paper.

Next morning Sandford Berry called her over the telephone to say gleefully, "Well, it did the work! Coming as it did the last minute before election it simply wiped Stoner off the map. He was defeated overwhelmingly, and, between you and me and the gate-post, it was your speech that did it. I took the liberty of appropriating it without giving you any credit, for I knew that you wouldn't want to be mixed up in a mess like that. Didn't I tell you that you'd be the biggest beacon fire in the lot when you once got a-going? Well, you've started a blaze now that'll rage a bit. Tell Mrs. Blythe that she'll have no trouble now in getting the city ordinance she wanted, providing building inspectors. This Board of Aldermen is hot for it, now that Stoner is out of the way, and losing this election is going to cripple his influence through all this part of the state. It'll help the bill you want to put through the next session more than you realize. You didn't have any idea how far your little candle was throwing its beams when you made that speech, did you, Miss Mary? Well, it's indeed a good deed you did for this naughty world."

"That's just Orphant Annie's extravagant way of putting things," thought Mary, as she hung up the receiver. "My part in it wouldn't have amounted to a row of pins if he hadn't written it up so vividly with all those scare headlines. But, still, I did start it all," she acknowledged to herself, "and it's something to have done that."

For a moment she was elated by the sense of power that thrilled her. But the thought that followed had a queer chilling effect. If she could start such forces in motion for the betterment of the human beings around her, had she any right to turn her back on this work which she knew she was called to, just as definitely as Joan of Arc was called to her mission?

Phil's coming had made her forget for a little space what she had been so very sure of for many months, that she had been set apart for some high destiny, too great to allow her own personal considerations to interfere. Now, at his call, she was about to forsake her first tryst and turn to him. In just a little while she would leave it all and give herself wholly to him. Was it right? Was it right?

That question troubled her oftener as the days went by. Not when his letters came and his strong personality seemed to fold protectingly about her while she read, shutting out the doubts which troubled her. Not when she sat with his picture before her, tracing its outlines over and over with adoring eyes. Not when she gave herself up to dreams of the little home he wrote about frequently. The little home she would know so well how to make into a real hearts' haven. She blessed the old days of hard times and hard work now, for the valuable lessons they had taught her.

But "is it right? Is it right to fail in the keeping of my first tryst for this one of purely selfish pleasure?" she asked herself when she saw the changes that were being wrought in Diamond Row. Before the winter went by it had been transformed. It was not the sting of defeat which drove Burke Stoner to do it, nor the sting of public opinion aroused against him, but the pride of his own daughter, a girl of Mary's age, when she learned the facts in the case.

She chanced to be in the audience the day when Mary made her appeal, and unaware that it was her father's property that was being described, was one of the most thoroughly aroused listeners in the whole audience. But when she saw her father's picture in the paper next day, set in the midst of others, proclaiming him a disgrace to good citizenship, her mortification at being thus publicly shamed was something pitiful to see. Hitherto it had been her pride to see his name heading popular subscription lists, and to hear him spoken of as the friend of the poor, on account of liberal donations.

Nobody knew what kind of a scene took place when she read the condemning headlines, but it was reported that she locked herself in her room and refused to see her father for several days. She was his only child and his idol, and she had to be pacified at any cost. So she had her way as usual, this time to the transforming of the whole of Diamond Row, and the comfort of its inmates.

It began with drains and city water-works to supplant the infected cistern. It moved on to paint and plaster and new floors, to the putting in of a skylight in two dark rooms, and the cutting of windows in the third. And, more than that, it led to the opening of both skylight and windows into the sympathies of Burke Stoner's petted daughter, and led her out of her round of self-centred thoughts to unselfish interest in her unfortunate neighbors. It is a question which of the two gained the greatest inrush of sunshine by those openings.

Mary, watching all this, felt alternately exultant that she had been the means of starting these blessed changes, and depressed by the thought that she would be doing wrong if she turned her back on the opportunity of continuing such work. Thanksgiving went by and the first of December. As the shops began to put on holiday dress Mary began to be more depressed than ever. The burden of her poor people pressed upon her more sorely each day that she listened to their stories of the hard winter and their struggle to make both ends meet. But more depressing still were the times when old Mrs. Donegan begged her to come often, and called down the blessing of all the saints in the calendar upon her head, and told her tearfully that it would be a sorry day for the Row that took her away from it.

"It's God's own blessing you've been to the whole tenement!" she proclaimed volubly on every occasion, and, remembering the changes that had been brought about directly and indirectly by her efforts, Mary knew that it was so, and felt all the more strongly that she would be doing wrong to abandon the work.

Mr. Blythe was able to be out again by Christmas time. The two boys came home for the holidays, and for two weeks Mary helped with the entertaining that went on in the big house. There was no question now of her going back to the boarding-house at Mrs. Crum's. Mrs. Blythe said that having once experienced the comfort of having a daughter in the house, she could not dispense with her. She could go off to the capital now with a free conscience, leaving Mary in charge of the establishment. So, in January she went, and for several weeks waited for the bill to come up before the Legislature; busy weeks in which she was occupied all day long in making new friends for her cause.

Then she wrote home cheerfully that the bill had come up. There had been much opposition, and it had been cut down and amended till it would fit only the larger cities of the state. They had gained only a part of what they had asked for, but that was something, and they would go on awakening public sentiment until the next session, and bring it up again. The fight would have to be made all over again, but they would make it valiantly, hoping for absolute victory next time. She would be home in a few days.

Up till this time Mary had not realized how anxiously she was looking forward to the passage of the bill. Upon its fate depended her own, for as one draws straws to decide a matter, she had made up her mind to let its outcome settle the question which had troubled her so long. If it went through successfully, and the State thus proved that it was fully awake to its duty, then she would feel that her obligation was ended. That was the specific work she had pledged herself to do. But if it failed -- well, it would break her heart, but she'd have to keep the tryst, no matter what it cost her.

Her intense desire for its success gradually led her to feel that it was assured, and the news of only a partial victory left her as undecided as before. To escape the mood of depression which seized her the snowy Sunday night before Mrs. Blythe's return, she put on her wraps and slipped out to a little church in the next block, hoping to find some word to quiet her unrest, either in song, service or sermon. She sat listening almost feverishly till the minister announced his text: "No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God."

It was a sermon extolling sacrifice. The minister, a young man with a thin, earnest face and deep-set eyes that burned like two dark fires, seemed to know no call of the flesh. It was all of the spirit. One after another he cited the examples of the Father Damiens, the Florence Nightingales of the world, till the whole noble army of martyrs, the goodly company of the Apostles were marshalled before Mary's accusing conscience, and she felt herself condemned as unfit to stand with them, wholly unfit for the kingdom. The closing hymn was as accusing as the sermon:

"The Son of God goes forth to war. Who follows in His train?

.   .   .   .   .   .

Who best can drink his cup of woe, triumphant over pain, Who patient bears his cross below, he follows in His train."

She went away with those lines repeating themselves in her ears. It was still early when she went home, but Mr. Blythe had retired, so telling the maid to close the house for the night, she went up to her own room, where the fire burned cheerfully in the grate. She drew up a little table before it and brought out her writing material. She had made up her mind to make the supreme sacrifice of her life, even if it killed her.

"Keep tryst or die!" she sobbed, as she took up her pen. "Oh, Phil! How can I write it, that I must give you up?"

It took a long time to tell him. She wanted to make it perfectly clear to him that it was breaking her heart to do it. She was afraid he wouldn't understand how she felt about not being fit for the kingdom, and it was hard to put down in black and white such a deeply personal, such a spiritual thing as that experience of hearing the voices and answering the call. But in no other way could she explain. Twice she broke down utterly, and with her head on her arms on the little table, cried and sobbed with long shuddering gasps that shook her convulsively. Once she threw the half-finished letter into the fire, saying fiercely in a low tone, "I can't! Oh, I can't! It would be giving up more than Father Damien did. It's more than I can bear!"

But she remembered again those awful words, "No man, putting his hand to the plough" --  This was looking back. She took another sheet of paper and patiently rewrote all that was on the sheets she had just burned. It was nearly morning when she finally sealed the envelope and crept into bed exhausted by the ordeal. There was no sense of "rising triumphant over pain" to reward her for her sacrifice, but her stern little Puritan conscience found a dreary sort of comfort in the thought that she had followed duty, and that nothing else mattered.

"One doesn't have to be happy," she told herself, over and over.

When she awoke next morning and remembered what she had done, the bottom seemed to drop out of the whole universe, and she felt a hundred years old as she moved languidly about the room at her dressing.

"But I can't go on this way," she exclaimed, catching a glimpse of her wan-eyed reflection in the mirror. "Such a half-hearted sort of giving won't do any good. I shall have to do as the nuns do when they shut their convent gate on the world, shut it entirely and forever. I shall have to put away everything that reminds me of Phil."

She glanced around the room. How many reminders there were, for she had always treasured everything he had ever sent her; books, pictures, little curios picked up on his travels. Even an odd stone he had found on the desert and brought into the Wigwam one day, she used now as a paperweight. An Indian basket he had bought from an old squaw at Hole-in-the-rock held her sewing materials. Just under her hand on the table lay the little book he had given her to read on the train when she was starting home after Jack's accident, "The Jester's Sword." As she fingered it caressingly, it seemed to open of its own accord to the fly-leaf, where was printed the line from Stevenson: "To renounce when that shall be necessary and not be embittered." And then on the opposite page -- "Because he was born in Mars' month the bloodstone became his signet, sure token that undaunted courage would be the jewel of his soul."

She had thought those lines were wonderfully helpful when she offered them to Jack as an inspiration to renew his courage, but what a hollow mockery they seemed now that the time had come to apply them to her own case. Still, the thought of the brave Jester persisted, and was with her when she went down to breakfast, and later when she went to the station to meet Mrs. Blythe. She, too, would wear her sword of conquest so hidden, and unbeknown, even to those who walked closest to her side.

Almost feverishly she threw herself into the duties of the next few days, glad that an accumulation of letters on Mrs. Blythe's desk kept her busy at the typewriter all morning, and that some investigating for the Associated Charities kept her tramping about the streets the rest of the time, until nightfall. She thought that she was hiding her secret so successfully that no one imagined she had one. She talked more than usual at the table, she laughed at the slightest excuse, she joined spiritedly in the repartee at dinner, a time when they nearly always had guests. But keen-eyed Mrs. Blythe saw several things in the course of the week. She noticed her lack of appetite, the long spells of abstraction that came sometimes after her merriest outbursts; the deep shadows under her eyes of a morning, as if she had passed many sleepless hours.

Then going into her room one day it occurred to her that Phil's pictures were missing. There had been several, so prominently placed on mantel, dressing-table and desk that one saw them the first thing on entering. Then she noticed that the solitaire was gone from Mary's finger, and was tempted to ask the reason, but resisted the impulse, thinking that it was probably because of some trivial misunderstanding which would right itself in time.

One afternoon, passing through the lower end of the hall, she saw Mary sitting at the typewriter in the alcove that had been curtained off for an office. She was about to call to her to stop and get ready for a tramp before dark, when the postman's whistle sounded across the street. He was making his four o'clock rounds. It was a rare occurrence for him to pass the house at this time of day without leaving something. All winter it had been the hour at which Phil's daily letter was most likely to arrive. Mrs. Blythe recalled the big, dashing hand in which they were always addressed, and Mary's radiant face when they arrived.

Now, at the sounding of the whistle, the clicking of keys stopped and Mary leaned forward to look out of the window, and watch the progress of the postman down the avenue. He did not cross over. As the cheerful whistle sounded again, further down the street, she suddenly leaned her arms on the typewriter in front of her and dropped her head upon them in such an attitude of utter hopelessness that Mrs. Blythe hesitated no longer.

"What's the matter, dear?" she asked kindly, putting her arms around her, and Mary, surprised into confession, sobbed out the story of her renunciation on her sympathetic shoulder.

If there was one person in the world whom Mary thought would understand, who would heartily approve of what she had done, and who would comfort her with due appreciation and praise, that person would be Mrs. Blythe. But, to her astonishment, although the arm that encircled her closed around her with an affectionate embrace, the exclamation that accompanied it was only, "Oh, you dear little, blessed little goose!"

It was a shock, and yet there was some note in it that gave Mary a glad, swift sense of relief and comfort. She straightened up and wiped her eyes. Mrs. Blythe hurried to say:

"Don't think for a moment that I don't appreciate to the very fullest your motive in making such a sacrifice. I think it is very fine and noble of you, but -- my dear little girl, I don't believe it is wholly necessary. You see, it's this way. The work we are trying to do can't be accomplished by any one person. If it could you would be gloriously justified in giving your whole life up to it. But it must be the work of many. One little torch can't possibly lighten every town in the country. Even that greatest of beacons, the statue of Liberty, lightens only one harbor. All we can hope to do is to kindle the unlit torches next to us, and keep the circle of light widening in every direction till the farthest boundary of the farthest state is aglow. And you can do that wherever you go, Mary. Very few states have their homes safeguarded by the law we are trying to get for this one. And every town and village in the United States has the beginning of a city slums in some of its corners.

"Perhaps the very greatest thing you can do for the cause is to show other girls that they don't have to be like nuns in order to help. They don't have to take any sort of vow or veil that shuts them away from a normal, usual life. It is something in which social influence counts for a very great deal. Because I have a home of my own, and a recognized social position, and am a happy wife and mother, people listen to me far more readily when I go to them with a plea for less fortunate homes and wives and mothers. Mrs. Philip Tremont will be able to accomplish even more than little Mary Ware. I cannot see where loyalty to Phil and loyalty to your conception of what you owe humanity conflict in the slightest. Marriage may take away the leisure that you have now. Few women have the time to give to a public cause what I am giving. It is only of late years that I have had it myself. But a torch is a torch, no matter where you put it, and sometimes the lights streaming from cheerful home windows make better guides for the benighted traveller than the street lamp, whose sole purpose is to give itself to the public."

"I hadn't thought about it that way," said Mary slowly, looking out of the window in order to keep her face averted. "Maybe you're right, but it's too late for me to take your point of view, much as I'd like to. I wrote to Phil a week ago, and sent back his ring, and I made it so clear that it was a matter of conscience with me, that I'm very sure that I convinced him that I was doing the right thing. At any rate, there has been plenty of time for a reply, and I haven't had a word. 'Silence gives consent,' you know."

She spoke drearily and kept on looking out of the window so long that Mrs. Blythe was sure that her eyes were full of tears which she wanted to hide. So she rose briskly, saying, as if the matter were ended:

"Well, at any rate, come on and let's have our walk. We can tramp out to the Turnpike Inn and come back by trolley before dark if we start immediately."

All the way out and back Mrs. Blythe could see what an effort Mary was making to appear interested in the conversation, but she knew by intuition that her thoughts were not on the people and places they passed. Each way she turned she was seeing, not the bare February landscape, but the handsome, laughing face she was trying so hard to put out of her memory. It was doubly hard now that Mrs. Blythe had pronounced her renunciation of it unnecessary. The more Mary thought about it, the more reasonable Mrs. Blythe's viewpoint seemed. It was true that Dudley Blythe's position in the professional world gave his wife a certain prestige with many people, and her words a weight they would not have had otherwise, despite her own personal charm and ability. And his hearty endorsement and coöperation was her strongest support.

"Maybe Mrs. Blythe was right," thought Mary. Maybe giving herself to Phil wouldn't be looking back from the "plough" to which she had consecrated herself. Maybe it would only be giving it a strong, guiding hand. She certainly needed it herself, judging from the mess she had made of her life and Phil's.

Oddly enough, it was not until that moment that she thought of him as being particularly affected by her decision. Probably it was because she had always taken such an humble attitude in her mind towards the Best Man that she had not realized it might be as hard for him to be "renounced" as for her to make the sacrifice.

On their return Mrs. Blythe saw her quick glance at the silver tray on the hall table. Any letters arriving while they were out were always placed there. It was impossible that there should be any now, for the postman had made his last rounds before they started out. Nevertheless, she glanced hopefully towards it, and was turning away in disappointment when the maid, who had heard their latchkey in the door, came into the hall.

"There's a caller in the library for Miss Ware," she announced. "Been waiting nearly an hour."

"It's probably Electa Dunn," said Mary listlessly, to whom the word "waiting" brought up the figure of an unfortunate little seamstress who had spent a large part of her life in that attitude.

"I left word that I had some sewing for her to do and would send the material to-morrow. She must be more eager than ever for work, else she wouldn't come a day ahead of time and wait till dark to get it."

The library door stood open and the firelight shone out cheerfully across the hall, now almost dark with the shadows of the February twilight. Just that way it had shone out to meet her three months before, when she came down and found Phil there. That room had seemed sacred to her ever since. She wished the maid had not sent Electa in there to wait for her. It hurt so to have to go into it and recall all that had happened since that meeting. For an instant her eyes closed and her lips pressed together as if an actual physical pain had gripped her. Then she forced herself to go on. At the doorway she paused again and passed the back of her hand across her eyes, sure that she was dreaming.

It was all as it had been that never-to-be-forgotten night. Some one stood before the fire gazing down into the dancing flames. It was not the patient little seamstress, however. The tall, masterful man that stood there had never waited patiently for anything in his life. Now, at the sound of her entrance, he turned and came impetuously towards her, his face alight, his hands outstretched.

Mrs. Blythe, half-way up the stairs, heard Mary's surprised cry, "Oh, Phil!" and nodded sagely to herself. "He's come instead of writing, just as I thought he would. Wise man!"



Chapter VIII

How It All Ended


When Mary's letter with the ring reached Phil, he was making preparations to leave New York that very day. Mr. Sherman had offered him a partnership in one of his enterprises, with headquarters in Louisville. It was a very flattering offer, still Phil hesitated. Personally, he preferred the position in the far West, which his former chief had been urging him all winter to accept. His previous training fitted him for one as well as the other, but he had always loved the West, always felt its lure.

It was when he considered Mary, that Mr. Sherman's offer appealed to him most. When he thought of the radiant delight with which she would receive the news that they could cross over and take possession of her long-desired land, he was almost persuaded to choose Kentucky, for that one reason alone. He was fully persuaded the morning her letter arrived, and had just telegraphed Mr. Sherman that he was starting for Louisville to arrange matters at once.

It was well for both Phil and Mary that he had known her so long and understood so thoroughly the ins and outs of her honest little heart. This was not the first time that he had known her to make some renunciation for conscience' sake, and although the letter, in his own forcible parlance, "gave him a jolt" for an hour or so, after several readings he folded it up with a smile and slipped it into the package with the others marked "From the Little Vicar."

He hadn't the faintest intention of being "renounced." Moreover, he was positive that he had only to see her and urge a few good arguments in his favor, which would convince her that he would never be in the way of what she considered her duty.

But a very tender regard lay under his smile of amusement, for the attitude she had taken, and a feeling of reverence possessed him as he saw her in the new light which this revelation of her spiritual life gave him. "Nobody is good enough for little Mary Ware," he had said once, when she was a romping child. He was thinking of her unselfishness, her sturdy sincerity, her undaunted courage. Now he repeated it, thinking of her as this letter revealed her, a white-souled vestal maiden who took the stars as a symbol of her duty, and who would not swerve a hair's-breadth from the orbit which she thought was heaven appointed.

Knowing that he could reach her almost as quickly as a letter, and confident that a personal interview would be a thousandfold more effective, Phil did not write. But he took the first train to Louisville, and after a few days with Mr. Sherman left for Riverville, armed with an argument and a promise which he was sure would carry weight in his behalf. The argument was that he needed her. He was about to take charge of an important business entrusted to him, and he could not do it half so well without the inspiration of the little home she had agreed to help him make. The promise was that marrying him should not interfere with what she considered her tryst. She should have his hearty help and coöperation in trying to do for any state which they might move to, what Mrs. Blythe was doing for hers.

All this and much more he said in the first impetuous words of meeting, and almost before Mary had recovered from the overwhelming surprise of seeing him, the ring was back on her finger and she was listening to the plans which he rapidly outlined to her. He wasn't going to give her a chance to change her mind again, he insisted. There was no reason why they should not be married right there in the library the following day, as soon as he could make the necessary arrangements.

"Oh, but there is a reason," gasped Mary, aghast at the sudden demand. Then she hesitated, loath to tell what it was. For though it was a weighty one with her, she knew that he would smile at it as childish. But, after all, it was easier to confess to Phil than any one else. He seemed to understand perfectly what she meant, even when the words halted and failed to express her innermost feelings.

So, presently, she found herself explaining to him that it had always been one of her beliefs from the time of her earliest knowledge of such things, that one couldn't properly be a bride without a certain ceremony of preparation. The filling of a dower chest was one part of it, and the setting of infinite stitches, each as perfect as a tiny pearl, in much "fair and broidered raiment" was another. The princesses in the fairy tales did their fine needlework to the accompaniment of songs upon a lute; so one set stitches in one's wedding garments, to the romance of fancies -- and so -- 

She did not finish coherently, but Phil laughed and said teasingly that he ought to have known that any one, who, as a child, wept to wear her rosebud sash out walking on the desert, where there were only owls and jack-rabbits to see it, would insist on veils and trails and things at a time like this. He wouldn't wait for the filling of a dower chest. She could do that afterward; but he was finally induced to wait for the other things, when Mrs. Blythe was brought into the discussion and pronounced them actually necessary.

He went back to Louisville without telling Mary of his arrangement with Mr. Sherman which had changed all his plans. The home he had written so much about would be ready for her, but it would not be in the far West, as she expected. He could hardly wait for the day to come when he could witness her delight over the tremendous surprise which he had in store for her.

It was not many weeks before he had the pleasure of telling her, but it was over two months before she made a record of it in her diary. Then she wrote:

"There is room for just one more chapter in my Good Times book, and when that is finished it is to be laid away in the chest with my wedding gown and bridal roses. Maybe, a hundred years from now, some young girl rummaging through the attic may find my beautiful dress all yellowed with time, and the rose leaves dried and scentless. But I am sure my happiness will call to her from these pages like a living voice as young as hers.

"And when she sees how this record is blistered with tears in places, and reads how Disappointment and Duty and even Death rose up to 'close all the roads of all the world' to me, then she'll take 'heart of grace' if she is in any desert of waiting herself. For she'll see how true it is that Love's road is always open, and that if we only keep inflexible it will finally lead to the land of our desire. For here I am at last in Lloydsboro Valley.

"It has been more than two months since Phil and I were married at Saint Mark's Cathedral in Riverville, but I have been too busy to write the chronicles of that important affair. No one was there but Mr. and Mrs. Dudley Blythe. Dear old Bishop Chartley came down for the ceremony. His warm friendship with Mrs. Blythe made that arrangement possible. It was late in the afternoon, and the great stained-glass windows made it seem like twilight, and down the long dim aisles the altar candles gleamed like stars.

"I had thought at first that the vast place would seem empty and lonesome, and that it would be queer not to have the pews filled with friendly faces at a time like that. But when I went down the aisle I wasn't conscious of empty pews. The glorious organ music filled it, clear to the vaulted ceiling. And although Phil had teased me about not wanting to wear an ordinary travelling dress and hat, he had to acknowledge afterward that he was glad I chose to come to him all in white and in a filmy tulle veil. And he said some dear things about the way I looked, that were as sweet to me as the rose leaves I have scattered among the folds of my wedding gown's white loveliness. I have not put what he said into these pages for the girl to find a century from now. For fashions change so curiously that maybe she would smile and say how very queer my old-time garments are, and wonder how any man could have made a pretty speech about them.

"Phil proved he had some sentiment about such things himself, for soon after he bought me a real 'Ginevra' chest, all beautifully carved, with my name engraved on the brass plate on the lid: 'Mary Ware Tremont.'

"Not until we were aboard the train, and he showed me our tickets marked Lloydsboro Valley, did I know that we were bound for Kentucky, instead of the far West, and not until we were almost there did he spring his grand surprise, although he was nearly choking with impatience to tell. Of course I hadn't expected that we would set up much of an establishment. I supposed that wherever we went we would rent a modest little cottage, probably in the suburbs. I knew that Phil couldn't afford much. He never began to save anything at all until two years ago. He confessed when he first came back from Mexico that it was a lecture of mine about providing a financial umbrella for a possible rainy day which started him to doing it, and that as expenses were light in the construction camp, and his pay very large, he had put by enough to take us through almost anything, short of a cloudburst. But that was an emergency fund, of course, and not to be invested in houses and lands.

"He never told me that the tangle about his Great-aunt Patricia's holdings in England, whatever that may be, had been straightened out at last, and that his share, paid to him recently, was over five thousand pounds.

"That was the first part of the surprise. The second was that he had bought (mark that word, whoever you are, oh, little maiden of the far-off future, if you ever come across this record of happiness) -- he had bought a home in Lloydsboro Valley. He had the deed in his pocket, and he showed how it was made out to me!

"Well, when the time comes for me 'to read my title clear to mansions in the skies,' I may be happier than I was that moment, but I doubt it. I don't see how it could be possible. And when I got it through my bewildered brain that it was Green Acres that was meant by all the queer measurements and descriptions in the deed, I lost my head altogether, and Phil had the satisfaction of seeing that his surprise was absolute, supreme and overpowering. It seemed too good to be true.

"Green Acres is just across the road from Oaklea. The grounds don't make you think of a big, stately park as Oaklea does. It is more countrified. But it is the dearest, most homelike, inviting old place that one can imagine. I had been there several times with Lloyd and Mrs. Sherman, and remembered it as a real picture-book sort of house, with its low gables and quaint casement windows. I remembered that it had a garden gay as Grandmother Ware's, with its holly-hocks and prince's feathers, its marigolds and yellow roses; and that it had mint and sage and all sorts of spicy, savory things in some of its borders. But I didn't know half of its charms. Now, after two months, I am just beginning to discover the extent of them.

"When a family has owned a place for three generations, as the Wyckliffes did Green Acres, and have spent their time making it livable and lovable, the result leaves little more to be wished for. The hillside that slopes down from the back of the house has a small orchard on part of it and a smaller vineyard on the other, but both quite ample for our needs. Down at the bottom a little brook trickles along from a cold spring, and watercress and forget-me-nots grow along its edges. The apple trees are in bloom now. This morning I spent a whole hour up in the gnarly crotch of one of them, doing nothing but enjoying to the fullest the sweetness of their white and pink glory.

"When we came only the early wildflowers were out, but all the knoll between the gate and the house looked as if there had been a snowfall of anemones and spring beauties. It isn't possible to put into black and white the joy of that first home-coming. We walked up from the station, and when we went through the great gate and heard it click behind us, shutting us in on our own grounds, we turned and looked at each other and laughed like delighted children. It was as if we had reached that land that we used to sing about, where

"'Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood Stand dressed in living green.'

No wonder they named the place Green Acres!

"We left the wide driveway that winds around the hill to the house, and took the little path that leads straight up to it under the trees. The footpath to peace, Phil calls it.

"There was smoke coming out of the kitchen chimney, for Lloyd and Mrs. Sherman had been in the secret and had helped Phil as industriously as the two genii of the Bottle to get everything ready. He had bought some of the furniture with the house, some they had helped him choose and some they waited for me to select myself. But there was enough to make the place livable right away, and there wasn't a room in the house that didn't look comfortable and inviting.

"And there was May Lily installed in the kitchen as temporary cook, and perfectly willing to stay if I wanted her. As if there could be any question as to that! If there was anything needed to make it seem more homelike than it already was, I found it when we started out to explore the back premises. A fussy old hen, with her feathers all fluffed out importantly, was clucking and scratching for a brood of downy yellow chickens, just out of the shell. Old Mom Beck had sent them over as a wedding present, May Lily said.

"When we had been all through the orchard and down to the spring, and had discovered the rows of currant and gooseberry bushes at the end of the garden, Phil said in a careless off-hand way that we might as well take a look through the barn. By this time I had exhausted my whole stock of exclamations, so I hadn't another word left when he led me up to a stall, where stood one of the prettiest bay saddle horses I ever saw in my whole life. That was Father Tremont's present to me.

"'Daddy didn't know what would please you most,' Phil said, 'but I remembered the pleasure you used to take in old Washington out at the Wigwam, and Lloyd insisted that you would like a riding horse better than anything else. She rides every day herself, and was sure you would enjoy joining her on her gallops across country.'

"Well, by that time, being speechless, all I could do was to put my arms around the beautiful creature's satiny neck and cry a bit into her glossy mane. The sheer happiness of having so many of my cherished dreams come true all at once was too much for me. Her name was Silver-wings, but from that moment I called her Joy.

"All afternoon I kept discovering things. When we sat down to dinner that night, our first meal together (Lloyd had told May Lily exactly what to do), a lot of the silver was marked Tremont, for the doctor had divided all of Aunt Patricia's silver that came down from her grandfather's family equally among Elsie and Stuart and Phil. But there were some beautiful pieces from Lloyd and the old Colonel, and Mr. and Mrs. Sherman. Stuart and Eugenia had sent quantities of fine table linen.

"The last surprise of the day was the house-warming. Everybody had stayed away till then, to let us have time to 'spy out the land and possess it.' Lloyd and Rob were the first to come over, then Gay and Alex Shelby. They have just gone to housekeeping in the Lindsey cabin. Every old friend in the Valley came before the evening was over, and gave us a royal welcome, as warm and heartening as the blaze which we started in the big fireplace. When the Colonel went away he quoted from the Hanging of the Crane,

"'Oh, fortunate, oh, happy day When a new household has its birth Amid the myriad homes of earth.'

"He said that Green Acres had always been the synonym for whole-souled hospitality, but that we had even surpassed its best traditions.

"There isn't room for much more in this little book; only a few pages are left, so I can't crowd into it all the good times of the last two months, but I must make mention of the delightful rides I have had with Lloyd, and the times when she and Gay and I have spent the day together in good old Valley fashion. Just to be this near my Princess Winsome and to see her daily is a constant joy. She is lovelier and more winsome than she ever was before.

"I must put on record that I have proved what Mrs. Blythe said to be true about the light from happy home windows being the best guide for benighted travellers, and that social influence counts so greatly in the work we are trying to do. Already I am beginning to see that as Mistress of Green Acres I shall be able to accomplish far more than little Mary Ware ever did. Of course, that might not be possible if Phil were not in hearty sympathy with what I want to do. But he is thoroughly interested himself.

"The other night at the Moores I overheard him discussing Housing Reform with Judge Abbott of Lexington, as warmly as Mrs. Blythe could have done. Finally the whole dinner party took it up, and Mrs. Abbott said that her club had been interested in the subject for some time, and all they need is for some one to take the initiative. The Abbotts were staying several days with Lloyd and Rob, so next night I had them over here. After dinner I took them up into my 'Place of the Tryst.' Of course, I don't call it that to anybody but Phil, and he has dubbed it the Chamber of Horrors.

"It's just a big empty room up in one of the gables. There is nothing in it but a desk and a table and some chairs and the typewriter that I bought with the check which Jack sent me. But around the walls are copies of the photographs we used as posters in Riverville to arouse the public, and had hanging in the corridors of the State House all during the session of the Legislature. They are the very worst tenement views we could get, like that basement in Diamond Row, and some of the windowless rooms taken by flashlight.

"Judge Abbott said he knew that there are places every bit as bad in Lexington and Frankfort and Covington, and Mr. Sherman and Alex Shelby said there were scores even worse in Louisville. Miss Allison told some experiences a friend of hers had in exploring alleys in some of the smaller towns, and presently the whole little company, representing several different parts of the state, were all ablaze from that one touch of Mrs. Blythe's torch.

"When I first fitted up the room, Phil said that it didn't seem right that a Chamber of Horrors should have a place in such a perfect home. But I told him that we needed it to keep us from 'joining ourselves to idols,' as Ephraim did. That is the danger that always menaces people when they get over into their Promised Land. We might be tempted to think so much of our dear possessions that we'd make idols of them sure enough, and forget all about the work we had pledged ourselves to do. No one has a right to settle down to the full possession and full enjoyment of any Canaan, until he has put to flight every Hittite and Gittite that preys upon its internal peace.

"They all seemed surprised to see my typewriter, but I told them how I had used Mrs. Blythe's, and that this one is dedicated to the same cause. That I expected to write hundreds of letters just as soon as I found out who were the most influential people to address. Right then and there the movement started. Every man there promised me a list of his personal acquaintances who had big influence, and said he'd gladly put his signature to any letter or petition that would help get what we wanted. Lloyd and Miss Allison are both members of the Women's Club in Louisville, and they asked me to join, and are as enthusiastic as heart could wish. Judge Abbott took a copy of Mrs. Blythe's bill to look it over and see how it could be amended to put before the Kentucky Legislature, so already I feel that something has been accomplished. It is something just to get a start.

"Once, long ago, the old Colonel remarked that I had it in my power to become an honor to my sex and one of the most interesting women of my generation. My family used to quote it to me to tease me, on all occasions, but for years it was one of my highest ambitions to become what he had prophesied. It is something else that I crave now.

"I write it here on the last page and lay it away under the white tulle and the rose leaves, for some one to bring to light long years from now. It will be the crowning happiness of my happy life, if she who reads may chance to have heard that my wish found fulfilment. For then she can add 'She was a blessing to her generation and a torch that helped to light the way for all who came after her.'"

<eob>

The First Christmas In New England

By

Hezekiah Butterworth



They thought they had come to their port that day, But not yet was their journey done; And they drifted away from Provincetown Bay In the fireless light of the sun. With rain and sleet were the tall masts iced, And gloomy and chill was the air, But they looked from the crystal sails to Christ, And they came to a harbor fair. The white hills silent lay, --  For there were no ancient bells to ring, No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, No chapel of baron, or lord, or king, That gray, cold winter day.

The snow came down on the vacant seas, And white on the lone rocks lay, --  But rang the axe 'mong the evergreen trees And followed the Sabbath day. Then rose the sun in a crimson haze, And the workmen said at dawn: "Shall our axes swing on this day of days, When the Lord of Life was born?" The white hills silent lay, --  For there were no ancient bells to ring, No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, No chapel of baron, or lord, or king, That gray, cold Christmas Day.

"The old town's bells we seem to hear: They are ringing sweet on the Dee; They are ringing sweet on the Harlem Meer, And sweet on the Zuyder Zee. The pines are frosted with snow and sleet. Shall we our axes wield When the chimes at Lincoln are ringing sweet And the bells of Austerfield?" The air was cold and gray, --  And there were no ancient bells to ring, No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, No chapel of baron, or lord, or king, That gray, cold Christmas Day.

Then the master said, "Your axes wield, Remember ye Malabarre Bay; And the covenant there with the Lord ye sealed; Let your axes ring to-day. You may talk of the old town's bells to-night, When your work for the Lord is done, And your boats return, and the shallop's light Shall follow the light of the sun. The sky is cold and gray, --  And here are no ancient bells to ring, No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, No chapel of baron, or lord, or king. This gray, cold Christmas Day.

"If Christ was born on Christmas Day, And the day by Him is blest, Then low at His feet the evergreens lay And cradle His church in the West. Immanuel waits at the temple gates Of the nation to-day ye found, And the Lord delights in no formal rites; To-day let your axes sound!" The sky was cold and gray, --  And there were no ancient bells to ring, No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, No chapel of baron, or lord, or king, That gray, cold Christmas Day.

Their axes rang through the evergreen trees Like the bells on the Thames and Tay; And they cheerily sang by the windy seas, And they thought of Malabarre Bay. On the lonely heights of Burial Hill The old Precisioners sleep; But did ever men with a nobler will A holier Christmas keep, When the sky was cold and gray, --  And there were no ancient bells to ring, No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, No chapel of baron, or lord, or king, That gray, cold Christmas Day?

<eob>

Peck's Bad Boy Abroad

By

George W. Peck


Chapter I.

The Bad Boy and His Chum Call on the Old Grocery-man After Being Away at School -- The Bad Boy's Dad in a Bad Way.

The bad boy had been away to school, but the illness of his father had called him home, and for some weeks he had been looking about the old town. He had found few of his old friends. His father had recovered somewhat from his illness, and one day he met his old chum, a boy of his own age. The bad boy and the chum got busy at once, talking over the old times that tried the souls of the neighbors and finally the bad boy asked about the old groceryman, and found that the old man still held out at the old stand, with the same old stock of groceries, and they decided to call upon him, and surprise him. So after it began to be dark they entered the store, and found the old groceryman sitting on a cracker box by the stove, stroking the back of an old maltese cat that had a yellow streak on the back, where it had been singed by crawling under the red-hot stove. As the boys entered the store the cat raised its back, its tail became as large as a rolling pin, and the cat began to spit, while the old groceryman held up both hands and said:

Don't shoot, Please 019

"Don't shoot, please, but one of you go behind the counter and take what there is in the cash drawer, while the other one can reach into my pistol pocket and release my pocketbook. This is the fifth time I have been held up this year, and I have got so if I am not held up about so often I can't sleep nights."

"O, put down your hands and straighten out that cat's back," said the bad boy, as he slapped the old groceryman on the back so hard his spine cracked like a frozen sidewalk. "Don't you know us, you old geezer? We are the only and original Peck's Bad Boy and his Chum, come to life, and ready for business," and the two boys danced a jig on the floor, covered an inch thick with the spilled sugar of years ago, the molasses that had strayed from barrel, and the general refuse of the dirty place, which had become as hard as asphalt.

"O, dear, it is worse than I thought," said the old groceryman as he laughed a hysterical laugh through the long whiskers, and he hugged the boys as though he had a liking for them, notwithstanding the suffering they had caused him. "By gosh, I thought you were nothing but common robbers, who just wanted my money. You are old friends, and can have the whole place," and he poured some milk into a basin for the cat, but the animal only looked at the two boys as though she knew them, and watched them to see what was coming next.

The bad boy looked around the old grocery, which had not changed a particle during the time he had been away, the same old box of petrified prunes, the dried apples that could not be cut with a hatchet, the canned stuff on the shelves had become so old that the labels had curled up and fallen off, so it must have been a guess with the old groceryman whether he was selling a can of peas or tomatoes, and the old fellow standing there as though the world had gone off and left him, as his customers had.

"Well, wouldn't this skin you," said the bad boy, as he took up a dried prune and tried to crack it with a hatchet on a two-pound weight, turning to his chum who was stroking the singed hair of the old cat the wrong way. "Say, old man, you ought to get a hustle on you. Why don't you clean out this shebang, and put in a new stock, of goods, and have clerks with white aprons on, and a girl bookkeeper, and goods that people will buy and eat and not get sick? There is a grocery down street that is as clean as a whistle, and I notice all your old customers go there. Why don't you keep up with the times?"

"O, I ain't running a dude place," said the old man, as he took a piece of soft coal and put it in the old round stove, and wiped the black off his hands on his trousers. "I am trying to get rid of my customers. I have got money enough to live on, and I just stay here waiting for the old cat to die. I have only got six customers left, and one of them has got pneumonia, and is going to die, then there will be only five. When they are all gone I shall sit here by the stove until the end comes. There is nothing doing now to keep me awake, since you boys quit getting me mad. Say, boys, do you know, I haven't been real mad since you quit coming here. The only fun I have had is swearing at my customers when they stick up their noses at my groceries. It's the funniest thing, when I tell an old customer that if they don't like my goods they can go plum to thunder, they get mad and go somewhere else to trade. Times must be changing. Years ago, the more I abused customers the more they liked it, and I just charged the goods to them with a pencil on a piece of brown wrapping paper. I had four cracker boxes full of brown wrapping paper with things charged on the paper against customers, but when anybody wanted to pay their account it made my head ache to find it, and so one day I balanced my books by using the brown wrapping paper to kindle the fire. If you ever want to get even with the world, easy, just pour a little kerosene on your accounts, and put them in the stove. I have never been so free from worry as I have since I balanced my books in the stove. Well, I suppose you have come home on account of your dad's sickness," said the old groceryman, turning to the bad boy, who had written a sign, 'The Morgue,' and pinned it on the window. "I understand your dad had an operation performed on him in a hospital. What did the doctors take out of him?"

"Dad had an operation all right," said the bad boy, "but he is not as much interested in what they took out of him, as what he thinks they left in. They said they removed his appendix, and I guess they did, for dad showed me the bill the doctors rendered. The bill was big enough so they might have taken out a whole lot more. If I had been home I would never have let him be cut into, but ma insisted that he must have an operation. She said all the men on our street, and all that moved in our set, had had operations, and she was ashamed to go out in society and be forced to admit that dad never had an operation, She told dad that he could afford it better than half the people that had operations, and that a scar criss-cross on the stomach was a badge of honor. He never got a scar in the army, and she simply would not be able to look people in the face unless dad was operated on. Dad always was subject to stomach ache, but until appendicitis became fashionable he had always taken a mess of pills, and come out all right, but ma diagnosed the case the last time he was doubled up like a jack-knife, and dad was hustled off to the hospital, and they didn't do a thing to him.

"He told me about it since I came home, and now he lays the whole thing to ma, and I have to stand between them. He is going to get even with ma, though. The first time she complains of anything going on inside of her works, he is going to send her right to a hospital and have the doctors do their worst. Dad said to me, says he:

"'Hennery, if you ever feel anything like a caucus being held inside you, don't you ever go to a hospital, but just swallow a stick of dynamite and light the fuse, then there won't be anything left inside to bother you afterwards. When I got to the hospital they stripped me for a prize fight, put me on a table made of glass, and rolled me into the operating room, gave me chloroform and when they thought I was all in, they took an axe and chopped me. I could feel every blow, and it is a wonder they left enough of your old dad for you to hug when you came home.'

"Say, it is kind of pitiful to hear dad talk about the things they left in him."

"What things does he think they left in him," asked the old groceryman, as he looked frightened, and felt of his stomach, as though he mistrusted there might be something wrong with him, too.

"O, dad has been reading in the papers about doctors that perform operations leaving sponges, forceps, and things inside of patients, when they close up the place, and since dad has got pretty fussy since his operation he thinks they left something in him. Some days he thinks they left a roll of cotton batting, or a pillow, or a bale of hay, but when there is a sharp pain inside he thinks they left a carving knife, but for a week he has settled down to the belief that the doctors left a monkey wrench in him, and he is just daffy on that subject. Says he can feel it turning around, as though it was miscrewing machinery, and he wants to consult a new doctor every day as to what he can take to dissolve a monkey wrench, so it will pass off through the blood and pores of the skin. He has taken it into his head that nothing will save his life except to travel all over the country, and the world. I am to go with him to look after him."

Doctors left a monkey wrench in him 025

"By ginger, it's great! Just think of it. Traveling all over the world and nothing to do but nurse my old dad who thinks he is filled with hardware and carpenter's tools. Gee! but I wish you could go," said the bad boy, as he put him arm around his chum. "Maybe we wouldn't make these foreigners sit up and take an interest in something besides Royalty and Riots."

"Well," said the groceryman, "they will have my sympathy with you alone over there."

"But before you start on the road with your monkey-wrench show, you come in here and let me put up a package of those prunes to take along. They will keep in any climate, and there is nothing better for iron in the blood, such as your dad has, than prunes. Call again, bub, and we will arrange for you to write to your chum from all the places you go with your dad, and he can come in here and read the letters to me and the cat."

"All right, old Father Time," said the bad boy, as he drew a mug of cider out of the vinegar barrel, and took a swallow. "But what you want to do is to get a road scraper and drive a team through this grocery, and clean the floor," and the boys went out just ahead of the old man's arctic overshoes, as he kicked at them, and then he went back and sat down by the stove and stroked the cat, which had got its back down level again, after its old enemies had gone down the street, throwing snowballs at the driver of a hearse.

Went out just ahead of the old man's arctic overshoes 027

"It is a solemn occupation to drive a hearse," said the bad boy.

"Not so solemn as riding inside," said the chum.



Chapter II.

The Bad Boy and His Dad Ready for Their Travels -- The Bad Boy Labels the Old Man's Suit Case -- How the Cowboys Made Him Dance Once.

The old groceryman was in front of the grocery, bent oyer a box of rutabagas, turning the decayed sides down to make the possible customer think all was not as bad as it might be, when a shrill whistle down the street attracted his attention. He looked in the direction from which it came, and saw the bad boy coming with a suit case in one hand and a sole leather hat box in the other, and the old man went in the store to say a silent prayer, and to lay a hatchet and an ax handle where he could reach them if the worst came.

"Well, you want to get a good look at me now," said the bad boy, as he dropped the valise on the floor, and put the hat box on the counter, "for it will be months and maybe years, before you see me again."

"Oh, joy!" said the old groceryman, as he heaved a sigh, and tried to look sorry. "What is it, reform school, or have the police ordered you out of town? I have felt it coming for a long time. This is the only town you could have plied your vocation so long in and not been pulled. Where are you going with the dude suit case and the hat box?"

"Oh, dad has got a whole mess more diseases, and the doctors had a conversation over him Sunday, and they say he has got to go away again, right now, and that a sea voyage will brace him up and empty him out so medicine over in Europe can get in its work and strengthen him so he can start back after a while and probably die on the way home, and be buried at sea. Dad says he will go, for he had rather die at sea than on land, 'cause they don't have to have any trouble about a funeral, 'cause all they do is to sew a man up in a piece of cloth, tie a sack of coal to his feet, slide him off a board, and he goes kerplunk down into the salt water about a mile, and stands there on his feet and makes the whales and sharks think he is a new kind of fish."

"Gee! but that is a programme that appeals to me as sort of uncanny," said the old man. "Is your dad despondent over the outlook? What new disease has he got?"

Pasted a tomato can label on the suitcase 31

"All of 'em," said the boy, as he took a label off a tomato can and pasted it on the end of the suit case. "You take an almanac and read about all the diseases that the medicine advertised in the almanac cures, and dad has got the whole lot of them, nervous prostration, rheumatism, liver trouble, stomach busted, lungs congested, diaphragm turned over, heart disease, bronchitis, corns, bunions, every darn thing a man can catch without costing him anything. But he is not despondent. He just thinks it is an evidence of genius, and a certificate of standing in society and wealth. He argues that the poor people who have only one disease are not in it with statesmen and scholars. Oh, he is all right. He thinks if he goes to Europe all knocked out, he will class with emperors and dukes. Oh, since he had that operation and had his appendix chopped out, he thinks there is a bond of sympathy between him and King Edward that will cause him to be invited to be the guest of royalty. He is just daffy," and the bad boy took a sapolio label out of a box and pasted it on the other end of the valise.

"What in thunder and lightning are you pasting those labels on your valise for?" said the old man, as the boy reached for a Quaker oats label and a soap advertisement and pasted them on.

"Oh, dad said he wished he had some foreign labels of hotels and things on his valise, to make fellow travelers believe he had been abroad before, and I told him I could fix it all right. You see, if I paste things all over the valise he will think it is all right, 'cause he is near sighted," and the boy pasted on a label for 37 varieties of pickles, and then put on an advertisement for hair restorer on the hat box.

"Say, here's a fine one, this malted milk label, with a New Jersey cow on the corner," said the old man, as he began to take interest in the boy's talent as an artist. "And here, try one of these green pea can labels, and the pork and beans legend, and the only soap. Say, if you and your dad don't create a sensation from the minute you take the train till you get back, you can take it out of my wages. When are you going?"

"To-morrow night," said the boy, as he put more labels on the hat box, and stood off and looked at them with the eye of an artist. "We go to New York first to stay a few days and see things, and then we take a steamer and sail away, and the sicker dad is the more time I will have to fill up on useful nollig."

"Hennery," said the old groceryman, as his chin trembled, and a tear came to his eye. "I want to ask you a favor. At times, when you have been unusually mean, I have thought I hated you, but when I have said something ugly to you, and have laid awake all night regretting it, it has occurred to me that you were about the best friend I had. I think it makes an old man forget his years, to be chummy with a live boy, full of ginger, and I do like you, condemn you, and I can't help it. Now I want you to write me every little while, on your trip, and I will read your letters to the customers here in the store, who will be lonely until they can hear that you are dead. The neighbors will come in to read your letters, and it will bring me custom. Will you write to me, boy, and pour out your heart to me, and tell me of the different troubles you get your dad into, for surely you cannot help finding trouble over there if you go hunting for it. Promise me, boy."

"You bet your life I will, old pard," said the bad boy. "I shall have to have some escape valve to keep from busting. I was going to write to my chum, but he is in love with a telephone girl, and he don't take any time for pleasure. I will write you about every dutch and duchess we meet, every prince and pauper, and everything. You watch my smoke, and you will think there is a train afire. I hope dad will try and restrain himself from wanting to fight everybody that belongs to any country but America. He has bought one one these little silk American flags to wear in his button hole, and he swears if anybody looks cross-eyed at that flag he will simply cut his liver out, and toast it on a fork, and eat it. He makes me tired, and I know there is going to be trouble."

"Don't you think your dad's mind sort of wanders?" said the old groceryman, in a whisper, "It wouldn't be strange, after all he has gone through, in raising you up to your present size, if he was a little off his base."

"Well, ma thinks he is bug-house, and the hired girl is willing to go into court and swear to it, and that experience we had coming home from the Yellowstone park some time ago, made me think if he was not crazy he would be before long, You see, we had a hot box on the engine, and had to stay at a station in the bad lands for an hour, and there were a mess of cow boys on the platform, and I told dad we might as well have some amusement while we were there, and that a brake-man told me the cow boys were great dancers, but you couldn't hire them to dance, but if some man with a strong personality would demand that they dance, and put his hand on his pistol pocket they would all jump in and dance for an hour. That was enough for dad, for he has a microbe that he is a man of strong personality, and that when he demands that anybody do something they simply got to do it, so he walked up and down the platform a couple of times to get his draw poker face on, and I went up to one of the cow boys and told him that the old duffer used to be a ballet dancer, and he thought everybody ought to dance when they were told to, and that if the spell should come on him, and he should order them to dance, it would be a great favor to me if they would just give him a double shuffle or two, just to ease his mind.

"Well, pretty soon he came along to where the cowboys were leaning against the railing, and, looking at them in a haughty manner, he said: 'Dance, you kiotes, dance,' and he put his hand to his pistol pocket. Well, sir, I never saw so much fun in my life. Four of the cow boys pulled revolvers and began to shoot regular bullets into the platform within an inch of dad's feet, and they yelled to him: 'Dance your own self, you ancient maverick; whoop 'er up!' and by gosh! dad was so frightened that he began to dance all around the platform, and it was like a battle, the bullets splintering the boards, and the smoke filling the air, and the passengers looking out of the windows and laughing, and the engineer and fireman looking on and yelling, and dad nearly exhausted from the exertion. I guess if the conductor had not got the hot box put out and yelled all aboard, dad would have had apoplexy."

He began to dance all around the platform 037

"When he let up, the cow boys quit shooting, and he! 'ol aboard the train and started. I stayed in the smoking car with the train butcher for more than an hour, 'cause I was afraid if I went in the car where dad was he would make some remark that would offend my pride, and when I did go back to the car he just said: 'Somebody fooled you. Those fellows couldn't dance, and I knew it all the time.' Yes, I guess there is no doubt dad is crazy sometimes, but let me chaperone him through a few foreign countries and he will stand without hitching all right. Well, goodby, now, old man, and try and bear up under it, till you get a letter from me," and the bad boy took his labeled valise and hat box and started.



Chapter III.

The Bad Boy Writes About the Fun They Had Going to Washington -- He and His Dad Call on President Roosevelt --  The Bad Boy Meets One of the Children and They Disagree.

Washington, D. C -- My Dear Old Skate: I didn't tell you in my last about the fun we had getting here. We were on the ocean wave two days, because the whole country was flooded from the rains, and dad walked the quarter deck of the Pullman car, and hitched up his pants, and looked across the sea on each side of the train with a field glass, looking for whales and porpoises. He seems to be impressed with the idea that this trip abroad is one of great significance to the country, and that he is to be a sort of minister plenipotentiary, whatever that is, and that our country is going to be judged by the rest of the world by the position he takes on world affairs. The first day out of Chicago dad corraled the porter in a section and talked to him until the porter was black in the face. I told dad the only way to get respectful consideration from a negro was to advocate lynching and burning at the stake, for the slightest things, so when our porter was unusually attentive to a young woman on the car dad hauled him over the coals, and scared him so by talking of hanging, and burning in kerosene oil, that the negro got whiter than your shirt, and when he got away from dad he came to me and asked if that old man with the red nose and the gold-headed cane was as dangerous as he talked. I told him he was my dad, and that he was a walking delegate of the Amalgamated Association of Negro Lynchers, and when a negro did anything that he ought to be punished for they sent for dad, and he took charge of the proceedings and saw that the negro was hanged, and shot, and burned up plenty. But I told him that dad was crazy on the subject of giving tips to servants, and he must not fall dead when we got to Washington if dad gave him a $50 bill, and he must not give back any change, but just act as though he always got $50 from passengers. Well, you'd a dide to see that negro brush dad 50 times a day, and bring a towel every few minutes to wipe off his shoes, but he kept one eye,' about as big as an onion, on dad all the time, to watch that he didn't get stabbed. The next morning I took dad's pants from under his pillow, and hid them in a linen closet, and dad laid in his berth all the forenoon, and had it out with the porter, whom he accused of stealing them. The doctors told me I must keep dad interested and excited, so he would not dwell on his sickness, and I did, sure as you are a foot high. Dad stood it till almost noon, when he came out of his berth with his pajamas on, these kind with great blue stripes like a fellow in the penitentiary, and when he went to the wash room I found his pants and then he dressed up and swore some at everybody but me. We got to Washington all right, and I thought I would bust when dad fished out a nickel and gave it to the porter, and we got out of the car before the porter came to, and the first day we stayed in the hotel for fear the negro would see us, as I told dad that porter would round up a gang of negroes with razors and they would waylay us and cut dad all up into sausage meat.

Fished out a nickel and gave it to the porter 042

Dad is the bravest man I ever saw when there is no danger, but when there is a chance for a row he is weak as a cat. I spect it is on account of his heart being weak. A man's internal organs are a great study. I spose a brave man, a hero, has to have all his inside things working together, to be real up and up brave, but if his heart is strong, and his liver is white, he goes to pieces in an emergency, and if his liver is all right, and he tries to fight just on his liver, when the supreme moment arrives, and his heart jumps up into his throat, and wabbles and beats too quick, he just flunks. I would like to dissect a real brave man, and see what condition the things inside him are in, but it would be a waste of time to dissect dad, 'cause I know all his inner works need to go to a watchmaker and be cleaned, and a new main spring put in.

Well, this morning dad shaved himself, and got on his frock coat, and his silk hat, and said we would go over to the white house and have a talk with Teddy, but first he wanted to go and see where Jefferson hitched his horse to the fence when he came to Washington to be innogerated, and where Jackson smoked his corn cob pipe, and swore and stormed around when he was mad, and to walk on the same paths where Zachariah Taylor Zacked, Buchanan catched it, and Lincoln put down the rebellion, and so we walked over toward the white house, and I was scandalized. I stopped to pick up a stone to throw at a dog inside the fence, and when I walked along behind dad, and got a rear view of his silk hat, it seemed as though I would sink through the asphalt pavement, for he had on an old silk hat that he wore before the war, the darnedest looking hat I ever saw, the brim curled like a minstrel show hat, the fur rubbed off in some places, and he looked like one of these actors that you see pictures of walking on the railroad track, when the show busts up at the last town. I think a man ought to dress so his young son won't have a fit. I tried to get dad to go and buy a new hat, but he said he was going to wait till he got to London, and buy one just like King Edward wears, but he will never get to London with that hat, 'cause to-night I will throw it out of the hotel window and put a piece of stove pipe in his hat box.

Well, sir, you wouldn't believe it, but we got into the white house without being pulled, but it was a close shave, 'cause everybody looked at dad, and put their forefingers to their foreheads, for they thought he was either a crank, or an ambassador from some furrin country. The detectives got around dad when we got into the anteroom, and began to feel of his pockets to see if he had a gun, and one of them asked me what the old fellow wanted, and I told them he was the greatest bob cat shooter in the west, and was on his way to Europe to invite the emperors and things to come over to this country and shoot cats on his preserve. Well, say, you ought to have seen how they stepped one side and waltzed around, and one of them went in the next room and told the president dad was there, and before we knew it we were in the president's room, and the president began to curl up his lip, and show his teeth like some one had said "rats."

President began to curl up his lip 045

He got hold of dad's hand, and dad backed off as though he was afraid of being bitten, and then they sat down and talked about mountain lion and cat shooting, and dad said he had a 22 rifle that he could pick a cat off the back fence with every time, out of his bedroom window, and I began to look around at the pictures. Dad and the president talked about all kinds of shooting, from mudhens to moose, and then dad told the president he was going abroad on account of his liver, and wanted a letter of introduction to some of the kings and emperors, and queens, and jacks, and all the face cards, and the president said he made it a practice not to give any personal letters to his friends, the kings, but that dad could tell any of them that he met that he was an American citizen, and that would take him anywhere in Europe, and then he got up and began to show his teeth at dad again, and dad gave him the grand hailing sign of distress of the Grand Army and backed out, dropped his hat, and in trying to pick it up, he stepped on it, but that made it look better, anyway, and we found ourselves outside the room, and a lot of common people from the country were ready to go in and talk politics and cat shooting.

Well, we looked at pictures, and saw the state dining room where they feed 50 diplomats at a time on mud turtle and champagne, and a boy about my size looked sort of disdainful at me, and I told him it he would come outside I would mash his jaw, and he said I could try it right there if I was in a hurry to go, and I was starting to give him a swift punch when a detective took hold of my arm and said they couldn't have any scrap there, 'cause the president's son could not fight with common boys, and I asked him who he called a common boy, and then dad said we better go before war broke out in a country that was illy prepared for hostilities on a large scale, and then I told a detective that dad was liable to have one of his spells and begin shooting any minute, and then the detectives all thought dad was one of these president assassinationists, and they took him into a room and searched him, and asked him a whole lot of fool questions, and they finally let us out, and told us we better skip the town before night.

I was starting to give him a swift punch 047

Dad got kind of heavy-hearted over that and took a notion he would like to see ma again before crossing the briny deep, so you came near having your little angel again soon. This weakness of dad's didn't last long, for we're looking for a warm time in New York and old Lunnon.

So long,

Hennery.



Chapter IV.

The Bad Boy and His Dad Visit Mount Vernon -- Dad Weeps at the Grave of the Father of Our Country.

New York City. -- My Dear Uncle Ezra: I got a letter from my chum this morning, and he says he was in the grocery the day he wrote, and you were a sight. He says that if I am going to be away several months you will never change your shirt till I get back, for nobody around the grocery seems to have any influence over you. I meant to have put you under bonds before I left, to change your shirt at least quarterly, but you ought to change it by rights every month. The way to do is to get an almanac and make a mark on the figures at the first of the month, and when you are studying the almanac it will remind you of your duty to society. People east here, that is, business men in your class, change their shirts every week or two. Try and look out for these little matters, insignificant as they may seem, because the public has some rights that it is dangerous for a man to ignore.

Dad and I have been down to Mount Vernon, and had a mighty solemn time. I think dad expected that we would be met at the trolley car by a delegation of descendants of George Washington, by a four-horse carriage, with postilions and things, and driven to the old house, and received with some distinction, as dad had always been an admirer of George Washington, and had pointed with pride to his record as a statesman and a soldier, but all we saw was a bunch of negroes, who told us which way to walk, and charged us ten cents apiece for the information.

At Mount Vernon we found the old house where George lived and died, where Martha told him to wipe his feet before he came in the house, and saw that things were cooked properly. We saw pictures of revolutionary scenes and men of that period, relics of the days when George was the whole thing around there. We saw the bed on which George died, and then we went down to the icehouse and looked through the fence and saw the marble coffins in which George and Martha were sealed up. Say, old man, I know you haven't got much reverence, but you couldn't look through that fence at what remains of the father of his country without taking off your hat and thinking good things while you were there.

Saw the marble coffins in which George and Martha 050

I was surprised at dad; he cried, though he never met George Washington in all his life. I have seen dad at funerals at home, when he was a bearer, or a mourner, and he never acted as thought it affected him much, but there at Mount Vernon, standing within eight feet of the remains of George Washington, he just lost his nerve, and bellered, and I felt solemn myself, like I had been kept in after school when all the boys were going in swimming. If a negro had not asked dad for a quarter I know dad would have got down on his knees and been pious, but when he gave that negro a swift kick for butting in with a commercial proposition, in a sacred moment, dad come to, and we went up to the house again. Dad said what he wanted was to think of George Washington just as a country farmer, instead of a general and a president. He said we got nearer to George, if we thought of him getting up in the morning, putting on his old farmer pants and shirt, and going downstairs in his stocking feet, and going out to the kitchen by the wooden bench, dipping a gourd full of rain water out of a barrel into an earthen wash basin and taking some soft soap out of a dish and washing himself, his shirt open so his great hairy breast would catch the breeze, his suspenders, made of striped bed ticking, hanging down, his hair touseled up until he had taken out a yellow pocket comb and combed it, and then yelling to Martha to know about how long a workingman would have to wait for breakfast. And then dad said he liked to think of George Washington sitting down at the breakfast table and spearing sausages out of a platter, and when a servant brought in a mess of these old-fashioned buckwheat cakes, as big as a pieplate, see George, in imagination, pilot a big one on to his plate, and cover it with sausage gravy, and eat like he didn't have any dyspepsia, and see him help Martha to buckwheat cakes, and finally get up from breakfast like a full Christian and go out on the farm and count up the happy slaves to see if any of them had got away during the night.

By ginger, dad inspired me with new thoughts about the father of his country. I had always thought of Washington as though he was constantly crossing the Delaware in a skiff, through floating ice, with a cocked hat on, and his coat flaps trimmed with buff nankeen stuff, a sort of a male Eliza in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," getting away from the hounds that were chasing her to chew her pants. I was always thinking of George either chopping cherry trees, or standing on a pedestal to have his picture taken, but here at the old farm, with dad to inspire me, I was just mingling with Washington, the planter, the neighbor, telling the negroes where they would get off at if they didn't pick cotton fast enough, or breaking colts, or going to the churn and drinking a quart of buttermilk, and getting the stomach ache, and calling upstairs to Martha, who was at the spinning wheel, or knitting woolen socks, and asking her to fix up a brandy smash to cure his griping pains. I thought of the father of his country taking a severe cold, and not being able to run into a drug store for a bottle of cough sirup, or a quinine pill, having Martha fix a tub of hot mustard water to soak those great feet of his, and bundle him up in a flannel blanket, give him a hot whisky, and put him to bed with a hot brick at his feet.

Then, when I looked at a duck blind out in the Potomac, near the shore, I thought how George used to put on an old coat and slouch hat and take his gun and go out in the blind, and shoot canvas-back ducks for dinner, and paddle his boat out after the dead birds, the way Grover Cleveland did a century later. I tell you, old man, the way to appreciate our great statesmen, soldiers and scholars is to think of them just as plain, ordinary citizens, doing the things men do nowadays. It does dad and I more good to think of Washington and his friends camping out down the Potomac, on a fishing trip, sleeping on a bed of pine boughs, and cooking their own pork, and roasting sweet potatoes in the ashes, eating with appetites like slaves, than to think of him at a state dinner in the white house, with a French cook disguising the food so they could not tell what it was.

O, I had rather have a picture of George Washington and Lafayette coming up the bank of the Potomac toward the house, loaded down with ducks, and Martha standing on the porch of Mount Vernon asking them who they bought the ducks of and how much they cost, than to have one of those big paintings in the white house showing George and Lafayette looking as though they had conquered the world. If the phonograph had been invented then, and we could listen to the conversation of those men, just as they said things, it would be great. Imagine George saying to Lafayette, so you cotild hear it now: "Lafe, that last shot at that canvasback you made was the longest shot ever made on the Potomac. It was a Jim dandy, you old frog eater," and imagine Lafayette replying: "You bet your life, George, I nailed that buck canvasback with a charge of number six shot, and he never knew what struck him." But they didn't have any phonographs in those days and so you have got to imagine things.

How would Washington's farewell address sound now in a phonograph, or some of George's choice swear words at a slave that had ridden a sore-backed mule down to Alexandria after a jug of rum. I would like to run a phonograph show with nothing in the machine but ancient talk from George Washington, but we can have no such luck unless George is born again.

Old man, if you ever get a furlough from business, you go down to Mount Vernon and revel in memories of the father of his country. If you go, hunt up a negro with a hair lip, that is a servant there, and who used to be Washington's body servant, unless he is a liar, and tell him I sent you and he won't do a thing to you, for a dollar or so. I told that negro that dad was a great general, a second Washington, and he wore all the skin off his bald head taking off his hat to dad every time dad looked at him, and he bowed until his back ached, but when we were going away, and dad asked me what ailed the old monkey to act that way, the old negro thought these new Washingtons were a pretty tough lot.

All the time at Mount Vernon I couldn't get up meanness enough to play any trick on dad, but I picked up a sort of a horse chestnut or something, with prickers on it as sharp as needles, and as we were getting on the trolley I slipped it down the back of dad's pants, near where his suspenders button on, and by the time we sat down in the car the horse chestnut had worked down where dad is the largest, and when he leaned back against the seat he turned pale and wiggled around and asked me if he looked bad.

Slipped it down the back of dad's pants 057

I told him he looked like a corpse, which encouraged him so he almost fainted. He asked me if I had heard of any contagious diseases that were prevalent in Virginia, 'cause he felt as though he had caught something. I told him I would ask the conductor, so I went and asked the conductor what time we got to Washington, and then I went back to dad and told him the conductor said there was no disease of any particular account, except smallpox and yellow fever, and that the first symptom of smallpox was a prickling sensation in the small of the back.

Dad turned green and said he had got it all right, and I had the darndest time getting him back to the hotel at Washington. Say, I had to help him undress, and I took the horse chestnut and put it in the foot of the bed, and got dad in, and I went downstairs to see a doctor, and then I came back and told him the doctor said if the prickly sensation went to his feet he was in no danger from smallpox, as it was an evidence that an old vaccination of years ago had got in its work and knocked the disease out of his system lengthwise, and when I told dad that he raised up in bed and said he was saved, for ever since I went out of the room he had felt that same dreaded prickling at work on his feet, and he was all right.

I told dad it was a narrow escape and that it ought to be a warning to him. Dad has to wear a dress suit to dinner here and cough up money every time he turns around, 'cause I have told the bell boys dad is a bonanza copper king, and they are not doing a thing to dad.

O, I guess I am doing just as the doctors at home ordered, in keeping dad's mind occupied.

Well, so long, old man, I have got to go to dinner with dad, and I am going to order the dinner myself, dad said I could, and if I don't put him into bankruptcy, you don't know your little

Hennery.



Chapter V.

The Bad Boy and His Dad Have Dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria --  The Bad Boy Orders Dinner -- The Old Man Gets Stuck -- Tries to Rescue a Countess in Distress.

Waldorf-Astoria, New York. -- Dear Uncle Ezra: We are still at this tavern, but we don't do anything but sleep here, and stay around in the lobby evenings to let people look at us, and dad wears that old swallow-tail coat he had before the war, but he has got a new silk hat, since we got here; one of these shiny ones that is so slick it makes his clothes look offul bum. We about went broke on the first supper we had, or dinner they call it here. You see, dad thought this was about a three-dollar-a-day house, and that the meals were included, like they do at Oshkosh, and so when we went down to dinner dad said we wouldn't do a thing to old Astor. He let me order the dinner, but told me to order everything on the bill-of-sale, because we wanted to get the worth of our three dollars a day. Well, honest, I couldn't order all there was, 'cause you couldn't have got it all on a billiard table. Say, that list they gave me had everything on it that was ever et or drunk, but I told dad they would fire us out if we ordered the whole prescription, so all I ordered was terrapin, canvasback duck, oysters, clams, crabs, a lot of new kinds of fish, and some beef and mutton, and turkey, and woodcock, and partridge, and quail, and English pheasant, and lobster and salads and ices, and pie and things, just to stay our stomachs, and when it came to wine, dad weakened, because he didn't want to set a bad example to me, so he ordered hard cider for hisself and asked me if I wanted anything to drink, and I ordered brown pop. You'd a been tickled to see the waiter when he took that order, 'cause I don't s'pose anybody ever ordered cider and brown pop there since Astor skinned muskrats for a living, when he was a trapper up north. Gosh, but when they brought that dinner in, you ought to have seen the sensation it created. Most of the people in the great dining hall looked at dad as though he was a Crases, or a Rockefeller, and the head waiter bowed low to dad, and dad thought it was Astor, and dad looked dignified and hurt at being spoken to by a common tavern keeper. Well, we et and et, but we couldn't get away with hardly any of it, and dad wanted to wrap some of the duck and lobsters and things in a newspaper and take it to the room for a lunch, but the waiter wouldn't have it. But the cyclone struck the house when dad and I got up to go out of the dining-room, and the waiter brought dad the check.

The waiter brought dad the check 063

"What is this?" said dad, as he put on his glasses and looked at the check which was $43 and over.

"Dinner check, sir," said the waiter, as he straightened back and held out his hand.

"Why, ain't this house run on the American plan?" said dad, as his chin began to tremble.

"No, sir, on the Irish plan," said the waiter. "You pays for what you horders," and dad began to dig up. He looked at me as though I was to blame, when he told me to order all there was in sight. Well, I have witnessed heart-rending scenes, but I never saw anything that would draw tears like dad digging down for that $43. The doctors at home had ordered excitement for dad, but this seemed to be an overdose, and I was afraid he would collapse and I offered him my glass of brown pop to stimulate him, but he told me I could go plumb, and if I spoke to him again he would maul me. He got his roll half out of his pistol pocket, and then talked loud and said it was a damoutridge, and he wanted to see Astor himself before he would allow himself to be held up by highwaymen, and then all the other diners stood up and looked at dad, and a lot of waiters and bouncers surrounded him, and then he pulled out the roll, and it was pitiful to see him wet his trembling thumb on his trembling dry tongue and begin to peel off the bills, like you peel the layers off an onion, but he got off enough to pay for the dinner, gave the waiter half a dollar, and smiled a sickly smile at the head waiter, and I led him out of the dining-room a broken-down old man. As we got to the lobby, where the horse show of dress-suit chappies was beginning the evening procession, I said to dad: "Next time we will dine out, I guess," and at that he rallied and seemed to be able to take a joke, for he said: "We dined out this time. We dined out $43," and then we joined the procession of walkers around, and tried to look prosperous, and after awhile dad called a bell boy, and asked him if there wasn't a good dairy lunch counter near the Waldorf, where a man could go and get a bowl of bread and milk, and the bell boy gave him the address of a dairy lunch place, and I can see my finish, 'cause from this out we will probably live on bread and milk while we are here, and I hate bread and milk.

It got all around the hotel, about the expensive dinner dad ordered for himself and the little heir to his estate, and everybody wanted to get acquainted with dad and try to get some stock in his copper mine. I had told dad about my telling the boys he was a bonanza copper miner, and he never batted an eye when they asked him about his mine, and he looked the part.

One man wanted dad to cash a check 067

One man wanted dad to cash a check, 'cause the bank was closed, and he was a rich-looking duke, and dad was just going to get his roll out and peel off some more onion, when I said: "Not on your tintype, Mr. Duke," and dad left his roll in his pocket, and the duke gave me a look as though he wanted to choke me, and went away, saying: "There is Mr. Pierpont Morgan, and I can get him to cash it." I saved dad over a hundred dollars on that scheme, and so we are making money every minute. We went to our room early, so dad could digest his $43 worth of glad food.

Gee, but this house got ripped up the back before morning. You remember I told you about a countess, or a duchess, or some kind of high-up female that had a room next to our room. Well, she is a beaut, from Butte, Mont., or Cuba, or somewhere, for she acts like a queen that has just stepped off her throne for a good time. She has got a French maid that is a peacharino. You know that horse chestnut, with the prickers on, that I put in dad's pants at Washington. Well, I have still got it, and as it gets dry the prickers are sharper than needles, sharper even than a servant's tooth, as it says in the good book. I thought I would give dad a run for his money, 'cause exercise and excitement are good for a man that dined heartily on $43 worth of rich food, so when we went to our room I told dad that I was satisfied from what a bell boy told me that the countess in the next room, who had gold cords over her shoulders for suspenders, was stuck on him, because she was always inquiring who the lovely old gentleman was with the sweet little boy. Dad he got so interested that he forgot to cuss me about ordering that dinner, and he said he had noticed her, and would like real well to get acquainted with her, 'cause a man far away from home, sick as a dog, with no loving wife to look after him, needed cheerful company. So I told him I had it all arranged for him to meet her, and then I went out in the hall, sort of whistling around, and the French maid came out and broke some English for me, and we got real chummy, 'cause she was anxious to learn English, and I wanted to learn some French words; so she invited me into the room, and we sat on the sofa and exchanged words quite awhile, until she was called to the telephone in the other room. Say, you ought to have seen me. I jumped up and put my hand inside the sheets of the bed, and put that chestnut in there, right about the middle of the bed, and then, after learning French quite a spell, with the maid, we heard the countess getting off' the elevator, and the maid said I must skip, 'cause it was the countess' bed-time, and I went back and told dad the whole thing was arranged for him to meet the countess, in a half an hour or so, as she had to write a few letters to some kings and dukes, and when she gave a little scream; as though she was practicing her voice on an opera, or something, dad was to go and rap at the door. Gosh, but I was sorry for dad, for he was so nervous and anxious for the half hour to expire that he walked up and down the room, and looked at himself in the mirror, and acted like he had indigestion. I had told the maid that she and the countess must feel perfectly safe, if anything ever happened, 'cause my dad was the bravest man in the world, and he would rush to the rescue of the countess, if a burglar got in in the night, or the water pipes busted, or anything, and all she had to do was to screech twice and dad would be on deck, and she must open the door quicker-n scat, and she thanked me, and said she would, and for me to come, too. Say, on the dead, wasn't that a plot for an amateur to cook up? Well, sir, we had to wait so long for the countess to get on the horse chestnut that I got nervous myself, but after awhile there came a scream that would raise your hair, and I told dad the countess was singing the opera. Dad said: "Hennery, that ain't no opera, that's tragedy," but she gave two or three more stanzas, and I told dad he better hustle, and we went out in the hall and rapped at the door of the countess' room, and the maid opened it, and told us to send for a doctor and a policeman, 'cause the countess was having a fit. Well, say, that was the worst ever. The countess had jumped out of bed, and was pulling the lace curtains around her, but dad thought she was crazy, and was going to jump out of the window, and he made a grab for her, and he shouted to her to "be cam, be cam, poor woman, and I will rescue you." I tried to pacify the maid the best I knew how, and dad was getting the countess calmer, but she evidently thought he was an assassin, for every little while she would yell for help, and then the night watchman came in with a house policeman, and one of them choked dad off, and they asked the countess what the trouble was, and she said she had just retired when she was stabbed about a hundred times in the small of the back with a poniard, and she knew conspirators were assassinating her, and she screamed, and this old bandit, meaning dad, came in, and the little monkey, meaning me, had held his hand over her maid's mouth, so she could not make any outcry.

Night watchman came in with a house policeman 071

Well, I got my horse chestnut all right, out of the bed, and the policeman told the countess not to be alarmed, and go back to bed, and they took dad and I to our room, and asked us all about it. Gee, but dad put up a story about hearing a woman scream in the next room, and, thinking only of the duty of a gentleman under the circumstances, rushed to her rescue, and all there was to it was that she must have had a nightmare, but he said if he had it to do over again, he would do the same. Anyway, the policeman believed dad, and they went off and left us, and we went to bed, but dad said: "Hennery, you understand, I don't want to make any more female acquaintances, see, among the crowned heads, and from this out we mingle only with men. The idea of me going into a woman's room and finding a Floradora with fits and tantrums, and me, a sick man. Now, don't write to your ma about this, 'cause she never did have much confidence in me, around women with fits." So, Uncle Ezra, you must not let this get into the papers, see?

Well, we have bought our tickets for Liverpool, and shall sail to-morrow, and while you are making up your cash account Saturday night, we shall be on the ocean. I s'pose I will write you on the boat, if they will tie it up somewhere so it will stand level. Your dear boy. Hennery.



Chapter VI.

The Bad Boy Writes the Old Groceryman About Ocean Voyages --  His Dad Has an Argument Over a Steamer Chair.

On Board the Lucinia, Mid-ocean.

Dear Old Geezer.

I take the first opportunity, since leaving New York, to write you, 'cause the boat, after three days out, has got settled down so it runs level, and I can write without wrapping my legs around the table legs, to hold me down. I have tried a dozen times to write, but the sea was so rough that part of the time the table was on top of me and part of the time I was on top, and I was so sick I seem to have lost my mind, over the rail, with the other things supposed to be inside of me. O, old man, you think you know what seasickness is, 'cause you told me once about crossing Lake Michigan on a peach boat, but lake sickness is easy compared with the ocean malady. I could enjoy common seasickness and think it was a picnic, but this salt water sickness takes the cake. I am sorry for dad, because he holds more than I do, and he is so slow about giving up meals that he has paid for, that it takes him longer to commune with nature, and he groans so, and swears some.

I am sorry for dad, because he holds more than I do 074

I don't see how a person can swear when he is seasick on the ocean, with no sure thing that he will ever see land again, and a good prospect of going to the bottom, where you got to die in the arms of a devil fish, with a shark biting pieces out of your tender loin and a smoked halibut waiting around for his share of your corpse, and whales blowing syphons of water and kicking because they are so big that they can't get at you to chew cuds of human gum, and porpoises combing your damp hair with their fine tooth comb fins, and sword fish and sawtooth piscatorial carpenters sawing off steaks. Gee, but it makes me crawl. I once saw a dead dog in the river, with bull heads and dog-fish ripping him up the back, and I keep thinking I had rather be that dog, in a nice river at home, with bullheads that I knew chewing me at their leisure, than to be a dead boy miles down in the ocean, with strange fish and sea serpents quarreling over the tender pieces in me. A man told me that if you smoke cigarets and get saturated with nickoteen, and you are drownded, the fish will smell of you, and turn up their noses and go away and leave your remains, so I tried a cigaret, and, gosh, but I had rather be et by fish than smoke another, on an ocean steamer. It only added to my sickness, and I had enough before. I prayed some, when the boat stood on its head and piled us all up in the front end, but a chair struck me on the place where Fitzsimmons hit Corbett, and knocked the prayer all out of me, and when the boat stood on her butt end and we all slid back the whole length of the cabin, and I brought up under the piano, I tried to sing a hymn, such as I used to in the 'Piscopal choir, before my voice changed, but the passengers who were alive yelled for some one to choke me, and I didn't sing any more. Dad was in the stateroom when we were rolling back and forth in the cabin, and between sicknesses he came out to catch me and take me into the stateroom, but he got the rolling habit, too, and he rolled a match with an actress who was voyaging for her health, and they got offully mixed up. He tried to rescue her, and grabbed hold of her belt and was reeling her in all right, when a man who said he was her husband took dad by the neck and said he must keep his hands off or get another nose put on beside the one he had, and then they all rolled under a sofa, and how it came out I don't know, but the next morning dad's eye was blacked, and the fellow who said he was her husband had his front teeth knocked out, and the actress lost her back hair and had to wear a silk handkerchief tied around her head the rest of the trip, and she looked like a hired girl who has been out to a saloon dance.

The trouble with dad is that he butts in too much. He thinks he is the whole thing and thinks every crowd he sees is a demonstration for him. When the steamer left New York, there were hundreds of people on the dock to see friends off, and they had flowers to present to Unfriends, and dad thought they were all for him, and he reached for every bunch of roses that was brought aboard, and was going to return thanks for them, when they were jerked away from him, and he looked hurt. When the gang plank was pulled in, and the boat began to wheeze, and grunt, and move away from the dock, and dad saw the crowd waving handkerchiefs and laughing, and saying bon voyage, he thought they were doing it all for him, and he started in to make a speech, thanking his fellow countrymen for coming to see him off, and promising them that he would prove a true representative of his beloved country in his travels abroad, and that he would be true to the stars and stripes wherever fortune might place him, and all that rot, when the boat got so far away they could not hear him, and then he came off his perch, and said, "Hennery, that little impromptu demonstration to your father, on the eve of his departure from his native land, perhaps never to return, ought to be a deep and lasting lesson to you, and to show you that the estimation in which I am held by our people, is worth millions to you, and you can point with pride to your father." I said "rats" and dad said he wouldn't wonder if the boat was full of rats, and then we stood on deck, and watched the objects of interest down the bay.

A speech, thanking his fellow countrymen 078

As we passed the statue of Liberty, which France gave to the republic, on Bedloe's Island, dad started to make a speech to the passengers, but one of the officers of the boat told dad this was no democratic caucus, and that choked him off, but he was loaded for a speech, and I knew it was only a matter of time when he would have to fire it off, but I thought when we got outside the bar, into the ocean, his speech would come up with the rest of the stuff, and I guess it did, for after he began to be sea sick he had to keep his mouth shut, which was a great relief to me, for I felt that he would say something that would get this country in trouble with other nations, as there were lots of foreigners on board. I heard that J. Pierpont Morgan was on board, and I told everybody I got in conversation with that dad was Pierpont Morgan, and when people began to call him Mr. Morgan, I told dad the passengers thought he was Morgan; the great financier, and it tickled dad, and he never denied it. Anyway, the captain put dad and I at his own table, and he called me "Little Pierp," and everybody discussed great financial questions with dad, and everything would have been lovely the whole trip, only Morgan came amongst us after he had been sea sick for three days, and they gave him a seat opposite us, and with two Morgans at the same table it was a good deal like two Uncle Tom's in an Uncle Tom's Cabin show, so dad had to stay in his stateroom on account of sickness, a good deal. Then dad got to walking on deck and flirting with the female passengers. Say, did you ever see an old man who was stuck on hisself, and thought that every woman who looked at him, from curiosity, or because he had a wart on his neck, and watch him get busy making 'em believe he is a young and kitteny thing, who is irresistible? Gee, but it makes me tired. No man can mash, and make eyes, and have a love scene, when he has to go to the rail every few minutes and hump hisself with something in him that is knocking at the door of his palate, to come out the same way it went in. Dad found a widow woman who looked back at him kind of sassy, when he braced up to her, and when the ship rolled and side-stepped, he took hold of her arm to steady her, and she said maybe they better sit down on deck and talk it over, so dad found a couple of steamer chairs that were not in use, and they sat down near together, and dad took hold of her hand to see if she was nervous, and he told me I could go any play mumbletypeg in the cabin, and I went in the cabin and looked out of the window at dad and the widow. Say, you wouldn't think two chairs could get so close, and dad was sure love sick, and so was she. The difference between love sick and sea sick is that in love sick you look red in the face and snuggle up, and squeeze hands, and look fondly, and swallow your emotion, and try to wait patiently until it is dark enough so the spectators won't notice anything, and in sea sickness you get pale in the face, and spread apart, and let go of hands, and after you have stood it as long as you can you rush to the rail and act as though you were going to jump overboard, and then stop sudden and let-'er-go-gallagher, right before folks, and after it is over you try to look as though you had enjoyed it. I will say this much for dad, he and the widow never played a duet over the rail, but they took turns, and dad held her as tenderly as though they were engaged, and when he got her back to the steamer chair he stroked her face and put camphor to her nose, and acted like an undertaker that wasn't going to let the remains get away from him. They were having a nice convalescent time, just afore it broke up, and hadn't either of them been sick for ten minutes, and dad had put his arm around her shoulders, and was talking cunning to her, and she was looking lovingly into dad's eyes, and they were talking of meeting again in France in a few weeks, where she was going to rent a villa, and dad was saying he would be there with both feet, when I opened the window and said, "The steward is bringing around a lunch, and I have ordered two boiled pork sandwiches for you two easy marks." Well, you'd a dide to see 'em jump. What there is about the idea of fat pork that makes people who are sea sick have a relapse, I don't know, but the woman grabbed her stum-mix in both hands and left dad and rushed into the cabin yelling "enough," or something like that, and dad laid right back in the chair and blatted like a calf, and said he would kill me dead when we got ashore. Just then an Englishman came along and told dad he better get up out of his chair, and dad said whose chair you talking about, and the man said the chair was his, and if dad didn't get out of it, he would kick him in the pants, and dad said he hadn't had a good chance at an Englishman since the Revolutionary war, and he just wanted a chance to clean up enough Englishmen for a mess, and dad got up and stood at "attention," and the Englishman squared off like a prize fighter, and they were just going to fight the battle of Bunker Hill over again, when I run up to an officer with gold lace on his coat and lemon pie on his whiskers, and told him an old crazy Yankee out on deck was going to murder a poor sea sick Englishman, and the officer rushed out and took dad by the coat collar and made him quit, and when he found what the quarrel was about, he told dad all the chairs were private property belonging to the passengers, and for him to keep out of them, and he apologized to the Englishman and they went into the saloon and settled it with high balls, and dad beat the Englishman by drinking two high balls to his one. Then dad set into a poker game, with ten cents ante, and no limit, and they played along for a while until dad got four jacks, and he bet five dollars, and a Frenchman raised him five thousand dollars, and dad laid down his hand and said the game was too rich for his blood, and when he reached in his vest pocket for money to pay for his poker chips he found that his roll was gone, and he said he would leave his watch for security until he could go to his state room and get some money, and then he found that his watch had been pinched, and the Englishman said he would be good for it, and dad came out in the cabin and wanted me to help him find the widow, cause he said when she laid her head on his shoulder, to recover from her sickness, he felt a fumbling around his vest, but he thought it was nothing but his stomach wiggling to get ready for another engagement, but now he knew she had robbed him. Say, dad and I looked all over that boat for the widow, but she simply had evaporated. But land is in sight, and we shall land at Liverpool this afternoon, and dad is going to lay for the widow at the gang plank, and he won't do a thing to her. I guess not. Well, you will hear from me in London next, and I'll tell you if dad got his money and watch back.

Hennery.



Chapter VII.

The Bad Boy and His Dad Eat Fog -- Call on Astor -- A Dynamite Outrage.

London, England.

Dear Old Man:

Well, sir, if a court sentenced me to live in this town, I would appeal the case, and ask the judge to temper his sentence with mercy, and hang me. Say, the fog here is so thick you have to feel around like a blind goddess, and when you show up through the fog you look about eighteen feet high, and you are so wet you want to be run through a clothes wringer every little while. For two days we never left the hotel, but looked out of the windows waiting for the fog to go by, and watching the people swim through it, without turning a hair. Dad was for going right to the Lord Mayor and lodging a complaint, and demanding that the fog be cleared off, so an American citizen could go about town and blow in his money, but I told him he could be arrested for treason. He come mighty near being arrested on the cars from Liverpool to London. When we got off the steamer and tried to find the widow who robbed dad of his watch and roll of money, but never found her, we were about the last passengers to reach the train, and when we got ready to get on we found these English cars that open on the sides, and they put you into a box stall with some other live stock, and lock you in, and once in a while a guard opens the door to see if you are dead from suffocation, or have been murdered by the other passengers. Dad kicked on going in one of the kennels the first thing, and said he wanted a parlor car; but the guard took dad by the pants and gave him a shove, and tossed me in on top of dad, and two other passengers and a woman in the compartment snickered, and dad wanted to fight all of 'em except the woman, but he concluded to mash her. When the door closed clad told the guard he would walk on his neck when the door opened, and that he was not an entry in a dog show, and he wanted a kennel all to himself, and asked for dog biscuit. Gee, but that guard was mad, and he gave dad a look that started the train going. I whispered to dad to get out his revolver, because the other passengers looked like hold up men, and he took his revolver out of his satchel and put it in his pistol pocket, and looked fierce, and the woman began to act faint, while the passengers seemed to be preparing to jump on dad if he got violent. When the train stopped at the first station I got out and told the guard that the old gentleman in there was from Helena, Montana, and that he had a reputation from St. Paul to Portland, and then I held up both hands the way train robbers make passengers hold up their hands. When I went back in the car dad was talking to the woman about her resembling a woman he used to know in the states, and he was just going to ask her how long she had been so beautiful, when the guard came to the side door and called the woman out into another stall, and then one of the passengers pulled out a pair of handcuffs and told dad he might as well surrender, because he was a Scotland yard detective and had spotted dad as an American embezzler, and if he drew that gun he had in his pocket there would be a dead Yankee in about four minutes. Well, I thought dad had nerve before, but he beat the band, right there. He unbuttoned his overcoat and put his finger on a Grand Army button in his buttonhole, and said, "Gentlemen, I am an American citizen, visiting the crowned heads of the old world, with credentials from the President of the United States, and day after tomorrow I have a date to meet your king, on official business that means much to the future peace of our respective countries. Lay a hand on me and you hang from the yard arm of an American battleship." Well, sir, I have seen a good many bluffs in my time, but I never saw the equal of that, for the detective turned white, and apologized, and asked dad and I out to luncheon at the next station, and we went and ate all there was, and when the time was up the detective disappeared and dad had to pay for the luncheon, but he kicked all the way to London, and the guard would not listen to his complaints, but told him if he tried to hold up the train he would be thrown out the window and run over by the train. We had the compartment to ourselves the rest of the way to London, except about an hour, when the guard shoved in a farmer who smelled like cows, and dad tried to get in a quarrel with him, about English roast beef coming from America, but the man didn't have his arguing clothes on, so dad began to find fault with me, and the man told dad to let up on the kid or he would punch his bloody 'ed off. That settled it, when the man dropped his "h," dad thought he was one of the nobility, and he got quite chummy with the Englishman, and then we got to London, and dad had a quarrel about his baggage, and after threatening to have a lot of fights he got his trunk on the roof of a cab, and in about an hour we got to the hotel, and then the fog began an engagement. If the fog here ever froze stiff, the town would look like a piece of ice with fish frozen in. Gee, but I would like to have it freeze in front of our hotel, so I could take an ax and go out and chop a frozen girl out, and thaw her till she came to.

Say, old man, if anybody ever wants to treat you to a trip to Europe, don't come here, but go to some place where they don't think they can speak English. You can understand a Nitalian or a Frenchman, or a Dutchman, who can't speak English, and knows he can't, better than you can an Englishman who thinks he can speak English, and can't, "don't you know." Everything is "don't you know." If a servant gives you an evening paper, he says, "'Ere's your paiper, don't you know," and if a man should -- I don't say they would, but if a man should give you a civil answer, when you asked him the name of a street, he would look at you as though you were a cannibal, and say, "Regent street, don't you know," and then he would act as though you had broken him of his rest. Dad asked more than a dozen men where Bill Astor lived, and of all the population of London I don't believe anybody knows, except one newsboy. We rode half a day on top of a bus, through streets so crowded that the horses had to creep, and dad hung on for fear the bus would be tipped over, and finally we got out into the suburbs, where the rich people live, and dad said we were right on the trail of King Edward, and we got off and loitered around, and dad saw a beautiful place, with a big iron fence, and a gate as big as a railroad bridge, and dad asked a newsboy who lived there, and the boy made up a face at dad and said, "H'astor, you bloke," and he put out his hand for a tip. It was the first civil answer dad had received in London, so he gave the boy a dollar. The boy fell over on the sidewalk, dead, and dad started to go away for fear he would be arrested for murder, but I kicked the boy on the pants, and he got up and yelled some kind of murdered English, and more than a dozen newsboys came on a gallop, and when the boy told them what had happened they all wanted dad to ask them questions. I told the boys dad was Andrew Carnegie, and that he was giving away millions of dollars, so when dad got to the gate of the beautiful H'astor place, the boys yelled Andrew Carnegie, and a flunkey flunked the gate open and dad and I went in, and walked up to the house. Astor was on the veranda, smoking a Missouri corn cob pipe, and drinking American beer, and seemed to be wishing he was back home in America. Dad marched right up to the veranda, like a veteran soldier, and Astor could see dad was an American by the dandruff on his coat collar, and Astor said, "You are an American citizen and you are welcome. Once I was like you, and didn't care a continental dam for anybody, but in a moment of passion I renounced my country, swore allegiance to this blawsted country, and everybody hates me here, and I don't dare go home to collect my rent for fear I will be quarantined at Ellis Island and sent back to England as an undesirable emigrant who has committed a crime, and is not welcome in the land where I was born. Old man, have a glass of Milwaukee beer and let's talk of your home and my birthplace, and forget that there is such a country as England." Dad sat down on the porch, and I went out on the lawn chasing peacocks and treeing guinea hens, and setting dogs on the swans, until a butler or a duke or something took me by the collar and shook me till my teeth got loose, and he took me back to the veranda and sat me down on the bottom step so hard my hair raised right up stiff, like a porcupine. Then I listened to dad and Astor talk about America, and I never saw a man who seemed to be so ashamed that he was a brevet Englishman, as he did. He said he had so much money that it made his headache to hear the interest accumulate, nights, when he couldn't sleep, and yet he had no more enjoyment than Dreyfus did on Devil's Island. He had automobiles that would fill our exposition building, horses and carriages by the score, but he never enjoyed a ride about London, because only one person in ten thousand knew him, and those who did looked upon him with pity and contempt because he had renounced his country to get solid with the English aristocracy, and nobody would speak to him unless they wanted to borrow money, and if they did borrow money from him he was afraid they would pay it back, and make him trouble counting it. He told dad he wanted to get back into America, and become a citizen again of that grand old country of the stars and stripes, and asked dad how he could do it, for he said he had rather work in a slaughter house in America than be a grand duke in England. I never saw dad look so sorry for a man as he did for Astor, and he told him the only way was to sell out his ranch in London and go back on an emigrant ship, take out his first papers, vote the democratic ticket and eventually become a citizen. Astor was thinking over the proposition, and dad had asked him if he was not afraid of dynamiters, when he shuddered and said every day he expected to be blown sky high, and finally he smelled something burning and said the smell reminded him of an American 4th of July. You see, I had been sitting still on the step of the veranda so long I got nervous, for something exciting, so I took a giant firecracker out of my pocket and lit the long tail, and shoved it under the porch and looked innocent, and just then one of the flunkies with the tightest pants you ever saw came along and patted me on the head and said I was a nice boy, and that made me mad, and when he went to sit down beside me on the step I took my horse chestnut out of my pocket and put it on the step just where he sat down, and how it happened to come out so I don't know, it must have been Providence.

Now I lay me down to sleep 094

You see just as the flunkey flunked on the chestnut burr, the fire cracker went off, and the man jumped up and said '"Ells-fire, h'am blowed," and he had his hands on his pants, and the air was full of smoke, and dad got on his knees and said, "Now I lay me," and Mr. Astor fainted all over a rocking chair and tipped beer bottles on the veranda and more than forty servants came, and I told dad to come on, and we got outside the gate, ahead of the police, and got a cab and drove quicker than scat to the hotel, and I ast dad what he thought it was that went off, and he said "You can search me," but he said he had got enough of trying to reform escaped Americans, and we got in the hotel and laid low, and the newspapers told about a dynamite outrage, and laid it to anarchists. Well I must close, cause we are going to see the American minister and get a date to meet King' Edward. We won't do a thing to Edward.

Yours,

Hennery.



Chapter VIII.

The Bad Boy Writes About the Craze for Gin in the Whitechapel District -- He Gives His Dad a Scare in the Tower of London.

London, England. -- My Dear Chum: I received your letter yesterday, and it made me homesick. Gee, but if I could be home there with you and go down to the swimming hole and get in all over, and play tag in the sand, and tie some boy's pants and shirt in knots, and yell that the police are coming, and all grab our clothes under our arms and run across lots with no clothes on, and get in a barn and put on our clothes, and dry our hair by pounding it with a stick, so we would not get licked when we got home, life would be worth living, but here all I do is to dodge people on the streets and see them look cross when they step on me.

Say, boy, you will never know your luck in being a citizen of good old America, instead of a subject of Great Britain, because you have got to be rich or be hungry here, and if you are too rich you have got no appetite. You have heard of the roast beef of old England, but nobody eats it but the dukes and bankers. The working men never even saw a picture of a roast beef, and yet we look upon all Englishmen as beef-eaters, but three-fourths of the people in this town look hungry and discouraged, and they never seem to know whether they are going to have any supper.

I went down to a market this morning where the middle class and the very poor people buy their supplies, and it would make you sick to see them. They buy small loaves of bread and a penny's worth of tea, and that is breakfast, and if a man is working he takes some of the bread to work for lunch, and the wife or mother buys a carrot or a quarter of a cabbage, and maybe a bone with a piece of meat about as big as a fish bait, and that makes supper, with a growler of beer.

Say, the chunk of meat with a bone that an American butcher would throw at a dog that he had never been introduced to would be a banquet for a large family over here.

I have been down into the White Chapel district, which is the Five Points of London, and of the thousands of tough people I saw there was not a man but looked as though he would cut your liver out for a shilling, and every woman was drunk on gin. What there is about gin that makes it the national beverage for bad people beats me, for it looks like water, tastes like medicine and smells like cold storage eggs. At home when a person takes a drink of beer or whisky he at least looks happy for a minute, and maybe he laughs, but here nobody laughs unless somebody gets hurt, and that seems to tickle everybody in the White Chapel district.

The people look mad and savage when they are not drinking, as though they were only looking for an opportunity to commit murder, and then when they take a drink of gin, instead of smiling and smacking their lips as though it was good and braced them up, they look as though they had been stabbed with a dirk and they put on a look of revenge, as though they would like to wring a child's neck or cut holes in the people they meet.

Two drinks of gin makes a man or woman look as though they had swallowed a buzz saw. I always thought drinking liquor made people think they were enjoying themselves, or that they took it to drive away care and make them forget their sorrows, but when these people drink gin they seem to do it the way an American drinks carbolic acid, to end the whole business quick.

At home the drinker drinks to make him feel like he was at a picnic. Here every drinker acts like a suicide, who only hopes that he may commit a murder before the gin ends his career. And there are hundreds of thousands of people in this town who have no ambition except to get a bit of bread to sustain them till they can get a drink of gin, and gradually they let up on bread entirely and feed on gin, and look like mad dogs and snarl at everybody they see, as much as to say: "What are you going to do about it?"

Snarl at everybody they see 101

A good square American meal would give them a fit, and they would go to a hospital and die if the meal could not be got out of them.

Gosh, but I was glad to get out of the White Chapel district, and I kept looking back for fear one of the men or women would slit me up the back with a butcher knife, and laugh like an insane asylum inmate.

Do you know, those people who drink gin and go hungry are different from our American murderers. Our murderers will assault you with a smile, rob you with a joke on their tongue's end, and give you back car fare when they hold you up, and if they murder you they will do it easy and lay you out with your hands across on your breast and notify the coroner, but your White Chapel murderer wants to disembowel you and cut you up into chunks, and throw your remains head first into something nasty, and if you have money enough on your person to buy a bottle of gin your murderer is as well satisfied as though he got a roll. Some men in our country commit murders in order to get money to lay away so they can live a nice, respectable life and be good ever afterwards, but your slum murderer in London just kills because his stomach craves a drink, and when he gets it he is tame, like a tiger that has eaten a native of India.

You may think this letter is a solemn occasion because I tell you about things that are not funny, but if you ever traveled abroad you will find that there is no fun anywhere except in America unless you make it or buy it.

We are taking in the solemn things first in order to get dad's mind in a condition so he can be cured of things he thinks ail him. I took dad to the Tower of London, and when we got out of it he wanted to have America interfere and have the confounded place burned down and grass sown on the site and a park made of it.

The tower covers 13 acres of ground, and there are more things brought to a visitor's attention that ought to be forgotten than you ever thought about.

I remember attending the theater at home and seeing Richard the Third played, and I remember how my sympathies were aroused for the two little boy princes that were murdered by Richard the Third, but I thought it was a fake play, and that there was nothing true about it, but, by gosh, it was right here in the Tower of London that the old hump-backed cuss murdered those little princes, and dad and I stood right on the spot, and the beef-eater who showed us around told us all the particulars. Dad was indignant, and said to the beef-eater:

Stood around and let Richard kill those princes 098

"Do you mean to tell me you stood around and let Richard kill those princes without uttering a protest or protecting them or ringing for the police? By the great hornspoon, you must have been accessory to the fact, and you ought to be arrested and hung," and dad pounded his cane on the stone floor and looked savage.

The beef-eater got red in the face and said: "Begging your pardon, don't you know, but h'l was not 'ere at the time. This 'istory was made six 'undred years ago."

Dad begged the man's pardon and told him he supposed the boys were murdered a year or two ago, and he gave the beef-eater a dollar, and he was so gratified I think he would have had a murder committed for dad right there and then if dad had insisted on it.

You feel in going through the tower like you was in an American slaughter house, for it was here that kings and queens were beheaded by the dozen. They showed us axes that were used to behead people, and blocks that the heads of the victims were laid on, and the places where the heads fell on the floor. It seemed that in olden times when a king or a queen got too gay, the anti-kings or queens would go to the palace and catch the king or queen in the act, and take them by the neck and hustle them to the tower, and when a king or queen got in the tower they went out on the installment plan, and after being thrown in the gutter for the mob to recognize, and walk on the bodies, they would bring them back in the tower, and seal them up in a pigeon hole for future generations to cry over.

All my life I have had in our house to look at a picture of beautiful Anne Boleyn, and here I stood right where her head was cut off, and I couldn't help thinking of how we in America got our civilization from the descendants of the English people who cut her head off.

By ginger, old chum, it made me hot. I didn't care to look at the old armor, or the crown jewels, which make you think of a cut glass factory, but I reveled in the scenes of the beheading. I never was stuck much on kings and queens, but it seems to me if they had to murder them they ought to have given 'em a show, and let them fight for their lives, instead of getting into a trap, like you would entice a rat with cheese, and then cut their heads off.

I suppose it is right here that we inherited the desire to lynch and burn at the stake the negroes that commit crime and won't confess at home. When anything is born in the blood you can't get rid of it without taking a dose of patriotism and purifying the blood, and I advise you never to visit the Tower of London, unless you want to feel like going out and killing some one that is tied up with a rope.

Hearing of these murders and seeing the place where they were committed does not give you an idea of fair play and you don't feel like taking some one of your size when you fight, but you get to thinking that if you could catch a cripple who couldn't defend himself you would like to take a baseball club and maul the stuffing out of him. You become imbued with the idea that if you went to war you would not want to stand up and fight fair, but that you would like to get your enemy in a bunch and drop dynamite down on him from a balloon, and kill all in sight, and sail away with an insane laugh.

Gee, but another day in this tower, and I would want to go home and murder ma, or the neighbors.

The only thing we have got in America that compares with the Tower of London and its associates is the Leutgert sausage factory in Chicago, where Leutgert got his wife into the factory, murdered her, and is alleged to have cut her up in pieces and made sausage of the meat, given the pieces with gristle in to his dogs, boiled the bones until they would run into the sewer, dissolved the remnants in concentrated lye, and sold the sausage to the lumber Jacks in the pine woods.

I expect Chicago will buy that sausage factory and make a show of it, as London does the tower, and you can go and see it, and feel that you are as full of modern history as I am of ancient history, here in London.

I could see that dad was getting nervous every time a new beheading was described to us, and I thought it was time to wake him up. In going through the room where the old armor was displayed the beef eater told us who wore the different pieces of armor, and he said at times the spirit of the dead came back to the tower and occupied the armor, and I noticed that dad shied at some of the pieces of armor, so when we got right into the midst of it, and there was armor on every side, and dad and the beef eater were ahead of me, and dad was walking fast in order to get out quick, I pushed over one of the pieces, and it went crashing to the floor and the noise was like a boiler factory exploding, and the dust of centuries rose up, and the noise echoed down the halls.

Well, you'd a died to see dad and the beef eater. Dad turned pale and got down on his knees, and I think he began to pray, if he knows how, and he trembled like a leaf, and the beef eater got behind a set of armor that Cromwell or some old duck used to wear, and said, "Wot in the bloody 'ell is the matter with the h'armor?" and then a lot of other beef eaters came, and they thought dad was the spirit of King John, and they stampeded, and finally I got dad to stop praying, or whatever it was that he was doing, and I led him out, and when he got into the open air he recovered and said. "'Ennery, 'hi have got to get out of Lunnon, don't you know, because me 'eart is palpitating," and we went back to the 'otel, to see if our invitation to visit King Hedward had arrived.

Beefeater's stampede 107

Say, we are getting so we talk just like English coachmen, and you won't hundredstand us when we get 'ome. Yours, with a haccent.

'Ennery.



Chapter IX.

The Bad Boy and His Dad Call on King Edward and Almost Settle the Irish Question.

London, H-england. -- Dear Uncle Ezra: The worst is over, and dad and I have both touched a king. Not the way you think, touching a king for a hand-out, or borrowing his loose change, the way you used to touch dad when you had to pay for your goods, but just taking hold of his hand and shaking it in good old United States fashion.

The American minister arranged it for us. He told somebody that Peck's Bad Boy and his dad were in town, and just wanted to size up a king and see how he averaged up with United States politicians, and the king set an hour for us to call.

Well, you'd a dide to see dad fix up. Everybody said, when we showed our card at the hotel, notifying us that we were expected at Marlboro House at such a time, that we would be expected to put on plenty of dog. That is what an American from Kalamazoo, who sells breakfast food, said, and the hotel people said we would be obliged to wear knee breeches and dancing pumps and silk socks, and all that kind of rot, and men's furnishers began to call upon us to take our measure for clothes, but when they told us how much it would cost, dad kicked. He said he had a golf suit he had made in Oshkosh at the time of the tournament, that every one in Oshkosh said was out of sight, and was good enough for any king, and so he rigged up in it, and I hired a suit at a masquerade place, and dad hired a coat, kind of red, to go with his golf pants and socks, and he wore canvas tennis shoes.

Suit he had made in Oshkosh 111

I looked like a picture out of a fourteenth century book, but dad looked like a clown in a circus. One of dad's calves made him look as though he had a milk leg, cause the padding would not stay around where the calf ought to be, but worked around towards his shin. We went to Marlboro House in a hansom cab, and all the way there the driver kept looking down from the hurricane deck, through the scuttle hole, to see if we were there yet, and he must have talked with other cab drivers in sign language about us, for every driver kept along with us, looked at us and laughed, as though we were a wild west show.

On the way to the king's residence it was all I could do to keep dad braced up to go through the ordeal. He was brave enough before we got the invitation, and told what he was going to say to the king, and you would think he wasn't afraid of anybody, but when we got nearer to the house and dad thought of going up to the throne and seeing a king in all his glory, surrounded by his hundreds of lords and dukes and things, a crown on his head, and an ermine cloak trimmed with red velvet, and a six-quart milk pan full of diamonds, some of them as big as a chunk of alum, dad weakened, and wanted to give the whole thing up and go to a matinee, but I wouldn't have it, and told him if he didn't get into the king row now that I would shake him right there in London and start in business as a Claude Duval highwayman and hold up stage coaches, and be hung on Tyburn Tree, as I used to read about in my history of Sixteen-String Jack and other English highwaymen. Dad didn't want to see the family disgraced, so he let the cabman drive on, but he said if we got out of this visit to royalty alive, it was the last tommyrot he would indulge in.

Well, old man, it is like having an operation for appendicitis, you feel better when you come out from under the influence of the chloroform and the doctor shows you what they took out of you, and you feel that you are going to live, unless you grow another vermiform appendix. We were driven into a sort of Central park, and up to a building that was big as a lot of exposition buildings, and the servants took us in charge and walked us through long rooms covered with pictures as big as side show pictures at a circus, but instead of snake charmers and snakes and wild men of Borneo and sword swallowers, the king's pictures were about war, and women without much clothes on from the belt up. Gosh, but some of those pictures made you think you could hear the roar of battle and smell gun powder, and dad acted as though he wanted to git right down on the marble floor and dig a rifle pit big enough to git into.

They walked us around like they do when you are being initiated into a secret society, only they didn't sing, "Here comes the Lobster," and hit you with a dried bladder. The servants that were conducting us laffed. I had never seen an Englishman laff before, and it was the most interesting thing I saw in London. Most Englishmen look sorry about something, as though some dear friend died every day, and their faces seem to have grown that way. So when they laff it seems as though the wrinkles would stay there, unless they treated their faces with massage. They were laughing at dad's dislocated calf, and his scared appearance, as though he was going to receive the thirty-second degree, and didn't know whether they were going to throw him over a precipice or pull him up to the roof by the hind legs. We passed a big hall clock, and it struck just when we were near it, and of all the "Hark, from the tombs" sounds I ever heard, that clock took the cake. Dad thought it sounded like a death knell, and he would have welcomed the turning in of a fire alarm as a sound that meant life everlasting, beside that doleful sound.

After we had marched about three mile heats, and passed the chairs of the noble grand and the senior warden, and the exalted ruler, we came to a bronze door as big as the gate to a cemetery, and the grand conductor gave us a few instructions about how to back out fifteen feet from the presence of the king, when we were dismissed, and then he turned us over to a little man who was a grand chambermaid, I understood the fellow to say. The door opened, and we went in, and dad's misplaced calf was wobbling as though he had locomotor attacks-ye.

Well, there were a dozen or so fellows standing around, and they all had on some kind of uniforms, with gold badges on their breasts, and in the midst of them was a little, sawed-off fat fellow, not taller than five feet six, but a perfect picture of the cigar advertisements of America for a cigar named after the king. I expected to see a king as big as Long John Wentworth of Chicago, a great big fellow that could take a small man by the collar and throw him over a house, and I felt hurt at the small size of the king of Great Britain, but, gosh, he is just like a Yankee, when you get the formality shook off.

We bowed and dad made a courtesy like an old woman, and the king came forward with a smile that ought to be imitated by every Englishman. They all imitate his clothes and his hats and his shoes, but he seems to be the only Englishman that smiles. Maybe it is patented, and nobody has a right to smile without paying a royalty, but the good-natured smile of King Edward is worth more than stomach bitters, and the English ought to be allowed to copy it. There is no more solemn thing than a party of Englishmen together in America, unless it is a party of speculators that are short on wheat, or a gathering of defeated politicians when the election returns come in. But the king is as jolly as though he had not a note coming due at the bank, and you would think he was a good, common citizen, after working hours, at a round beer table, with two schooner loads in the hold and another schooner on the way, frothing over the top of the stein. That is the feeling I had for the king when he came up to us and greeted dad as the father of the bad boy and patted me on the shoulder and said: "And so you are the boy that has made more trouble than any boy in the world, and had more fun than anybody, and made them all stand around and wonder what was coming next. You're a wonder. Strange the American people never thought of killing you." I said yessir, and tried to look innocent, and then the king told dad to sit down, and for me to come and stand by his knee, and by ginger, when he patted me on the cheek, and his soft hand squeezed my hand, and he looked into my eyes with the most winning expression, I did not wonder that all the women were in love with him, and that all Englishmen would die for him.

He asked dad all about America, its institutions, the president, and everything, and dad was just so flustered that he couldn't say much, until the king said something about the war between the States, in which the southern states achieved a victory. I don't know whether the king said that just to wake dad up, 'cause dad had a grand army button on his coat, but dad choked up a little, and then began to explode, a little at a time, like a bunch of firecrackers, and finally he went off all in a bunch. Dad said: "Look a here, Mr. King, some one has got you all balled up about that war. I know, because I was in it, and now the north and the south are United, and can whip any country that wants to fight a champion, and will go out and get a reputation, by gosh!"

The king laughed at touching dad off, and asked dad what was the matter of America and Great Britain getting together and making all nations know when they had better keep their places, and quit talking about fighting. Dad said he never would consent to America and Great Britain getting together to fight any country until Ireland got justice and was ready to come into camp on an equality, and the king said he would answer for the Irishmen of Ireland if dad would pledge the Irishmen of America, 'cause we had about as many Irishmen in America as he had in Ireland, and dad said if the king would give Ireland what she asked for, he would see that the Irishmen in America would sing God Save the King.

Settling the Irish question 115

I guess dad and the king would have settled the Irish question in about fifteen minutes, and signed a treaty, only a servant brought in a two-quart bottle of champagne, and dad and the king hadn't drank a quart apiece before dad started to sing "My Country Tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Libertee," and the king sang "God Save the King," and, by thunder, it was the same tune, and tears came into dad's eyes, and the king took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose, and I bellered right out, and the king rose and offered a toast to America and everybody in it, and they swallered it, and dad said there was enough juice left in the bottle for one more round, and he proposed a toast to all the people of Great Britain, including the Irish and the king who loved them, and down she went, and they were standing up. And I told dad it was time to go.

God save the king 119

Say, it was great, Uncle Ezra, and I wish you could have been there, and there had been another bottle. The only thing that happened to mar the reunion of dad and the king was when we were going out backwards, bowing. There was a little hassock back of me, and I kicked it back of dad, and when dad's heels struck it he went over backwards and struck on his golf pants, and dad said: "El, 'Ennery, I'ave broken my bloomink back, but who cares," and when the servants picked dad up and took him out in the hall and marched us to the entrance, dad got in the cab, gave the grand hailing sign of distress, started to sing God save something or other, and went to sleep in the cab, and I took him to the hotel.

Yours,

Hennery.

He went over backwards 121



Chapter X.

The Bad Boy Writes of Ancient and Modern Highwaymen -- They Get a Taste of High Life in London and Dad Tells the Story of the Picklemaker's Daughter.

London, England. -- My Dear Old Skate: Well, if we are going to see any of the other countries on this side of the water before our return ticket expires, we have got to be getting a move on, and dad says in about a week we will be doing stunts in Paris that will bring about a revolution, and wind up the republic of France, and seat some nine-spot on the throne that Napoleon used to wear out his buckskin pants on.

Dad asked me tother day what I cared most to see in London, and I told him I wanted to visit Newgate prison, and the places made famous by the bold highwaymen of a century or two ago. He thought I was daffy, but when I told him how I had read "Claude Duval" and "Six-teen-String Jack" and all the highway literature, in the haymow, when dad thought I was weeding the garden, he confessed that he used to hunt those yellow covered books out of the manger when I was not reading them, and that he had read them all himself, when I thought he was studying for his campaign speeches, and so he said he would go with me. So we visited Homestead Heath, where Claude Duval used to ride "Black Bess," and hold up people who traveled at night in post chaises, and we found splendid spots where there had been more highway robbery going on than any place east of Missouri, but I was disgusted when I thought what chumps those old highway robbers were, compared to the American highway robbers and hold up men of the present day.

In Claude Duval's time he had a brace of flintlock pistols, which he had to examine the priming every time a victim showed up, and while he was polite when he robbed a duchess, he used to kill people all right, though if they had had cameras at that time the flash from the priming pan would have taken a flash-light picture of the robber, so he could have been identified when he rode off in the night to a roadside inn and filled up on beer, while he counted the ten shillings he had taken from the silk purse of the victim. Why, one of our American gangs that hold up a train, and get an express safe full of greenbacks, and shoots up a mess of railroad hands and passengers with Winchesters and automatic pistols, and blows up cars with dynamite and gets away and has to have a bookkeeper and a cashier to keep their bank accounts straight, could give those old Claude Duvals and Sixteen-String Jacks cards and spades.

But civilization, dad says, has done much for the highway robbery business, and he says we in America have arrived at absolute perfection. However, I was much interested in looking over the ground where my first heroes lived and died, and did business, and when we went to the prisons where they were confined, and were shown where Tyburn Tree stood, that so many of them were hung on, tears came to my eyes at the thought that I was on the sacred ground where my heroes croaked, and went to their deaths with smiles on their faces, and polite to the last. The guard who showed us around thought that dad and I were relatives of the deceased highwaymen, and when we went away he said to dad: "Call again, Mr. Duval. Always glad to serve any of the descendants of the heroes. What line of robbery are you in, Mr. Duval?" Dad was mad, but he told the guard he was now on the stock exchange, and so we maintained the reputation of the family.

Glad to serve any of the descendants of the heroes 126

Then we hired horses and took a horse back ride through Rotten Row, where everybody in London that has the price, rides a horse, and no carriages are allowed. Dad was an old cavalry man forty years ago, and he is stuck on his shape when he is on a horse, but he came near breaking up the horse back parade the day we went for the ride. The liveryman gave us two bob-tailed nags, a big one for dad and a small one for me, but they didn't have any army saddle for dad, and he had to ride on one of these little English saddles, such as jockeys ride races on, and dad is so big where he sits on a saddle that you couldn't see the saddle, and I guess they gave dad a hurdle jumper, because when we got right amongst the riders, men and women, his horse began to act up, and some one yelled, "Tally-ho," and that is something about fox hunting, not a coach, and the horse jumped a fence and dad rolled off over the bowsprit and went into a ditch of dirty water.

Dad rolled off over the bowsprit 128

The horse went off across a field, and the policeman fished dad out of the ditch, and run him through a clothes wringer or something, and got him dried out, and sent him to the hotel in an express wagon, and I rode my horse back to the liveryman and told him what happened to dad, and they locked me up in a box stall until somebody found the horse, 'cause they thought dad was a horse thief, and they held me for ransom. But dad came around before night and paid my ransom, and we were released. Dad says Rotten Row is rotten, all right enough, and by ginger it is, 'cause he has not got the smell of that ditch off his clothes yet.

Now he has got a new idea, and that is to go to some country where there are bandits, different from the bandits here in London, and be captured and taken to the mountain fastnesses, and held for ransom until our government makes a fuss about it, and sends warships after-us. I tell dad it would be just our luck to have our government fail to try to get us, and the bandits might cut our heads off and stick them on a pole as a warning to people not to travel unless they had a ransom concealed about their clothes. But dad says he is out to see all the sights, and he is going to be ransomed before he gets home, if it takes every dollar our government has got. I think he is going to work the bandit racket when we get to Turkey, but, by ginger, he can leave me at a convent, because I don't want one of those crooked sabers run into me and turned around like a corkscrew. Dad says I can stay in a harem while he goes to the mountains with the bandits, and I don't know as I care, as they say a harem is the most interesting place in Turkey. You know the pictures we have studied in the old grocery, where a whole bunch of beautiful women are practicing using soap in a marble bath.

Well, don't you say anything to ma about it, but dad has got his foot in it clear up to the top button. It isn't anything scandalous, though there is a woman at the bottom of it. You see, we used to know a girl that left home to go out into the world and earn her own living. She elocuted some at private parties and sanitariums, to entertain people that were daffy, and were on the verge of getting permanent bats in their belfry, and after a few years she got on the stage, and made a bunch of money, and went abroad. And then she had married a titled person, and everybody supposed she was a duchess, or a countess, and ma wanted us to inquire about her when we got over here. Ma didn't want us to go and hunt her up to board with her, or anything, but just to get a glimpse of high life, and see if our poor little friend was doing herself proud in her new station in life.

Isn't money enough in the whole family to wad a gun 131

Gee, but dad found her, and she ain't any more of a duchess than I am. Her husband is a younger son of a titled person, but there isn't money enough in the whole family to wad a gun, and our poor girl is working in a shop, or store, selling corsets to support a lazy, drunken husband and a whole mess of children, and while she is seven removes from a duchess, she does not rank with the woman who washes her mother's clothes at home. Gosh, but dad was hot when he found her, and after she told him about her situation in life he gave her a yellow-backed fifty-dollar bill, and came back to the hotel mad, and wanted to pack up and go somewhere else, where he didn't know any titled-persons.

That night a couple of dukes came around to the hotel to sell dad some stock in a diamond mine in South Africa, and they got to talking about how English society held over our crude American society, until dad got an addition to the mad he had when he called on our girl, and when one of the dukes said America was being helped socially by the marriage of American women to titled persons, dad got a hot box, like a stalled freight train.

Says dad, says he: "You Johnnies are a lot of confidence men, who live only to rope in rich American girls, so you can marry them and have their dads lift the mortgages on your ancestral estates, and put on tin roofs in place of the mortgages, 'cause a mortgage will not shed rain, and you get their money and spend it on other women." One of the dukes turned red like a lobster, and I think he is a lobster, anyway, and he was going to make dad stop talking, but the duke didn't know dad, and he continued. Says dad, says he: "I know a rich old man in the States, who made ten million dollars on pickles, or breakfast food, and he had a daughter that was so homely they couldn't keep a clock going in the house.

"She came over here and got exposed to a duke, and she had never been vaccinated, and the first her father knew she caught the duke, and came; home, and he followed her. Say, he didn't know enough to pound sand, and the old man got several doctors for her, but they couldn't break up the duke fever, and finally the old pickle citizen asked him how much the mortgage was, and how much they could live on, and he bought her the duke, and sent them off, and the duke covered his castle with building paper, so it would hold water, and they set up housekeeping with a hundred servants. Then the duke wanted a racing stable, after the baby came, and the old pickle man went over to see the baby, and it looked so much like the old man that he invested in a racing stable, and the servants bowed low to the old man and called him 'Your 'ighness,' and that settled the old pickle person, and he fell into the trap of building a townhouse in London.

"Then he went home and made some more pickles, and the daughter cabled him to come right over, as they had been invited to entertain the king and a lot of other face cards in the pack. And the old man thought it would be great to get in the king row himself, so he shoveled a lot of big bills into some packing trunks and went over to fix up for the king. The castle had to be redecorated for about six miles, up one corridor and down the other, but Old Pickles stood the raise, because he thought it would be worth the money to be on terms of intimacy with a king.

"Then when it was all ready, and the old man was going to stand at the front door and welcome the king, they made him go to his room, back about a half a mile in the rear of the castle, and for two weeks old Pickles had his meals brought to his room, and when it was over, and his sentence had expired, he was let out, and all he saw of the grand entertainment to the crowned heads was a ravine full of empty wine bottles, a case of jimjams for a son-in-law, a case of nervous prostration for a daughter, and hydrophobia for himself. My old pickle friend has got, at this date, three million good pickle dollars invested in your d -- d island, and all he has to show for it is a sick daughter, neglected by a featherhead of a husband, who will only speak to old pickles when he wants more money, and a grandchild that may die teething at any time. You are a nice lot of ducks to talk to me about your English society being better than our American civilization. You get," and dad drove the dukes out.

Dad drove the dukes out 135

I think they are going to have dad arrested for treason. But don't tell ma, 'cause she may think treason serious.

Yours,

Hennery.



Chapter XI.

The Bay Boy Writes About Paris -- Tells About the Trip Across the English Channel -- Dad Feeds a Dog and Gets Arrested.

Paris, France. -- My Dear Uncle Ezra: Dad is in an awful state here, and I do not know what to do with him. We struck this town all in a heap, and the people seemed to be paralyzed so they couldn't speak, except to make motions and make noises that we could not interpret. This is the first time dad and I have been in a place where nobody understood our language. Ordinarily we would take pleasure in teaching people to speak the English language, but in coming across the English channel dad and I both got something we never got on the water before. Ordinary seasickness is only an incident, that makes you wish you were dead -- just temporary, but when it wears off you can enjoy your religion and victuals as well as ever, but the seasickness that the English channel gives you is a permanent investment, like government bonds that you cut coupons off of. I 'spect we shall be sick always now, and worse every other day, like chills and fever.

Say, a boat on the English channel does not roll, or pitch, at intervals, like a boat on ordinary water, but it does stunts like a broncho that has been poisoned by eating loco-weeds, and goes into the air and dives down under, and shakes itself like a black bass with a hook in its mouth, and rolls over like a trained dog, and sits up on its hind legs and begs, and then walks on its fore paws, and seems to jump through hoops, and dig for woodchucks, and all the time the water boils like 'pollinarius, full of bubbles, and it gives you the hiccups to look at it, and it flows every way at the same time, and the wind comes from the fourteen quarters at once, and blows hot if you are too hot and want a cool breeze, and if you are too cold, and want a warm breeze to keep you alive, it comes right from the north pole, and you just perish in your tracks.

Gee, but it is awful. When you get seasick on an ordinary ocean, you know where to locate the disease, and you know where to go for relief, and when you have got relieved you know that you are alive, but an English channel seasickness is as different from any other as an alcohol jag is different from a champagne drunk. This English channel seasickness begins on your toes, and you feel as though the toenails were being pulled out with pincers, and the veins in your legs seem to explode, your arms wilt like lettuce in front of a cheap grocery, your head seems to be struck with a pile-driver and telescoped down into your spine, and your stomach feels as though you had swallowed a telephone pole with all of the cross arms and wires and glass insulators, and you wish lightning would strike you. Gosh, but dad was hot when he found that he was sick that way, and when we got ashore he wanted to kill the first man he met.

He thinks that it is a crime for a man not to understand the English language, and when he tells what he wants, and the man he is talking to shrugs his shoulders and laughs, and brings him something else, he wants to pull his gun and begin to shoot up the town, and only for me he would have killed people before this, but now he takes it out in scowling at people who do not understand him. Dad seems to think that if he cannot make a man understand what he says, all he has to do is to swear at the man, but there is no universal language of profanity, so the more dad swears the more the nervous Frenchman smiles, and acts polite.

I think the French people are the politest folks I ever knew. If a Frenchman had to kick a person out of doors, he would wear a felt slipper, and after he had kicked you he would place his hand on his heart, and bow, and look so sorry, and hurt, that you would want to give him a tip.

O, but this tipping business is what is breaking dad's heart. I think if the servants would arrange a syndicate to rob dad of two or three dol lars a day, by pocket picking, or sneak thieving, he would overlook it, and say that as long as it was one of the customs of the country we should have to submit to it, but when he has paid his bill, with everything charged extra, and the servants line up and look appealingly, or mad, as the case may be, dad is the hardest man to loosen that ever was, but if they seem to look the other way, and not, apparently, care whether they get a cent or not, dad would go and hunt them up, and divide his roll with them. Dad is not what you would call a "tight wad," if you let him shed his money normally, when he feels the loosening coming on, but you try to work him by bowing and cringing, and his American spirit gets the better of him, and he looks upon the servant as pretty low down. I have told him that the tipping habit is just as bad in America as in France, but he says in America the servant acts as though he never had such a thought as getting a tip, and when you give him a quarter or other tip he looks puzzled, as though he did not just recall what he had done to merit such treatment, but finally puts the money in his pocket with an air as though he would accept it in trust, to be given to some deserving person at the first opportunity, and then he smiles, and gets away, and blows in the tip for something wet and strong.

I told dad if he would just ignore the servants, as though he did not understand that they expected a tip, that he would be all right, so when we got ready to move from the hotel to private rooms dad never gave any servant a tip. Well, I don't know what the servants did to our baggage, but they must have marked it with a smallpox sign, or something, for nobody would touch it for several hours, but finally a baggage man took it and started for our apartments, and got lost and didn't show up for two days, and when it was finally landed on the sidewalk nobody would carry it upstairs, and dad and I had to lug it up two flights, and I thought dad would have apoplexy.

Coughs up a tip every time 143

We found a guide who could talk New Orleans English and he said it would cost three dollars to square it with the servants at the hotel, and have the boycott removed from our baggage, and dad paid it, and now he coughs up a tip every time he sees a servant look at him. He pays when he goes in a restaurant and when he comes out, and says he is cured of trying to reform the customs of anybody else's country.

We have engaged a guide to stay with us day and night. The guide took us out for a bat last night, and dad had the time of his life. Dad has drank a good deal of spiritous and malt liquors in his time, but I don't think he ever indulged much in champagne at three or four dollars a bottle at home. Maybe he has been saving himself up till he got over here, where champagne is cheap and it takes several quarts to make you see angels. The guide took us to one of these bullyvards, where there are tables out on the sidewalk, and you can eat and drink and look at the dukes and counts and dutchesses and things promenading up and down, flirting like sin, and we sat down to a table and ordered things to eat and drink, and dad looked like Uncle Sam, and felt his oats.

A tone of voice that meant trouble 138

When he had drank a few thimblefuls of absinthe, and some champagne, and eat a plateful of frogs, he was just ripe for trouble. A woman and a man at an adjoining table had one of these white dogs that is sheared like a hedge fence, with spots of long hair left on in places, and dad coaxed the dog over to our table and began to feed him frogs' legs, and the woman began to talk French out loud, and look cross at dad, and the count that was with her came over to our table and looked at dad in a tone of voice that meant trouble, and said something sassy, and the guide said the man wanted to fight a duel because dad had contaminated the woman's dog, and dad got mad and offered to wipe out the whole place, and he got up with a champagne bottle and looked defiance at the count, and the waiters began to scatter, when the woman came up to dad and begged him not to hurt the count, and as she spoke broken English dad could understand her, and she looked so beautiful, and her eyes were filled with tears, and dad relented and said: "Don't cry, dear, I won't hurt the little runt." She was so glad dad was not going to kill the count that she threw herself into his arms and thanked dear America for producing such a grand citizen, such a brave man as dad, who could forego the pleasure of killing a poor, weak man who had insulted him, particularly as dad's wild Indian ancestry made it hard for him to refrain from blood.

I won't hurt the little runt 145

Well, dad's face was a study, as he braced up and held that 150 pounds of white meat in his arms, with all the people looking on, and he seemed proud and heroic, and he stroked her hair and told her not to worry, and finally she hied herself away from dad and the count took her away, and they went up the bullyvard, and after all was quiet again dad said: "Hennery, let this be a lesson to you. When you are tempted to commit a rash act and avenge an insult in blood, stop and think of the sorrow and shame that will come to you if you draw your gun too quick, and have a widow on your hands as the result. Suppose I had killed that shrimp, the face of his widow would have haunted me always, and I would have wanted to die. Don't ever kill anybody, my boy, if you can settle a dispute by shaking the dice."

Well, dad ordered some more wine, and as he drank it, he allowed the populace to admire him and say things about the great American millionaire, who spent money like water and was too brave to fight. Then dad called for his check to pay his bill, and when he felt in his pocket for his roll of bills, he hadn't a nickel and the woman, when she was in his arms, weeding with one hand, had gone through dad's pockets with the other. Dad felt for his watch, to see what time it was, and his watch was gone, and the waiter was waiting for the money and dad tried to explain that he had been buncoed, and the head waiter came and begun to act sassy, and then they called a policeman to stay by us till the money was produced, and everybody at the other tables laughed, and dad turned blue, and I thought he would have a fit. Finally, the guide began to talk, and the result was that a policeman went home with us, and dad found money enough to pay the bill, but he talked language that caused the landlady to ask us to find a new place.

Tried to explain that he had been buncoed 148

The next morning the guide showed up with an officer who had a warrant for dad for hugging a woman in a public cafe, and it seemed as though we were in for it, but the guide said he could settle the whole business by paying the officer $20, and dad paid it and I think the guide and the officer divided the money. Say, this is the greatest town we have struck yet for excitement, and I guess dad will not have a chance to think of his sickness.

This morning we went into a big department store, and, by gosh! we found the count that dad was going to fight was a floor-walker, and the countess was behind a counter selling soap. When dad saw the count leering at him, he put his hand on his pistol pocket and yelled a regular cowboy yell, and the count rushed down into the basement, the soap countess fainted, and the police took dad to the police station, and all day the guide and I have been trying to get him out on bail. If we get dad out of this we are going to put a muzzle on him. Well, if anyone asks you if I am having much of a time abroad, you can tell them the particulars.

P. S. -- We got dad out for $20 and costs, and he says he will blow Paris up before night. We are going up to the top of the Eiffel tower this afternoon, to count our money, as dad dasscnt take out his pocketbook anywhere on the ground for fear of being robbed.

Yours full of frogs.

Hennery.



Chapter XII.

The Bad Boy's Second Letter from Paris -- Dad Poses as a Mormon Bishop and Has to Be Rescued -- They Climb the Eiffel Tower and the Old Man Gets Converted.

Paris, France. -- Old Pardner in Crime: I got your letter, telling me about the political campaign that is raging at home, and when I read it to dad he wanted to go right out and fill up on campaign whisky and yell for his presidential candidate, but he couldn't find any whisky, so he has not tried to carry any precincts of Paris for our standard-bearer.

There is something queer about the liquor here. There is no regular campaign beverage. At home you can select a drink that is appropriate for any stage of a campaign. When the nominations are first made you are not excited and beer and cheese sandwiches seem to fit the case A little later, when the orators begin to come out into the open and shake their hair, you take cocktails and your eyes begin to resemble those of a caged rat, and you are ready to quarrel with an opponent. The next stage in the campaign is the whisky stage, and when you have got plenty of it the campaign may be said to be open, and you wear black eyes and lose your teeth, and you swear strange oaths and smell of kerosene, and only sleep in the morning. Then election comes and if your side wins you drink all kinds of things at once for a week, shout hoarsely and then go to the Keeley cure, but if your party loses you stay home and take a course of treatment for nervous prostration and say you will never mix up in another campaign.

Here in France it is different. The people have nervous prostration to start on, start a campaign on champagne, wind up on absinthe, and after the votes are counted go to an insane asylum. I do not know what first got dad to drink absinthe and I don't know what it is, but it looks like soap suds, tastes like seed cookies and smells like vermifuge. But it gets there just the same and the result of drinking it is about the same as the result of drinking anything in France -- it makes you want to hug somebody.

At home when a man gets full of whisky, he wants to hug the man he drinks with and weep on his collar, and then hit him on the head with a bottle; but here every kind of drink puts the drinker in condition to want to hug. Dad says he never knew he had a brain until he learned to drink absinthe, but now he can close his eyes and see things worse than any mince pie nightmare, and when we go out among people he never sees a man at all, but when a woman passes along, dad's eyes begin to take turns winking at them and it is all I can do to keep him from proposing marriage to every woman he sees.

Badge on dad's breast, with the word "Bishop" 153

I thought I would break him of this woman foolishness, so I told everybody dad was a Mormon bishop, and had a grand palace at Salt Lake City, and owned millions of gold mines and tabernacles and wanted to marry a thousand women and take them to Utah and place them at the head of homes of their own, and he would just call once or twice a week and leave bags of gold for his wives to spend. A newspaper reporter, that could talk English, wrote a piece for a paper about dad wanting to marry a whole lot and he said life in Utah was better than a Turkish harem, cause the wives of a Mormon bishop did not have to be locked up and watched by unix, but could flirt and blow in money and go out to dances and have just as much fun as though they lived in Newport, and had got divorces from millionaires, and he said any woman who wanted to marry a Mormon bishop could meet dad on the bullyvard near a certain monument, on a certain day. I was on to it, with the reporter, and we hired a carriage and went to the bullyvard, just at the time the newspaper said and I put a big red badge on dad's breast, with the word "Bishop" on it, and dad had been drinking absinthe and he thought the badge was a kind of sign of nobility. Well, you'd adide to see the bunch of women that were there to meet dad. "What's the matter here?" said dad, as he saw the crowd of women, looking like they were there in answer to an advertisement for nurses. I told dad to stand up in the carriage, like Dowie does in Chicago, and hold out his hands and say: "Bless you, my children," and when dad got up to bless them, the reporter and I got out of the carriage, and the reporter, which could talk French, said for all the women who wanted to be Mormon wives to get into the carriage with the bishop and be sealed for life.

Well, sir, you'd a thought it was a remnant sale! More than a dozen got into the carriage with dad, and about 400 couldn't get in, but when the scared driver started up the horses, they all followed the carriage, and then the mounted police surrounded the whole bunch and moved them off towards the police station, and dad under the wagonload of females, each one trying to get the nearest to him, so as to be his favorite wife.

It got noised around that a foreign potent-ate had been arrested with his whole harem for conduct unbecoming to a potent-ate, and so when we got to the jail dad had to be rescued from his wives, and they were driven into a side street by the police, and dad was locked up to save his life. The reporter and I went to the jail to get him out, but we had to buy a new suit of clothes for him, as everything was torn off him in the Mormon rush.

Dad was a sight when we found him in jail 155

Dad was a sight when we found him in jail, and he thought his bones were broken, and he wanted to know what was the cause of his sudden popularity with the fair sex, and I told him it all came from his looking so confounded distinguished, and his flirting with women. He said he would swear he never looked at one of those women in a tone of voice that would deceive a Sunday school teacher, and he felt as though he was being misunderstood in France. We told him the only way to get out of jail was to say he was a crowned head from Oshkosh, traveling incog, and when he began to stand on his dignity and demand that a messenger be sent for the president of France, to apologize for the treatment he had received, the jailer and police begged his pardon and we dressed him up in his new clothes and got him out, and we went to the Eiffel tower to get some fresh air.

I suppose you have seen pictures of the Eiffel tower, on the advertisements of breakfast food in your grocery, but you can form no idea of the height and magnificence of the tower by studying advertisements. You may think that the pictures you see of world events on your cans of baked beans and maple syrup and soap, give you the benefit of foreign travel, but it does not. You have got to see the real thing or you are not fit to even talk about what you think you have seen. You remember that Ferris wheel at the Chicago world's fair, and how we thought it was the greatest thing ever made of steel, so high that it made us dizzy to look to the top of it, and when we went up on the wheel we thought we could see the world, from Alaska to South Africa, and we marveled at the work of man and prayed that we be permitted to get down off that wheel alive, and not be spilled down through the rarified Chicago atmosphere and flattened on the pavement so thin we would have to be scraped up off the pavement with a case knife, like a buckwheat cake that sticks to the griddle.

You remember, old man, how you cried when our sentence to ride in the Ferris wheel expired, and the jailer of the wheel opened the cell and let us out, and you said no one would ever get you to ride again on anything that you couldn't jump out of if it balked, or you got wheels in your head and chunks of things came up to your Adam's apple and choked you. Well, cross my heart, if that Ferris wheel, that looked so big to us, would make a main spring for the Eiffel tower. The tower is higher than a kite, and when you get near it and try to look up to the top, you think it is a joke, and that really no one actually goes up to the top of it. You see some flies up around the top of it, and when the guide tells you the flies crawling around there are men and women, you think the guide has been drinking.

Flies crawling around there are men and women 157

But dad and I and the guide paid our money, got into an elevator and began to go up. After the thing had been going up awhile dad said he wouldn't go up more than a mile or so at first, and asked the man to let him off at the 3,000-foot level, but the elevator man said dad had got to take all the degrees and dad said: "Let her went," and after an hour or so we got to the top.

Gee! but I thought dad would fall dead right there, when he looked off at Paris and the world beyond. The flies we had seen at the top before starting had changed to human beings, all looking pale and scared, and the human beings on the ground had changed into flies and bugs, for all you could see of a man on the ground was his feet with a flattened plug hat someway fastened on the ankles, and a woman looked like a spoonful of raspberry jam dropped on the pavement, or a splash of current jelly moving on the ground in a mysterious way. I do not know as the Eiffel tower was intended to act as a Keeley cure, but of the 50 people who went up with us, half of them were so full their back teeth were floating, including dad and the guide, but when we got to the top and they got a view of the awful height to which we had come, it seemed as though every man got sober at once, and their tongues seemed to cleave to the roof of their mouths. All they could do was to look off at the city and the view in the distance, and choke up, and look sorry about something.

I couldn't help thinking of what sort of a pulp a man would be if he fell off the top of the tower and struck a fat woman on the pavement, cause it seemed to me you couldn't tell which was fat woman and which was man. I never saw such a change in a man as there was in dad, after he got his second wind and got his voice working. He looked like a man who had made up his mind to lead a different life and begin right there.

He took out a five-dollar bill 159

There was a Salvation Army man and woman in the crowd and dad went up to them. He took out a five-dollar bill and put it in the tambourine of the lassie, and said to the man and woman: "Now, look a here, I want to join your church, and if you have got the facilities for giving me the degrees, you can sign me as a Christian right now. I have been a bad man, and never thought I needed the benefits of religious training, but since I got up here, so near Heaven, in an elevator which I will bet $10 will break and kill us all before we get down to Paris, I want you to prepare me for the hereafter quick."

Some of the other fellows laughed at dad, and the Salvation Army people looked as though dad was drunk, but he continued: "You can laugh and be jammed, but I'll never leave this place until I am a pious man, and you Salvation Army people have got to enlist me in your army, for I am scared plum to death. Go ahead and convert me, while we wait." The Salvation Army captain put his hand on dad's head, the girl held out the tambourine for another contribution, and dad felt a sweet peace come over him, and we went down in the elevator and took a hack to the hotel, and dad's lips worked as though in pain.

H.



Chapter XIII.

The Bad Boy's Dad and a Man from Dakota Frame Up a Scheme to Break the Bank, But They Go Broke -- The Party in Trouble.

Monte Carlo. -- Dear Uncle: I blush to write the name, Monte Carlo, at the head of a letter to anyone that is a Christian, or who believes in honesty and decency, and earning a living by the sweat of one's brow, for this place is the limit. If I should write anybody a letter from South Clark street, Chicago, the recipient would know I had gone wrong, and was located in the midst of a bad element, and the inference would be that I was the worst fakir, robber, hold-up man or assassin in the bunch.

The inference you must draw from the heading of this letter is that dad and I have taken all the degree of badness and are now winding up our career by taking the last degree, before passing in our chips and committing suicide. Do you know what this place is, old man? Monaco is a principality, about six miles square, ruled by a prince, and the whole business of the country, for it is a "country" the same as though it had a king, is gambling. They have all the different kinds of gambling, from chuck-a-luck at two bits to roulette at a million dollars a minute. What started dad to come to Monte Carlo is more than I know, unless it was a new American he has got acquainted with, a fellow from North Dakota, that dad met at a sort of dance that he did not take me to. It seems there is a place in Paris where they go to see men and women dance -- one of those dances where they kick so high that their feet hit the gas fixtures.

Well, all I know about it is that one Wednesday night dad said he felt as though it was his duty to go to prayer meeting, so he could say when he got home that in all the frivolities of a trip abroad, even in wicked Paris, he never neglected his church duties. I never was stuck on going to prayer meeting, so dad let me stay at the hotel and play pool with the cash register boy in the barroom, and dad took a hymn book and went out, looking pious as I ever saw him.

Dance, like they had seen the people dance at the show 164

My, what a difference there was in dad in the morning. I woke up about daylight, and dad came into the room with a strange man, with spinach on his chin, and they began to dance, like they had seen the people dance at the show where they had passed the evening. They were undressed, except their underclothes, which wore these combination suits, so when a man gets into them he is sealed up like a bologna, and he has to have help when he wants to get out to take a bath, and he has to have an outsider button him in with a button hook. Gee, I would rather be a sausage and done with it! Well, dad and this man from Dakota kicked high until dad caught by the ankle on a gas bracket, and the strange man got me up out of bed to help unloosen dad and get him down before he was black in the face. Finally we got dad down and then the two old codgers began to discuss a proposition to go to Monte Carlo to break the bank.

A system of gambling 162

The Dakota man agreed that Americans had no right to be spending their own money doing Europe, when their genius was equal to the task of acquiring the money of the less intelligent foreigners. He said they could go to Monte Carlo and by a system of gambling which he had used successfully in the Black Hills they could carry away all the money they could pile into sacks. The man said he would guarantee to break the bank if dad would put his money against the Dakota man's experience as a gambler, and they would divide the proceeds equally. Dad bit like a bass. He said he had always had an element of adventure in his make-up, and had always liked to take chances, and from what he had heard of the fabulous sums won and lost at Monte Carlo he could see that if a syndicate could be formed that would win most of the time, he could see that there was more money in it than in any manufacturing enterprise, and he was willing to finance the scheme.

The Dakota man fairly hugged dad, and he told dad in confidence that they two could divide up money enough to make them richer than they ever dreamed of, and all the morning they discussed the plan, and made a list of things they would need to get away with the money. They provided themselves with canvas sacks to carry away the gold, and dad drew all his money out of the bank, and that evening we took a train for Monte Carlo. All the way here dad and his new friend chuckled over the sensation they would make among the gamblers, and I became real interested in the scheme. There was to be some fun besides the winning of the money, because they talked of going out in the park and on the terraces when they were tired of winning money, and seeing the poor devils who had gone broke commit suicide, as that is said to be one of the features of the place.

Seeing the poor devils who had gone broke 166

Well, we got a suite of rooms and the first day we looked over the place, and ate free banquets and saw how the people dressed, and just looked prosperous and showed money on the slightest provocation, and got the hang of things. Dad was to go in the big gambling room in the afternoon with his pockets fairly dropsical with money, and the Dakota man was to do the betting, and dad was to hold one of the canvas bags, and when it was full we were to take it to our room, and quit gambling for awhile, to give the bank a chance to raise more money. Dad insisted that his partner should lose a small bet once in awhile, so the bank should not get on to the fact that we had a cinch.

After luncheon we entered the big gambling room, in full-dress suits, and, by gosh! it was like a king's reception. There were hundreds of men and women, dressed for a party, and it did not seem like a gambling hell, except that there were, piles of gold as big as stoves, on all the tables, and the guests were provided with silver rakes, with long handles, to rake in the money. Dad said in a whisper to the Dakota man: "What is the use of taking the trouble to run a gold mine, and get all dirtied up digging dirty nuggets, when you can get nice, clean gold, all coined, ready to spend, by betting right?" And then dad turned to me and he said; "Hennery, don't let the sight of this wealth make you avaricious. Don't be purse-proud when you find that your poor father, after years of struggle against adversity, and the machinations of designing men, has got next to the Pierpont Morgan class and has money to buy railroads. Don't get excited when we begin to bag the money, but just act as though it was a regular thing with us to salt down our gold for winter, the same as we do our pork."

A count, or a duke, gave us nice seats, and rakes to haul in the money; a countess, with a low-necked dress, winked at dad when he reached into his pistol pocket and brought out a roll of bills and handed them to the Dakota man, who bought $500 worth of red chips, and when the man looked the roulette table over and put about a pint of chips on the red, dad choked up so he was almost black in the face, and began to perspire so I had to wipe my face with a handkerchief; the gambler rolled the wheel and when the ball stopped on the red, and dad did the raking and raked in a quart of chips, and dad shook hands with the Dakota man and said: "Pard, we have got 'em on the run," and reached for his sack to put in the first installment of acquired wealth, and the low-necked countess smiled a ravishing smile on dad, and dad looked as though he owned a brewery, and the Dakota man twisted his chin whiskers and acted like he was sorry for the Monte Carlo bank, I just got so faint with joy that I almost cried.

To think we had skinned along as economically as possible all our lives, and never made much money, and now, through this Dakota genius, and this Monte Carlo opportunity, we had wealth raking in by the bushel, made me feel great, and I wondered why more people had not found out this faraway place, where people could become rich and prosperous in a day, if they had the nerve. I tell you, old man, it was great, and I was going to cable you to sell out your grocery for what you could get at forced sale and come here with the money, gamble and become a millionaire.

Reach into another pocket and dig up another roll 171


*****


Monte Carlo (the next day). -- My Dear Uncle Ezra: I do not know how to write you the sequel to this tragedy. After our Dakota partner, with the Black Hills system of beating a roulette game, had won the first bet, he never guessed the right color again, and dad had no more use for the rake. Every time he bet and lost, he would reach out to dad for more money, and dad would reach into another pocket and dig up another roll, and the countess would laugh and dad had to act as though he enjoyed losing money.

It was about dark when dad had fished up the last hundred dollars and it was gone before dad could wink back to the countess, then the Dakota man looked at dad for more, and dad shook his head and said it was all off, and they looked it each other a minute, and then we all three got up and went out in the park to see the people who had gone broke commit suicide, but there was not a revolver shot and dad and the Dakota man sat down on a seat and I looked at the moon.

He would reach out to Dad for more money, and Dad would reach into another pocket and dig up another roll.

Dad looked at the Dakota man and said: "You started me in all right. What happened to your system?" The Dakota man was silent for a moment, and then he pointed to me and said: "That imp of yours crossed his fingers every time I bet, except the first time." Dad called me to him, and he said: "Hennery, let this be a lesson to you. Never to cross your fingers. You have ruined your dad," and he turned his pockets inside out, and hadn't change for a dollar note, and he gave me the empty sack to carry, and we went to our suite of rooms, knowing we would be fired out into the cold world.

It will take a week to get money from the states, and we may be sent to the work house, as we are broke, and haven't got the means even to commit suicide. Don't tell ma.

Yours,

Hennery.



Chapter XIV.

The Bad Boy and His Dad Have an Automobile Ride -- They Run Over a Peasant -- Climb "Glaziers" -- Dad Falls Over a Precipice, But Is Rescued by the Guides After a Hard Time of It.

Geneva, Switzerland. -- My Dear Old Man: By ginger, but I would like to be home now. I have had enough of foreign travel; I don't see what is the use of traveling, to see people of foreign countries, when you can go to any large city in America, and find more people belonging to any foreign country than you can find by going to that country, and they know a confounded sight more. Take the Russians in New York, the Norwegians of Minnesota, the Italians of Chicago, and the Germans of Milwaukee, and they can talk English, and you can find out all about their own countries by talking with them, but you go to their countries and the natives don't know that there is such a language as the United States language, and they laugh at you when you ask questions. I am sick of the whole business, and would give all I ever expect to be worth, to be home right now, with my skates sharp.

I would like to open the door of your old grocery, and take one long breath and die right there on the doorstep, rather than to live in luxury in any foreign country. Do you know, I sometimes go into a grocery store abroad, and smell around, in order to get my thoughts on dear old America, but nothing abroad smells as the same thing does in our country. If I could get one more smell of that keg of sauerkraut back of your counter, when it is ripe enough to pick, I think I would break right down and cry for joy. Of course I have smelled sauerkraut over here, but it all seems new and tame compared to yours. It may be the kraut here is not aged enough to be good, but yours is aged enough to vote and sticks to your clothes. Gee, but I just ache to get into your grocery and eat things, and smell smells, and then lay down on the counter with the cat with my head on a pile of wrapping paper and go to sleep and wake up in America, an American citizen, that no king or queen can tell to "hush up" and take off my hat when I want my hat on.

You may wonder how we got out of Monte Carlo, when we had lost every cent we had gambling. Well, we wondered about it all night, and had our breakfast sent up to our room, and had it charged, expecting that when the bill came in we would have to jump into the ocean, as we had no gun to kill ourselves with. Just after breakfast a duke, or something, came to our room, and dad said it was all off, and he called upon the Dakota man to make a speech on politics, while dad and I skipped out. We thought the duke, who was the manager of the hotel, would not understand the speech, and would think we were great people, who had got stranded.

Started in on a democratic speech 175

The Dakota man started in on a democratic speech that he used to deliver in the campaign of '96, and in half an hour the duke held up his hands, and the Dakota man let up on the speech. Then the duke took out a roll of bills and said: "Ze shentlemen is what you call bust. Is it not so?" Dad said he could bet his life it was so. Then the duke handed the roll of bills to dad, and said it was a tribute from the prince of Monaco, and that we were his guests, and when our stay was at an end, automobiles would be furnished for us to go to Nice, where we could cable home for funds, and be happy.

Well, when the duke left us, dad said: "Wouldn't that skin you?" and he gave the Dakota man one of the bills to try on the bartender, and when he found the money was good we ordered an automobile and skipped out for Nice. The chauffeur could not understand English, so we talked over the situation and decided that the only way to be looked upon as genuine automobilists would be to wear goggles and look prosperous and mad at everybody. We took turns looking mad at everybody we passed on the road, and got it down so fine that people picked up rocks after we had-passed, and threw them at us, and then we knew that we were succeeding in being considered genuine, rich automobile tourists.

After we had succeeded for an hour or two in convincing the people that we were properly heartless and purse proud, dad said the only thing we needed to make the trip a success was to run over somebody. He said nearly all the American automobile tourists in Europe had killed somebody and had been obliged to settle and support a family or two in France or Italy, and they were prouder of it than they would be if they endowed a university, or built a church, and he said he trusted our chauffeur would not be too careful in running through the country, but would at least cripple some one.

Well, just before we got to Nice, and darkness was settling down on the road, the chauffeur blew his horn, there was a scream that would raise hair on Horace Greeley's head, the automobile stopped, and there was a bundle of dusty old clothes, with an old woman done up in them, and we jumped out and lifted her up, and there we were, the woman in a faint, the peasants gathering around us with scythes and rakes and clubs, demanding our lives. The bloody-faced woman was taken into a home, the crowd held us, until finally a doctor came, and after examining the woman said she might live, but it would be a tight squeeze. We wanted to go on, but we didn't want to be cut open with a scythe, so finally a man, who said he was the husband of the woman, came out with a gun, dad got down on his knees and tried to say a prayer, the Dakota man held up both hands like it was a stage being held up, and I cried.

Dad got down on his knees and tried to say a prayer 178

Finally the chauffeur said, in broken English, that the husband would settle for $400, because he could pay the funeral expenses, get another wife for half the money and have some thing left to lay up for Christmas. As the man's gun was pointed at dad, he quit praying and gave up the money and agreed to send $50 a month for 11 years, until the oldest child was of age.

Well, we got away alive, got into Nice, and the chauffeur started back and we cabled home for money to be sent to Geneva, Switzerland. But, say; you have not heard the sequel. A story that has a sequel is always the best, and I hope to die if the police of Nice didn't tell us that we were buncoed by that old woman and that the chauffeur was in the scheme and got part of dad's money. The way they do it is to wait till dark, and then roll the woman in the dust and put some red ink on her face, and she pretends to be run over, and the doctor is hired by the month, and they average $500 a night, playing that game on automobile tourists from America. After the woman is run over every night, and the money is collected, and the victims have been allowed to go on their way, the whole community gathers at the house of the injured woman and they have a celebration and a dance, and probably our chauffeur got back to the house that night in time to enjoy the celebration. I suppose thousands of Americans are paying money for killing people that never got a scratch.

Say, we think in America that we have plenty of ways to rob the tenderfoot, but they give us cards and spades and little casino and beat us every time. Dad wanted to hire a hack and go back and finish that old woman with an ax, because he said he had a corpse coming to him, but the police told him he could be arrested for thinking murder, and that he was a dangerous man, and that they would give him 12 hours to get out of France, and so we bought tickets for Switzerland, though what we came here for I don't know, only dad said it was a republic like America and he wanted to breathe the free air of mountains in the home of the Switzerkase.

Well, anybody can have Switzerland if they want it. I will sell my interest cheap. The first three days we were here everybody wanted us to go out on the lake, said to be the most beautiful lake in the world, and we sailed on it, and rowed on it, and looked down into the clear water where it is said you can see a corpse on the bottom of the lake 100 feet down. We hadn't lost any corpse, except the corpse of that old woman we run over at Nice, but we wanted to get the worth of our money, so we kept looking for days, but the search for a corpse becomes tame after awhile, and we gave it up. All we saw in the bottom of the lake was a cow, but no man can weep properly over the remains of a cow, and dad said they could go to the deuce with their corpses, and we just camped at the hotel till our money came. Say, that lake they talk so much about is no better than lakes all over Wisconsin, and there are no black bass or muskellunges in it.

The tourists here are just daffy about climbing mountains and glaziers, and they talk about it all the time, and I could see dad's finish. They told him that no American that ever visited Switzerland would be recognized when he got home if he had not climbed the glaziers, so dad arranged for a trip up into the sky. We went 100 miles or so on the cars, passing along valleys where all the cows wear tea bells, and it sounds like chimes in the distance. It is beautiful in Switzerland, but the cheese is something awful. A piece of native Swiss cheese would break up a family.

At night we arrived at a station where we hired guides and clothes, and things, and the next morning we started. Dad wanted me to stay at the station a couple of days, while he was gone, and play with the goats, but I told him if there were any places in the mountains or glaziers any more dangerous than Paris or Monte Carlo, I wanted to visit them, so he let me go. Well, we were rigged up for discovering the north pole, and had alpenstocks to push ourselves up with, and the guides had ropes to pull us up when we got to places where we couldn't climb. I could get along all right, but they had dad on a rope most of the time pulling him until his tongue run out and his face turned blue. But dad was game, and don't you forget it.

Before noon we got on top of a glazier, which is the ice of a frozen river, that moves all the time, sliding towards the sea.

Dad slipped down a crevice about 100 feet 181

There was nothing but a hard winter, in summer, to the experience, and we would have gone back the same night, only dad slipped down a crevice about 100 feet with the rope on him, and the two guides couldn't pull him up, and we had to send a lunch down to him on the rope and one of the guides had to go back to the village for help to get dad up. Well, sir, I think dad was nearer dead than he ever was before, but they sent down a bottle of brandy, and when he drank some of it the snow began to melt and he was warm enough to use bad language.

He yelled to me that this was the limit and wanted to know how long they were going to keep him there. I yelled to him that one of the guides had gone for help to pull him out, and he said for them to order a yoke of oxen. I told him that probably he would have to remain there until spring opened and that I was going back to America and leave him there, and he better pray.

Have to remain there until spring opened 183

I don't know whether dad prayed, down there in the bowels of the mountains, but he didn't pray when help came, and they finally hauled him up. His breath was gone, but he gave those guides some language that would set them to thinking if they could have understood him, and finally we started down the mountain. They kept the rope on dad and every little while he would slip and slide 100 feet or so down the mountain on his pants, and the snow would go up his trousers legs clear to his collar, and the exercise made him so hot that the steam came out of his clothes, and he looked like a locomotive wrecked in a snow bank blowing off steam.

It became dark and I expected we would be killed, but before midnight we got to the station and changed our clothes and paid off the guides and took a train back. Dad said to me, as we got on the cars: "Now, Hennery, I have done this glazier stunt, just to show you that a brave man, whatever his age, is equal to anything they can propose in Europe, but by ginger, this settles it, and now I want to go where things come easier. I am now going to Turkey and see how the Turks worry along. Are you with me?" "You bet your life," says I.

Yours truly,

Hennery.



Chapter XV.

Dad Plays He Is an Anarchist -- They Give Alms to the Beggars and the Bad Boy Ducks a Gondolier and His Dad in the Grand Canal.

Venice, Italy. -- My Dear Old Chumireno: Dad couldn't get out of Switzerland quick enough after he got thawed out the day after we climbed the glaziers. We found that almost all the tourists in Geneva were there because they did not want to go home and say they had not visited Switzerland, so they just jumped from one place to another. The people who stay there any length of time are like the foreign residents of Mexico, who are wanted for something they have done at home, that is against the law. There are more anarchists in Geneva than anything else, and they look hairy and wild eyed, and they plot to kill kings and drink beer out of two quart jars.

When we found that more attention was paid to men suspected of crime in their own countries, and men who were believed to be plotting to assassinate kings, dad said it would be a good joke if a story should get out that he was suspected of being connected with a syndicate that wanted to assassinate some one, so I told a fellow that I got acquainted with that the fussy old man that tried to ride a glazier without any saddle or stirrup was wanted for attempting to blow up the president of the United States by selling him baled hay soaked in a solution of dynamite and nitro-glycerine.

Dad and the anarchists reveled till morning 188

Say, they will believe anything in Switzerland. It wasn't two hours before long-haired people were inviting dad to dinners, and the same night he was taken to a den where a lot of anarchists were reveling, and dad reveled till almost morning. When he came back to the hotel he said his hosts got all the money he had with him, through some game he didn't understand, but he under stood it was to go into a fund to support deserving anarchists and dynamiters. He said when they found out he was a suspected assassin nothing was too good for him. He said they wanted to know how he expected to kill a president by soaking baled hay in explosives, and dad said it came to him suddenly to tell them that the president rode on horseback a good deal, and he thought if a horse was filled with baled hay, and nitro-glycerine and the president spurred the horse and the horse jumped in the air and came down kerchunk on an asphalt pavement, the horse would explode, and when the rider came down covered with sausage covers and horse meat, he would be dead, or would want to be. Dad said the anarchists went into executive session and took up a collection to send a man to Berlin to fill the emperor's saddle horse with cut feed like dad suggested.

Well, the anarchist story was too much for Switzerland, and the next morning dad was told by a policeman that he had to get out of the country quick, and it didn't take us 15 minutes to pack up, and here we are in Venice.

Well, say, old friend, this is the place where you ought to be, because nobody works here, that is, nobody but gondoliers. We have been here several days, and I have not seen a soul doing anything except begging, or selling things that nobody seems to want. If anybody buys anything but onions, it is for curiosity, or for souvenirs, and yet the whole population sits around in the sun and watches the strangers from other lands price things and go away without buying, and then everybody looks mad, as though they would like to jab a knife into the stranger. The plazas and the places near the canal are filled with hucksters and beggars, and you never saw beggars so mutilated and sore and disgusting. I never supposed human beings could be so deformed, without taking an ax to them, and it is so pitiful to see them that you can't help shedding your money.

Coughed up over $40 the first day, just giving to beggars 191

As hard hearted as dad is, he coughed up over $40 the first day, just giving to beggars, and he thought he had got them all bought up, and that they would let him alone, but the next day when he showed up there were ten beggars where there was one the day before, and they followed him everywhere, and all the loafers in the plazas laughed and acted as if they would catch the cripples when dad got out of sight and rob the beggars. Dad thinks the way the people live is by dividing with beggars. A man who has a deformity, or a sore that you can see half a block away, seems to be considered rich here, like a man in America who owns stock in great corporations. These beggars pay more taxes than the dukes and things who live in style.

I suppose dad never studied geography, so he didn't know how Venice was situated, so he told me to go out and order a hack the first morning we were here, and we would go and see the town. When I told dad there were no hacks, no horses and no roads in Venice, he said I was crazy in my head and wanted me to take some medicine and stay in bed for a few days, but I convinced him, when we got outdoors, that everything run by water, and when I showed him the canal and the gondolas, he remembered all about Venice, and picked out a gondalier that looked like one dad saw at the world's fair, and we hired him because he talked English. All the English the gondolier could use were the words "you bet your life," and "you're dam right," but dad took him because it seemed so homelike, and we have been riding in gondolas every day.

On the water you can get away from the beggars. This is an ideal existence. You just get in the gondola, under a canopy, and the gondolier does the work, and you glide along between build ings and wonder who lives there, and when they wake up, as all day long the blinds are closed, and everybody seems to be dead. But at night, when the canals are lighted, and the moon shines, the people put on their dress clothes and sit on verandas, or eat and drink, and talk Eyetalian, and ride in gondolas, and play guitars, and smoke cigarettes, and talk love. It is so warm you can wear your summer pants, and the water smells of clams that died long ago. It is just as though Chicago was flooded by the bursting of the sewers, and people had to go around State street, and all the cross streets, and Michigan avenue, in fishing boats, with three feet of water on top of the pavements. Imagine the people of Chicago taking gondolas and riding along the streets, landing at the stores and hotels, just as they do now from carriages.

We had been riding in gondolas for two days, getting around in the mud when the tide was out, and going to sleep and waiting for the tide to come in, when it seemed to me that dad needed some excitement, and last night I gave it to him.

We were out in our gondola, and the moon was shining, and the electric lights made the canal near the Rialto bridge as light as day. The Rialto bridge crosses the Grand canal, and has been the meeting place for lovers for thousands of years. It is a grand structure, of carved marble, but it wouldn't hold up a threshing machine engine half as well as an iron bridge. Well, the canal was filled with thousands of gondolas, loaded with the flower of Venetian society, and the music just made you want to fall in love. Dad said if he didn't fall in love, or something, before morning, he would quit the place. I made up my mind he should fall into something, so I began by telling dad it seemed strange to me that nobody but Eyetalians could run a gondola. Dad said he could run a gondola as well as any foreigner, and I told him he couldn't run a gondola for shucks, and he said he would show me, so he got out of the hen house where we were seated, and went back on to the pointed end of the gondola, and grabbed the pole or paddle from the gondolier, and said: "Now, Garibaldi, you go inside the pup tent with Hennery, and let me punt this ark around awhile."

Garibaldi thought dad was crazy, but he gave up the pole, and just then, when they were both on the extreme point of the gondola, and she was wabbling some, I peeked out through the curtains and thought the fruit was about ripe enough to pick, so I threw myself over to one side of the gondola, and, by gosh, if dad and Garibaldi didn't both go overboard with a splash, and one yell in the English language, and one in Eye-talian, and I rushed out of the cabin and such a sight you never saw.

Overboard, one yell in the English language, one in Eye-talian 193

Dad retained the paddle, and had his head out of water, but nothing showed above the water, where Garibaldi was except a red patch on his black pants. Dad was yelling for help, and finally the gondolier got his head out of the water, and said something that sounded like grinding a butcher knife on a grindstone, and I yelled, too, and the gondolas began to gather around us, and the two men were rescued. The gondolier had been gondoling all his life and he had never been in the water before, and they thought it would strike in and kill him, so they wrapped him up in blankets and put him aboard his canoe, and he looked at me as though I was to blame. They got a boat hook fastened in dad's pants and landed him in the gondola, and he dripped all the way to our hotel, and he smelled like a fish market.

I asked Garibaldi, on the way to the hotel, if he was counting his beads when he was down under the water with nothing but his pants out of the water, and he said: "You're dam right," but I don't think he knew the meaning of the words, because he probably wouldn't swear in the presence of death. Dad just sat and shivered all the way to the hotel, but when we got to our room I asked him what his idea was in jumping overboard right there before folks, with his best clothes on, and he said it was all Garibaldi's fault, that just as dad was getting a good grip on the paddle, the gondolier heaved a long sigh, and the onions in his breath paralyzed dad so he fell overboard.

Then you don't blame your little boy, do you 197

"Then you don't blame your little boy, do you?" says I, and dad looked at me as he was hanging his wet shirt on a chair. "Course not; you were asleep in the cabin. But say, if I ever hear that you did tip that gondola, it will go hard with you," but I just looked innocent, and dad went on drying his shirt by a charcoal brazier and never suspected me. But I am getting the worst of it, for dad and his clothes smell so much like a clam bake that it makes me sick.

Well, old friend, you ought to close up your grocery and come over here and go to Vesuvius and Pompeii with us, where we can dry our clothes by the volcano, and dig in the city that was buried in hot ashes 2,000 years ago. They say you can dig up mummies there that are dead ringers for you, old man.

O, come on, and have fun with us.

Your friend,

Hennery.



Chapter XVI.

The Bad Boy Writes from Naples -- Dad Sees Vesuvius and Calls the Servants to Put Out the Fire -- They Have Trouble with a "Dago" in Pompeii.

Naples, Italy. -- Dear Old Partner in Crime: Well, sir, we have struck a place that reminds us of home, and your old grocery store. The day we got here dad and I took a walk into the poorer districts, where they throw all the slops and refuse in the streets, and where nobody ever seems to clean up anything and burn it. The odor was something that you cannot describe without a demonstration, and after we had turned pale and started to go away, dad said the smell reminded him of something at home, and finally he remembered your old grocery in the sauerkraut season, early in the morning, before you had aired out the place. Your ears must have burned when we were talking about you.

If you want to get an idea of Naples, at its worst, go down into your cellar and round up all the codfish, onions, kraut, limburger cheese, kerosene, rotten potatoes, and everything that is dead, put it all in a bushel basket, and just before the Health officers come to pull your place, get down on your knees and put your head down in the basket, and let some one sit on your head all the forenoon, and you will have just such a half day as dad and I had in the poor quarter of Naples, and it will not cost you half as much as it did us, unless, after you have enjoyed yourself in your cellar with your head in the basket, you decide to have a run of sickness and hire a doctor who will charge you the price of a trip to Europe.

Well, sir, Naples is a dandy, in its clean part. The bay of Naples is a dead ringer for Milwaukee bay, in shape and beauty, but Milwaukee lacks Vesuvius and Pompeii, for suburbs, and she lacks the customary highwaymen to hold you up. Every man, woman and child we have met makes a living out of the tourists, and nobody that I have seen works at any other business.

Wanted to turn in a fire alarm 201

We woke up the first morning and dad looked out the window and saw Vesuvius belching forth flame and lava and stone fences, and wanted to turn in a fire alarm, but I told him that that fire had been raging ever since the Christian era, and was not one of these incendiary barn burnings, but he opened the window and yelled fire, and the porters and chambermaids came running to our room, with buckets of water, and wanted to know where the fire was. Dad pointed out of the window towards Vesuvius and said: "Some hired girl has been starting a fire with kerosene, in that shanty on the knoll out there, and the whole ranch will burn if you don't turn out the fire department, you gosh blasted lazy devils. Get a move on and help carry out the furniture."

Well, they calmed dad, and then I had to go to work and post dad up on the geography he had forgotten, and finally he remembered seeing a picture of a volcano or burning mountain in his geography 50 years ago, but he told me he never believed there was a volcano in the world, but that he always thought they put those pictures in geographies to make them sell. How a man can attain the prominence and position in the business world that dad has, and not know any more than he does, is what beats me.

Of course, you know, having kept a grocery since the war, and having had opportunities to study history, by the pictures on the soap boxes and insurance calendars, that Nero, the Roman tyrant, after Rome was burned, while he fiddled for a dance in a barn, got so accustomed to fire and brimstone that he retired to Naples and touched off Vesuvius, just so he could look at it. But Vesuvius, about 2,000 years ago, got to burning way down in its bowels, and the fire got beyond control, and I suppose now the fire is away down in the center of the earth, and you know when you get down in the earth below the crust, on which we live and raise potatoes, everything is melted, like iron in a foundry, and Vesuvius is the spigot through which the fluid comes to the surface. You see, don't you?

Just imagine that this earth is a barrel of beer, which you can understand better than anything else, and it is being shaken up by being hauled around on wagons and cars, and is straining to get out, then a bartender drives a spigot into the bung, turns the thumb piece, and the pent-up beer comes out foaming and squirting, and there you are.

Instead of beer, Vesuvius is loaded with lava, that runs like molasses, and when it is cold it is indigestible as a cold buckwheat cake, and you can make it up into jewelry, that looks like maple sugar and smells like a fire in a garbage crematory. Besides the lava there are stones as big as a house that are thrown up by the sea-sickness of the earth, as it heaves and pants, and then the ashes that come out of the crater at times would make you think that what they need there is to have a chimney sweep go down and brush out the flues.

Threw a pail of ashes over the fence 204

To get an idea of what a nuisance the ashes from the crater are to the cities on the plain below, you remember the time you were out in your back yard splitting boxes for kindling wood and my chum and I threw a pail of ashes over the fence, and accidentally it went all over you, about four inches thick. That time you got mad and threw cucumbers at us, when we ran down the alley. Keep that in your mind and you can understand the destruction of Pompeii, when Vesuvius, thousands of years ago, coughed up hot ashes and covered the town 40 feet deep with hot stuff, and killed every living thing, and petrified and preserved the whole business, and made a prairie on top of a town, and everybody eventually forgot that there had ever been a town there, for about 2,000 years. If my chum and I had not run out of ashes we would have buried you so deep in your back yard that you would have been petrified with your hatchet, and when they excavated the premises a thousand years later they would have found your remains and put you in a museum.

Well, a couple of hundred years ago a peasant was sinking a well down in the ashes, and he struck a petrified barroom, with a bartender standing behind the bar in the act of serving some whisky 2,000 years old, and the peasant located a claim there, and the authorities took possession of the prairie and have been digging the town out ever since, looking for more of that 2,000-year-old whisky.

When I told dad about what they were finding at the ruins of Pompeii, and how you were liable to find gold and diamonds and petrified women, he wanted to go and dig in the ashes, as he said it would be more exciting than raking over the dumping grounds in Chicago for tin cans and lumps of coal, and so we hired a hack and went to the buried town, but dad insisted on carrying an umbrella, so if Vesuvius belched any more ashes he could protect himself. Gee, but from what I have seen at that old ruin, a man would need an umbrella made of corrugated iron to keep from being buried.

Dad insisted on carrying an umbrella 207

Well, when we got to Pompeii dad was for going right where they were digging, but I got him to look over the streets and houses that had been uncovered first, and he was paralyzed to think that a town could be covered with ashes all these thousands of years, and then be uncovered and find a town that would compare, in many respects, with cities of the present day, with residences complete with sculpture, paintings and cut marble that would skin Chicago to a finish.

We went through residences that looked as rich as the Vanderbilt houses in New York, baths that you could take a plunge and a swim in, if they had the water, paintings that would take a premium at any horse show to-day, pavements that would shame the pavements of London and Paris, and petrified women that you couldn't tell from a low-necked party in Washington, except that the ashes had eaten the clothes off. I guess most of the people in Pompeii got away when the ashes began to rain down, for they must have seen that it wasn't going to be a light shower, but a deluge, 'cause they never have found many corpses. They must have run to Naples, and maybe they are running yet, and you may see some of them at your grocery, and if you do see anybody covered with ashes, looking for a job, give them some crackers and cheese and charge it to dad, for they must be hungry by this time.

Say, do you know that some of those refugees from Pompeii went off in such a hurry that they left bread baking in the ovens, and meat cooking in the pots? It seems the most wonderful thing to me of anything I ever saw. We went all through the streets and houses and saw ballrooms that beat anything in San Francisco, and when we went into a building occupied by the officers in charge of the excavations, and dad saw a telephone and an electric light, he thought those things had been dug up, too, and he claimed that the men who were receiving millions of dollars in royalties on telephones and electric lights were frauds who were infringing on Pompeii patents 2,000 years old, and he wouldn't believe me when I told him that telephones and electric lights were not dug up; he said then he wouldn't believe anything was dug up, but that the whole thing was a put-up job to rob tourists. But when we got to a locality where the dagoes were digging the ashes away from a house and were uncovering a parlor, where rich things were being discovered, he saw that it was all right.

I suppose I never ought to have played such a thing on dad, but I told him that anybody who saw a thing first when it came out of the ashes could grab it and keep it, and just as I told him a workman threw out a shovel full of ashes, just as you would throw out dirt digging for angle worms, and there was a little silver urn with a lot of coins in it, and you could not hold dad. He grabbed for it, the workman grabbed for it, and they went down together in the ashes, and the man rolled dad over and he was a sight, but the workman got the silver urn, and dad wanted to fight.

The man rolled dad over and he was a sight 210

Finally a man with a uniform on came along and was going to arrest dad, but they finally compromised by the man offering to sell the silver urn and the gold coins to dad for a hundred dollars, if he would promise not to open it up until he got out of Italy, and dad paid the money and wrapped the urn up in a Chicago paper, and we took our hack and went back to Naples on a gallop.

Dad could hardly wait till we got to the hotel before opening up his prize, but he held out until we got to our room, when he unwrapped the urn to count his ancient gold coins. Well, you'd a-died to see dad's face when he opened that can. It was an old tomato can that had been wrought out with a hammer so it looked like hammered silver, and when he emptied the gold coins out on the table there was a lot of brass tags that looked like dog license tags, and baggage checks and brass buttons. I had to throw water on dad to bring him to, and then he swore he would kill the dago that sold him the treasure from the ruins of Pompeii. It was a great blow to dad, and he has bought a dirk knife to kill the dago. To-morrow we take in Vesuvius, and when we come down from the crater we go to Pompeii and kill the dago in his tracks. Dad may cause Vesuvius to belch again with hot ashes, and cover the ruins of Pompeii, but if he can't turn on the ashes, the knife will do the business.

Yours,

Hennery.



Chapter XVII.

The Bad Boy and His Dad Climb Vesuvius -- A Chicago Lady Joins the Party and Causes Trouble.

Naples, Italy. -- Siegnor ze Grocerino: I guess that will make you stand without hitching for a little while. Say, I am getting so full of dead languages, and foreign palaver, that I shall have to have an operation on my tongue when I get home before I can speel the United States language again so you can make head or tail of it. You see, I don't stay long enough in a country to acquire its language, but I get a few words into my system, so now my English is so mixed with French words, Italian garlic and German throat trouble that I cannot understand myself unless I look in a glass and watch the motions of my lips. Dad has not picked up a word of any foreign language, and says he should consider himself a traitor to his country if he tried to talk anything but English. He did get so he could order a glass of beer by holding up his finger and saying "ein," but he found later that just holding up his finger without saying "ein" would bring the beer all the same so he cut out the language entirely and works his finger until it needs a rest.

When I used to study my geography at the little red schoolhouse, and look at the picture of the volcano Vesuvius, and read about how it would throw up red-hot lava, and ashes, and rocks as big as a house, and wipe out cities, it looked so terrible to me that I was glad when we got through with the volcano lesson, and got to Greenland's icy mountains, where there was no danger except being frozen to death, or made sick by eating blubber sliced off of whales.

Then I never expected to be right on the very top of that volcano, throwing stones down in the lava, and sailing chips down the streams of hot stuff, just as I sailed chips on ice water at home-when the streets were flooded by spring rains. Say, there is no more danger on Vesuvius than there is in a toboggan slide, or shooting the chutes at home. I thought we would have to hire dagoes to carry us up to the top, and be robbed and held up, and may be murdered, but it is just as easy as going up in the elevator of a skyscraper, and no more terrifying than sitting on a 50-cent seat in a baseball park at home and witnessing the "Destruction of Pompeii" by a fireworks display

The crater looks sort of creepy, like a big cauldron kettle boiling soap on a farm, only it is bigger, and down in the earth's bowels you can well believe there is trouble, and if you believe in a hell, you can get it, illustrated proper, but the rivulets of lava that flow out of the wrinkles around the mouth of the crater are no more appalling than making fudges over a gas stove. When the lava cools you would swear it was fudges, only you can't eat the lava and get indigestion as you can eating fudges.

It was hard work to get dad to go up on the volcano, because he said he knew he would fall into it, and get his clothes burned, and he said he couldn't climb clear to the top, on account of his breath being short, but when I told him he could ride up on a trolley car, and have the volcano brought right to him, he weakened, and one morning we left Naples early and before two hours had passed we were on a little cogwheel railroad going up, and dad was looking down on the scenery, expecting every minute the cogs would slip and we would cut loose and go down all in a heap and be plastered all over the vineyards and big trees and be killed.

I don't know what makes dad so nervous, but he wanted a woman from Chicago, who was on the car with us, to hold his hand all the way up, but she said she was no nurse in a home for the aged, and she said she would cuff dad if he didn't let go of her. I told her she better not get dad mad if she knew what was good for her, for he was a regular Bluebeard, and wouldn't take no slack from no Chicago female, 'cause he had buried nine wives already. So she held his hand, and I guess she thinks she will be my stepmother, but I bet she don't.

Well, after we got almost to the top the car stopped, and we had to walk the rest of the way, several hundred feet, and we had to have a pusher and a putter for dad, a dago to go ahead and pull him up, and another to put his shoulder against dad's pants and shove. Gee, but it was a picture to see dad "go up old baldhead," with the dagoes perspiring and swearing at dad for being so heavy, and the Chicago woman laughing, and me pushing her up.

It was a picture to see dad go up old baldhead 214

One thing that scared dad was that every little way there was a shrine, where the guides left dad lying on the ground, blocked with a piece of cold lava, so he wouldn't roll down, like you would block a wagon wheel, and they would go to the shrine and kneel and say some prayers.

Dad was afraid they were going to charge the prayers in the bill for pushing him up, but I told dad that these people expected every time they, went up to the top that it would be their last trip, as they knew that some day the volcano would open in a new place and swallow them whole, with all the tourists. Then he gave them a dollar apiece to pray for him, and wanted to go back down the mountain and let Vesuvius run its own fireworks, but the Chicago lady told dad to brace up and she would protect him, and so the guides gave a few more pushes, and we were on top of the volcano, and dad collapsed and had to be brought to with smelling salts and whisky that the woman carried in her pistol pocket.

Gee, but it was worth all the trouble to get up the mountain, to see the sight that opened up. The hole in the mountain filled with boiling stuff was worth the price of admission, and the roaring of the boiling stuff, and the explosions way down cellar, and the flying stones, the smoke going into the air for a mile, like the burning of an oil well, the red-hot lava finding crevices to leak through, and flowing down the side of the mountain in streams like hot maple sirup, made a scene thai caused us to take off our hats and thank the good Lord that the thing hadn't overflowed enough to hurt us. But I could see dad was scared, 'cause when I wanted him to go around the edge of the crater with me, and see the hell-roaring free show from other points of view, and see where the hot ashes years ago rolled down and covered Pompeii and Herculaneum, he balked and said he had seen all he wanted to, and if he could stay alive until the next car went down the mountain, they could all have his interest in Vesuvius, and be darned to them, but he said if I wanted to go around looking for trouble, he would stay there under a big rock, with the Chicago lady, and wait for me to come back. She said she knew dad was all tired out, and needed rest, and she would stay with him, and keep him cheered up; so I left them and went off with one of the dagoes, to slide down hill on some flowing lava, and pick up specimens.

Well, sir, I wish I could get along some way without telling the rest of this sad story, but if I am going to be a historian I have got to tell the whole blame thing.

And she was stroking his hair 217

When I left dad and the Chicago woman she had produced a lunch from somewhere about her person, and a small bottle, and they were eating and drinking, and dad was laughing more natural than I had seen him laugh since we run over the old woman with the automobile at Nice, and she was smiling on dad just as though she was his sweetheart. (As I went around the crater, a couple of blocks away, I looked back and dad had laid his head in her lap, and she was stroking his hair. )

Well, I picked up specimens, burned the soles off my shoes wading in the lava, and took in the volcano from all sides, and after an hour I went back to where dad and the woman were lunching, but the woman was gone, and dad acted as though he had been hit by an express train, his eyes were wild, his collar was gone, his pocketbook was on the ground, empty, his coat was gone, his scarf-pin had disappeared and the $11 watch he bought when he was robbed the other time was missing, and dad's tongue was run out, and he was yelling for water. I thought he had been trying to drink some lava.

He was yelling for water 223

"Dad, what in the world has happened to you?" said I, as I rushed up to him.

"That woman has happened to me, that is all," said dad, as he took a swallow of water out of a canteen one of the dagoes had.

"Tell me about it, dad," said I, trying to keep from laughing, when I saw that he was not hurt.

"Say, let this be a lesson to you," said dad, "and don't you steer another woman to me on this trip. Do you know you hadn't more than got around that big rock when she said she was tired and was going to faint, for the altitude was too high for her, and I tried to soothe her, and she did look pale, and, by gosh, I thought she was going to die on my hands, and I would have to carry her corpse down the mountain. I heard a scuffling on the rocks, and she looked up and saw a man not ten feet away, and she said: 'Me husband!' and then she fainted and grabbed me around the neck, and I couldn't get her loose. She just froze to me like a person drowning, and that husband of hers, who had come up on the last car, hunting for his wife, who had eloped, pulled a long blue gun and told me he would give me five minutes to pray, and then he would kill me and throw my body down in the creater, to sizzle."

Pulled a long blue gun 220

"I told him I could pay up enough ahead in three minutes, and he could take all I had if he would loosen up his wife, and bring her to, and take her away, and let me die all alone, and let the buzards eat me, uncooked. He took the bet, pulled her arms away from my throat, took my money and coat, brought her to, and said he was going to throw her into the crater, but I told him she had certainly been good to me, and if he would spare her life, and take her away in the cars, he could have my watch and scarfpin, and he took them, and they went to the cars.

"She looked back at me with the saddest face I ever saw, and said: 'O, sir, it is all a terrible dream, and I will see you in Naples, and explain all,' and now, by Christmas, I want to go back to town and find her, and rescue her from that jealous husband," and dad got up and we started for the car.

The man and his wife went down on the car ahead of us, and dad wouldn't believe they were regular bunko people, who play that game everyday on some old sucker, but the man that runs the car told me so.

I can be responsible for dad in everything except the women he meets. When it comes to women, your little Hennery don't know the game at all.

Yours,

Hennery.



Chapter XVIII.

The Bad Boy Makes Friends with Some Italian Children -- Dad Is Chased by Lions from the Coliseum -- "Not Any More Rome for Papa," Says Dad.

Rome, Italy. -- My Dear Old "Pard:" Well, sir, if you could see me now, you wouldn't know me, because foreign travel has broadened me out so I can talk on any subject, and people of my age look upon me as an authority, and they surround me everywhere I go and urge me to talk. The fact that the boys and girls do not understand a word I say makes no difference. They do not wear many clothes here, and there is no style about them, and when they see me with a whole suit of clothes on, and a hat and shoes and socks, and a scarf-pin on my necktie, they think I must be an Americano that is too rich for any use, or something that ranks with a prince at least, and the boys delight to be with me and do errands for me, and the girls seem to be in love with me.

There is no way you can tell if a girl is in love with you, except that she looks at you with eyes that are as black as coal, and they seem to burn a hole right into your insides, and when they take hold of your hand they hang on and squeeze like alamand-left in a dance at home, and they snug up to you and are as warm and cheerful as a gas stove.

It brought on a revolution 227

Say, I sat on a bench in a plaza with a girl about my age, for an hour, while the other girls and boys sat on the ground and looked at us in admiration, and when I put my arm around her and kissed her on her pouting lips, it brought on a revolution. An Italian soldier policeman took me by the neck and threw me across the street, the girl scratched me with her finger nails and bit me, and yelled some grand hailing sign of distress, her brother and a ragged boy that was in love with the girl and was jealous, drew daggers, and the whole crowd yelled murder, and I started for our hotel on a run, and the whole population of Rome seemed to follow me, and I might as well have been a negro accused of crime in the states. I thought they would burn me at the stake, but dad came out of the hotel and threw a handful of small change into the crowd, and it was all off.

After they picked up the coin they beckoned me to come out and play some more, but not any more for little Hennery. I have been in love in all countries where we have traveled, and in all languages, but this Italian love takes the whole bakery, and I do not go around any more without a chaperone. The girls are ragged and wear shawls over their heads, and there are holes in their dresses and their skin isn't white, like American girls', but is what they call olive complexion, like stuffed olives you buy in bottles, stuffed with cayenne pepper, but the girls are just like the cayenne pepper, so warm that you want to throw water on yourself after they have touched you. Gee, but I wouldn't want to live in a climate where girls were a torrid zone, 'cause I should melt, like an icicle that drops in a stove, and makes steam and blows up the whole house.

Well, old man, you talk about churches, but you don't know anything about it. Dad and I went to St. Peter's in Rome, and it is the grandest thing in the world. Say, the Congregational church at home, which we thought so grand, could be put in one little corner of St. Peter's, and would look like 30 cents. St. Peter's covers ground about half a mile square, and when you go inside and look at grown people on the other side of it, they look like flies, and the organ is as big as a block of buildings in Chicago, and when they blow it you think the last day has come, and yet the music-is as sweet as a melodeon, and makes you want to get down on your knees with all the thousands of good Christians of Italy, and confess that you are a fraud that ought to be arrested.

Dad and I have been to all kinds of churches, everywhere, and never turned a hair, but since we got to this town and got some of the prevailing religion into our systems, we feel guilty, and it seems as though everybody could see right into us, and that they knew we were heathen that never knew there was a God. Sure thing, I never supposed there were so many people in the world that worshiped their Maker, as there are here, and I don't wonder that all over the world good people look to Rome for the light. Dad keeps telling me that when we get home we will set an example that will make people pay attention, but he says he does not want to join the church until he has seen all the sights, and then he will swear off for good.

He said to me yesterday: "Now, Hennery, I have been to all the pious places with you, the pope's residence, the catacombs and St. Peter's, where they preach from 40 different places and make you feel like giving up your sins, and I have looked at carvings and decorations and marble and jewels and seen the folly of my ways of life, and I am ripe for a change, but before I give up the world and all of its wickedness, I want blood. I want to go to the other extreme, and see the wild beasts at the Coliseum tear human beings limb from limb, and drink their blood, and see gladiators gladiate, and chop down their antagonists, and put one foot on their prostrate necks, like they do in the theaters, and then I am ready to leave this town and be good."

Well, sir, I have been in lots of tight places before, but this one beat the band. Here was my dad, who did not know that the Roman, gladiator business had been off the boards for over 2,000 years, that the eating of human prisoners by wild beasts in the presence of the Roman populace was played out, and that the Coliseum was a ruin and did not exist as a place of amusement. He thought everything that he had read about the horrors of a Roman holiday was running to-day, as a side show, and he wanted to see it, and I had encouraged him in his ideas, because he was nervous, and I didn't want to undeceive him. He had come to Rome to see things he couldn't find at home, and it was up to me to deliver the goods.

Gee, but it made me sweat, 'cause I knew if dad did not get a show for his money he would lay it up against me, so I told him we would go to the Coliseum that night and see the hungry lions and tigers eat some of the leading citizens, just as they did when Caesar run the show. Then I found an American from Chicago at the hotel, who sells soap in Rome, and told him what dad expected of me in the way of amusement, and he said the only way was to take dad out to the Coliseum, and in the dark roll a barrel of broken glass down the tiers of seats and make him believe there was an earthquake that had destroyed the Coliseum, and that the lions and tigers were all loose, looking for people to eat, and scare dad and make a run back to town.

What dad expected of me in the way of amusement 230

I didn't want to play such a scandalous trick on dad, but the Chicago man said that was the only way out of it, and he could get a barrel of broken glass for a dollar, and hire four ruffians that could roar like lions for a few dollars, and it would give dad good exercise, and may be save him from a run of Roman fever, 'cause there was nothing like a good sweat to knock the fever out of a fellow's system. The thing struck me as not only a good experience for dad, but a life saver, so I whacked up the money, and the Chicago soap man did the rest.

After dark we went out to the ruin of the Coliseum, where a great many tourists go to look at the ruins by moonlight, and dad was as anxious and bloodthirsty as a young surgeon cutting up his first "stiff." When we got to the right place, and I told dad we were a little early, because the nobility were not in their seats, the villains began to roar three dollars' worth like hungry lions, and dad turned a little pale and said that sounded like the real thing.

I told him we better not get too near, because we were not accustomed to seeing live men chewed up by beasts, and dad said he didn't care how near we got, as long as they chewed and tore to pieces the natives; so we started to work up a little nearer, when there was a noise such as I never heard before, as the hogshead of broken glass began to roll down the tiers of stone seats, and I fell over on the ground, and pushed dad, and he went over in the sand and struck his pants on a cactus, and yelled that he was stabbed with a dirk.

Went over in the sand and struck his pants on a cactus 233

I got up and fell down again, and just then the Chicago soap man came up on a gallop, followed by the villains playing lion and tiger, and dad asked the Chicago man what seemed to be the matter, and he said: "Matter enough; there has been an earthquake, and the Coliseum has fallen down, killing more than 10,-000 Romans, and the animals' cages are busted and the animals are loose, looking for fresh meat, and we better get right back to Rome, too quick, or we will be eaten alive. Come on if you are with me. Do you hear the lions after us?" said he, as the hired villains roared.

He took the lead for good old Rome 235

Well, you'd a died to see dad get up out of that prickly cactus and take the lead for good old Rome. I didn't know he was such a sprinter, but we trailed along behind, roaring like lions and snarling like tigers and yip-yapping like hyenas and barking like timber wolves, and we couldn't see dad for the dust, on that moonlight night.

We slowed up and let dad run ahead, and he got to the hotel first, and we paid off the villains, and finally we went in the hotel and found dad in the bar-room puffing and drinking a high-ball. "Pretty near hell, wasn't it," said dad, to the soap man. "Did the lions catch anybody?" "O, a few of the lower classes," said the soap man, "but none of the nobility. The nobility were in the boxes and that part of the Coliseum never falls during an earthquake," and the soap man joined dad in a high-ball.

After dad got through puffing and had wiped about two quarts of perspiration off his head and neck, and the soap man had told him what a great thing it was to perspire in Rome, on account of the Roman fever, that catches a man at night and kills him before morning, dad turned to me and said: "Hennery, you go pack up and we get out of this in the morning, for I feel as though I had been chewed by one of those hyenas. Not any more Rome for papa," and the high-ball party broke up, and we went to bed to get sleep enough to leave town.

Do you know, the next morning those hired villains made the soap man and I pay ten dollars extra on account of straining their lungs roaring like lions? But we paid for their lungs all right, rather than have them present a bill to dad.

Well, good-by, old man. We are getting all the fun there is going.

Your only,

Hennery.



Chapter XIX.

The Bad Boy and His Dad Visit the Pope -- They Bow to the King of Italy and His Nine Spots -- Dad Finds That "The Catacombs" Is Not a Comic Opera.

Rome, Italy. -- Dear Old Friend: You remember, don't you when you were a boy, playing "tag, you're it," and "button, button, who's got the button?" that one of the trying situations was to be judged to "go to Rome," which meant that you were to kiss every girl in the room.

Had to kiss anybody they brought to me 238

I never got enough "going to Rome" when I attended church sociables and parties, but always got blindfolded, and had to kiss anybody they brought to me, which was usually a boy or a colored cook, so I teased dad to take me to Rome, and when he got over his being rattled and robbed and burned by lava at Vesuvius, he said he didn't care where he went, and, besides, I told him about the Roman Coliseum, where they turned hungry tigers and lions and hyenas loose among the gladiators, and the people could see the beasts eat them alive, and dad said that was something like it, as the way he had been robbed and misued in Italy, he would enjoy seeing a good share of the population chewed by lions, if the lions could stand it. I didn't tell dad that the wild animal show had not been running for a couple of thousand years, 'cause I thought he would find it out when we got here.

Say, old man, I guess I can help you to locate Rome. You remember the time I spoke a piece at the school exhibition, when I put my hand inside my flannel shirt, like an orator, and said: "And this is Rome, that sat on her seven hills, and from her throne of beauty ruled the whole world." Well, this is it, where I am now, but the seven hills have been graded down, and Rome don't rule the whole world a little bit; but she has got religion awful.

The pope lives here, and he is the boss of more religious people than anybody, and though you may belong to any other kind of church, and when you are home you don't care a continental for any religion except your own, or your wife's religion, and you act like an infidel, and scoff at good people, when you get to Rome and see the churches thicker than saloons in Milwaukee, and everybody attending church and looking pious, you catch the fever, and try to forget bad things you have done, and if you get a chance to see the pope, you may go to his palace just 'cause you want to see everything that is going on, and you think you don't care whether school keeps or not, and you feel independent, as though this religion was something for weak people to indulge in, and finally you come face to face with the pope, and see his beautiful face, and his grand eyes, and his every movement is full of pious meaning, you "penuk" right there, and want to kneel down and let him bless you, by gosh.

Say, I never saw dad weaken like he did when the pope came in. We got tickets to go to his reception, but dad said he had rather go to the catacombs, or the lion show at the Coliseum. He said he didn't want to encourage popes, because he didn't believe they amounted to any more than presiding elders at home. He said he had always been a Baptist, and they didn't have any popes in his church, and he didn't believe in 'em, but some other Americans were going to see the pope, and dad consented to go, under protest, it being understood that he didn't care two whoops, anyway.

Well, sir, we went, and it was the grandest thing you ever saw. There were guards by the thousand, beautiful gardens that would make Central Park look like a hay marsh, hundreds of people in church vestments, and an air of sanctity that we never dreamed; jewels that are never seen outside the pope's residence, and we lined up to see the holy father pass.

Gee, but dad trembled like a dog tied out in the snow, and the perspiration stood out on his face, and he looked sorry for himself. Then came the procession, all nobles and great people, and then there was a party of pious men carrying the most beautiful man we ever saw on a platform above us, and it was the pope, and he smiled at me, and the tears came to my eyes, and I couldn't swallow something which I s'pose was my sins, and then he looked at dad, and held up one hand, and dad was pale, and there was no funny business about dad any more, and then they set the platform down and the pope sat in a chair, and those who wanted to went up to him, and he blessed them.

For awhile dad dassent go up 241

Say, for awhile dad dassent go up, 'cause he thought the pope could see right through him, and would know he was a Baptist, but the rest of the Americans were going up, and dad didn't want to be eccentric, so he and I went up. The pope put out his hand to dad, and instead of shaking it, as he would the hand of any other man on earth, and asking how his folks were, dad bent over and kissed the pope's hand, and the pope blessed him. Dad looked like a new man, a good man, and when the pope put his hand on my head, and blessed me, my heart came up in my throat, 'cause I thought he must know of all the mean things I had ever done, but I can feel his soft, beautiful hand on my head now, and from this out I would fight any boy twice my size that ever said a word against the pope and his religion. When we got outside dad says to me: "Hennery, don't you ever let me hear of your doing a thing that would make the good man sorry if he was to hear about it." And we went to our hotel and stayed all the afternoon, and all night, and just thought of that pope's angelic face, and when one of the Americans came to our room and wanted dad to play cinch, he was indignant, and said: "I would as soon think of robbing a child's bank," and we went to bed, and if dad wasn't a converted man I never saw one.

Well, sir, trouble, and sorrow, and religion, don't last very long on dad. The next morning we talked things over, and I quoted all the Roman stuff I could think of to dad, such as "In that elder day, to be a Roman was greater than a king," but before I could think twice there was a commotion in the streets and a porter came and made us take off our hats, because the king was riding by, and we looked at the king, and dad was hot. He said that fellow was nothing but a railroad hand, disguised in a uniform, and, by ginger, if we had seen that king out west working on a railroad, with canvas clothes on, he would not have looked like a king, on a bet. There was nothing but his good clothes that stood between the king and a dago digging sewers in Chicago.

After the king and his ninespots had passed, dad said: "When you are in Rome, you must do as the Romans do," and he said he wanted to get that heavy feeling off his shoulders, which he got at the religious procession, and wanted me to suggest something devilish that we could do, and I told him we better go and see the "Catacombs." He wanted to know if it was anything like "a trip to Chinatown," or the "Black Crook," and I told him it was worse. Then he asked me if there was much low neck and long stockings in the "Catacombs," and I told him there was a plenty, and he said he was just ripe to see that kind of a show, and so we took a carriage for the "Catacombs," and dad could hardly keep still till we got there.

I suppose I ought to be killed for fooling dad, but he craved for excitement, and he got it. The "Catacombs" are where Roman citizens have been buried for thousands of years, in graves hewn out of solid rock, and they are petrified, and after they have laid in the graves for a few hundred years, the mummified bodies are taken out and stood up in corners, if the bodies will hang together, and if not the bones are piled up around for scenery.

We had to take torches to go in, and we wandered through corridors, gazing at the remains, until dad asked one of the men with us what it all meant, and the man said it was the greatest show on earth. Dad began to think he was nutty, and when I laughed, and said: "That is great," and clapped my hands, and said: "Encore," dad stopped and said: "Hennery, this is no leg show, this is a morgue," but to cheer him up I told him his head must be wrong, and I pointed to about a hundred dried corpses, a thousand years old, in a corner, with grinning skulls all around, and told him that was the ballet, and told him to look at the leading dancer, and asked him if she wasn't a beaut, from Butte, Mont., and that killed dad. He leaned against me, and said his eyes must have gone back on him, because everything looked dead to him. I told him he would get over it after awhile, and to stay where he was while I went and spoke to one of the ballet that was beckoning to me, and I left him there, dazed, and went around a corner and hid.

People were coming along with torches all the time, looking at the catacombs and reading the inscriptions cut in the rock, and after awhile I went back to where I left dad, and he was gone, but after awhile I found him standing up with the stiffs. He was glad to see me, and wanted to know if I thought he was' dead. I told him I was sure he was alive, though he had a deathly look on his face.

He would break me up into bones, and throw me into a pile 246

"Well, sir," says dad, "I thought it was all over with me, after you left, for a man came along and moved me around, and took hold under my arms and jumped me along here by these stiffs, and told me if I didn't stay where I belonged he would break me up into bones, and throw me into a pile, and I thought I would have to do as the Romans do and stay here, and before the man left me he reached into my pocket and took my money, and said I couldn't spend any money in there where I was going to stay for a million years, and, by gosh, I was so petrified I couldn't stop him from robbing me. Say, Hennery, they will rob you anywhere, even in the grave, and if this Catacomb show is over, and the curtain has gone down, I want to get out of here, and go to the Coliseum or the Roman amphitheater, where the wild beasts eat people alive." And so we left the Catacombs and went back to town, and dad began to show life again. Say, you tell the folks at home that dad is gaining every day, and his vacation is doing him good. He has promised to kill me for taking him to the Catacomb show, but dad never harbors revenge for long, and I guess your little nephew will pull through. I wish I had my skates, cause dad wants to go to Russia.

Yours,

Hennery.



Chapter XX.

The Bad Boy Tells About the Land of the Czar and the Trouble They Had to Get There -- Dad Does a Stunt and Mixes It Up with the People and Soldiers.

St. Petersburg, Russia. -- My Dear Groceryow-ski: Well, sir, I 'spose you will be surprised to hear from me in Russia, but there was no use talking when Dad said he was going to St. Petersburg if it was the last act of his life. He got talking with a Japaneser in Rome and the Jap said the war in the far east would last until every Russian was killed, unless America interfered to put a stop to it, and as Roosevelt didn't appear to have sand enough to offer his services to the czar, what it needed was for some representative American citizen who was brave and had nerve to go to St. Petersburg and see the czarovitch and give him the benefit of a good American talk. The Jap said the American who brought about peace, by a few well chosen remarks, would be the greatest man of the century, and would live to be bowed down to by kings and emperors and all the world would doff hats to him.

At first dad was a little leary about going on such a mission without credentials from Washington, but as luck would have it, he met an exiled Russian at a restaurant, who told dad that he reminded him of Gen. Grant, because dad had a wart on the side of his nose, and he told dad that Russia would keep on fighting until every Japanese was killed unless some distinguished American should be raised up who deemed it his duty to go to St. Petersburg and see the Little Father, and in the interest of humanity advise the czar to call a halt before he had exterminated the whole yellow race. Dad asked the Russian if he thought the czar would grant an audience to an American of eminence in his own country, and the Russian told dad that Nicholas just doted on Americans, and that there was hardly ever an American ballet dancer that went to Russia but what the czar sent for her to come and see him and dance before the grand dukes, and he always gave them jewels and cans of caviar as souvenirs of their visit.

The Russian told dad that Nicholas just doted on Americans 250

Dad thought it over all night, and the next morning we started for Russia and I wish we had joined an expedition to discover the North Pole instead of coming here. Say, it is harder to get into Russia than it would be to get out of a penitentiary at home. At the frontier we were met by guards on horseback and on foot, policemen, detectives and other grafters, who took our passports and money, and one fellow made me exchange my socks with him. Then they imprisoned us in a stable with some cows until they could hold a coroner's inquest on our passports and divide our money. We slept with the cows the first night in Russia, and I do not want to sleep again with animals that chew cuds all night, and get up half a dozen times to hump up their backs and stretch and bellow. We never slept a wink, and could look out through the cracks in the stable and see the guards shaking dice for our money.

See the guards shaking dice for our money 253

Finally they looked at the great seal on our passports and saw it was an American document, and they began to turn pale, as pale as a Russian can get without using soap, and when I said, "Washington, embassador, minister plenipotentiary, Roosevelt, Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight, E Pluribus Unum, whoopla, San Juan Hill," and pointed to dad, who was just coming out of the stable, looking like Washington at Valley Forge, the guards and other robbers bowed to dad, gave him a bag full of Russian money in place of that which they had taken away, and let us take a freight train for St. Petersburg, and they must have told the train men who we were, because everybody on the cars took off their hats to us, and divided their lunch with us.

Dad could not understand the change in the attitude of the people towards us until I told him that they took him for a distinguished American statesman, and that as long as we were in Russia he must try to look like George Washington and act like Theodore Roosevelt, so every little while dad would stand up in the aisle of the car and pose like George Washington and when anybody gave him a sandwich or a cigarette he would show his teeth and say, "Deelighted," and all the way to St. Petersburg dad carried out his part of the programme and we were not robbed once on the trip, but dad tried to smoke one of the cigarettes that was given him by a Cossack, and he died in my arms, pretty near.

They make cigarettes out of baled hay that has been used for beddings and covered with paper that has been used to poison flies. I never smelled anything so bad since they fumigated our house by the board of health after the hired girl had smallpox.

Well, we got to St. Petersburg in an awful time, and went to a hotel, suspected by the police, and marked as undesirable guests by the Cossacks, and winked at by the walking delegates and strikers, who thought we were non-union men looking for their jobs.

The next day the religious ceremony of "blessing the Neva" took place, where all the population gets out on the bank of the river, with overshoes on, and fur coats, and looks down on the river, covered with ice four feet thick, and the river is blessed. In our country the people would damn a river that had ice four feet thick, but in Russia they bless anything that will stand it. We got a good place on the bank of the river, with about a million people who had sheepskin coats on, and who steamed like a sheep ranch, and were enjoying the performance, looking occasionally at the Winter palace, where the czar was peeking out of a window, wondering from which direction a bomb would come to blow him up, when a battery of artillery across the river started to fire a salute, and then the devil was to pay. It seems that the gentlemen who handled the guns, and who were supposed to fire blank cartridges into the air, put in loaded cartridges, filled with grape shot, and took aim at the Winter palace, and cut loose at Mr. Czar.

Well, you would have been paralyzed to see the change that came over that crowd, blessing the river one minute and damning the czar and the grand dukes the next. The shot went into the Winter palace and tore the furniture and ripped up the ceiling of the room the czar was in, and in a moment all was chaos, as though every Russian knew the czar was to be assassinated at that particular moment, and all rushed toward the Winter palace as though they expected pieces of the Little Father would be thrown out the window for them to play football with. For a people who are supposed to be lawful and law-abiding, and who love their rulers, it seemed strange to see them all so tickled when they thought he was blown higher than a kite by his own soldiers.

Dad and I started with the crowd for the Winter palace, and then we had a taste of monarchial government. The crowd was rushing over us and dad got mad and pulled off his coat and said he could whip any confounded foreigner that rubbed against him with a sheepskin coat on, and he was just on the point of smiting a fellow with whiskers that looked like scrambled bristles off a black hog when a regiment of Cossacks came down on the crowd, riding horses like a wild west show, and with whips in their hands, with a dozen lashes to each whip, and they began to lash the crowd and ride over them, while the people covered their faces with their arms, and run away, afraid of the whips, which cut and wound and kill, as each lash has little lead bullets fastened to them and a stroke of the whip is like being shot with buck shot or kicked with a frozen boot.

a Cossack rode right up to him and lashed him over the back 258

Well, sir, dad was going to show the Cossacks that he was pretty near an American citizen and didn't propose to be whipped like a school boy by a teacher that looked like a valentine, so he tried to look like George Washington defying the British, but it didn't work, for a Cossack rode right up to him and lashed him over the back (and about 15 buck shot in his whip took dad right where the pants are tight when you bend over to pick up something) and the Cossack laughed when dad straightened up and started to run. I never saw such a change in a man as there was in dad. He started for our hotel, and as good a sprinter as I am I couldn't keep up with him, but I kept him in sight. Before we got to the hotel a sledge came along, not an "old sledge," such as you play with cards, high-low-Jack-game, but a sort of a sleigh, with three horses abreast, and I yelled to dad to take a hitch on the sledge, and he grabbed on with his feet on the runners, and a man in the sledge with a uniform on, who seemed to be a grand duke, 'cause everybody was chasing him and yelling to head him off, hit dad in the nose with the butt of a revolver, and dad fell off in the snow and the crowd that was chasing the grand duke picked dad up and carried him on their shoulders because they thought he had tried to assassinate the duke, and we were escorted to our hotel by the strikers.

Hit dad in the nose with the butt of a revolver 255

We didn't know what they were, but you can tell the laboring men here because they wear blouses and look hungry, and when they left us the landlord notified the police that suspicious characters were at the hotel, and came there escorted by the mob, and the police surrounded the house and dad went to our room and used witch hazel on himself where the Cossack hit him with the loaded whip. He says Russia will pay pretty dear for that stroke of the whip by the Cossack, and I think dad is going to join the revolution that is going to be pulled off next Sunday.

They are going to get about a million men to take a petition to the czar, workingmen and anarchists, and dad says he is going as an American anarchist who is smarting from injustice, and I guess no native is smarting more than dad is, 'cause he has to stand up to eat and lie on his stummick to sleep. There is going to be a hades of a time here in St. Petersburg this next week, and dad and I are going to be in it clear up to our necks.

Dad has given up trying to see the czar about stopping the war and says the czar and the whole bunch can go plum (to the devil) and he will die with the mob and follow a priest who is stirring the people to revolt.

Gee, I hope dad will not get killed here and be buried in a trench with a thousand Russians, smelling as they do.

I met a young man from Chicago, who is here selling reapers for the harvester trust, and he says if you are once suspected of having sympathy with the working people who are on a strike you might just as well say your prayers and take rough on rats, 'cause the Cossacks will get you, and he would advise me and dad to get out of here pretty quick, but when I told dad about it he put one hand on his heart and the other on his pants and said "Arnica, arnica, arnica!" and the police that were on guard near his room thought he meant anarchy, and they sent four detectives to stay in dad's room.

The people here, the Chicago young man told me, think the Cossacks are human hyenas, that they have had their hearts removed by a surgical operation when young, and a piece of gizzard put in in place of the heart, and that they are natural murderers, the sight of blood acting on them the same as champagne on a human being, and that but for the Cossacks Russia would have a population of loving subjects that would make it safe for the Little Father to go anywhere in Russia unattended, but with Cossacks ready to whip and murder and laugh at suffering, the people are becoming like men bitten by rabid dogs, and they froth at the mouth and have spasms and carry bombs up their sleeves, ready to blow up the members of the royal family, and there you are.

If you do not hear from me after next Sunday you can put dad's obituary and mine in the local papers and say we died of an overdose of Cossack. If we get through this revolution alive you will hear from me, but this is the last revolution I am going to attend.

Yours,

Hennery.



Chapter XXI.

Dad Sees a Russian Revolution and Faints -- The Bad Boy Arranges a Wolf Hunt -- Dad Threatens to Throw the Boy to the Wolves.

St. Petersburg, Russia. -- My Dear Grocery-witz: Well, sir, dad and I have got too much of Russia the quickest of any two tourists you ever heard of. That skirmish we saw, the day the Russians blessed the Neva, and shot blank cartridges filled with old iron at the czar, was not a marker to the trouble the next Sunday, when the working people marched to the Winter Palace, to present a petition to the "Little Father."

We thought a revolution was like a play, and that it would be worth going miles to see. Dad was in South America once when there was a revolution, where more than a dozen greasers, with guns that wouldn't shoot, put on a dozen different kinds of uniforms, and yelled: "Down with the government," and frothed at the mouth, and drank buttermilk and yelled Spanish swear words, and acted brave, until a native soldier with white pajamas came out with a gun and shot one of the revolutionists in the thumb, when the revolution was suppressed and the next day the revolutionists were pounding stone, with cannon balls chained to their legs; and dad thought a revolution in Russia would be something like that, and that we could get on a front porch and watch it as it went by, and joke with the revolution, and throw confetti, like it was a carnival, but that Sunday that the Russian revolution was begun, we had enough blood to last us all our lives.

We got a place sitting on an iron picket fence, and we saw the people coming up the street towards the Winter Palace, dressed mostly in blouses, and looking as innocent as a crowd of sewer diggers at home going up to the city hall to ask for a raise in wages of two shillings a day. Nobody had a gun, and no one would have known how to use a gun, and all looked like poor people going to prayers. There were troops everywhere, and every soldier acted as though he was afraid something would happen to spoil their chance of killing anybody. The snow on the streets was clean and as white as the wings of a peace dove, and dad said the show was no better than a parade of laboring men at home on Labor day.

Suddenly some officer yelled to the parade to stop, and the priest at the head of the procession, who was carrying a cross, slowed up a little, like the drum major of a band when the populace at home begins to throw eggs, but they kept on, and then the shooting began, and in a minute men, women and children were rolling in the snow, bleeding and dying, the marchers were too stunned to run, and the deadly guns kept on spitting fire, and the street was full of dead and dying, and then the Cossacks rode over the dead and sabered and knouted the living, and as the snow was patched with red blood, dad fainted away and fell off the picket fence, and hung by one pant leg, which caught on a picket, and crowds rushed in every direction, and it was an hour before I could get a drosky to haul dad to the hotel.

Hung by one pant leg 264

Dad collapsed when he got to the hotel, and I got a doctor and a nurse, and for two days I had to watch the revolution alone, while dad had fits of remorse 'cause he brought me to such a charnel house, he said.

Well, if you ever go anywhere, traveling for pleasure, do not go to Russia, because it is the saddest place on earth. I have seen no person smile or laugh in all the ten days we have been here, except a Cossack when he run a saber through a little girl, and his laugh was like the coyote on the prairie when he captures a little lamb. The people look either heart-broken or snarly, like the people confined in an insane asylum at home.

The czar, who a week ago was loved by the people, who believed if they went to him, as to their God, and appealed for guidance, is to-day hated by all, and instead of "Nicholas the Good," since he scampered away to a castle in the country, and crawled under a bed, all the people call him "the Little Jack Rabbit," and his fate is sealed, as a bomb will blow him into pieces so small they will have to be swept up in a dustpan for burial, maybe before dad and I can get out of Russia.

Going to St. Petersburg for a pleasant outing is a good deal like visiting the Chicago stockyards to watch the bloody men kill the cattle, and the butchers in the stockyards, calloused against any feeling for suffering animals, are like the soldiers here who shoot down their neighbors because they are hired to do so. The murder of those unarmed working men, that Sunday, has changed a helpless, pleading people into anarchists with deadly bombs in their blouses, where they were accustomed to carry black bread to sustain life, and with the menace of Japan in the far east and an outraged people at home, Russia is in a bad way, and if I was the czar or a grand duke, I would find a woodchuck hole and arrange with the woodchuck for a furnished flat.

I didn't think there was going to be anything going on in Russia except bloodshed and bombs, and things to make you sorry that you were here, and I was willing to take chloroform and let them carry me home in a box, with my description on the cover, until the doctor told me that dad was in a condition of nervousness, that he needed something to happen to get his mind off of the awful scenes he had witnessed, and asked me if I couldn't think of something to excite him and wake him up, and then dad said, after he got so he could go out doors: "Hennery, you have always been Johnny on the spot when I needed diversion, and I want you to take your brain apart, and oil the works, and see if you can't conjure up something to get my blood circulating and my pores open for business, and anything you think of goes, and I swear I will not kick if you scare the boots off of me."

Well, that was right into my hand; and I set my mind to strike at four p. m. I had been out riding once with the Chicago man, in a sledge, with three horses abreast, all runaway horses, and the driver was a Cossack who lashed the horses into a run every smooth place he found in the road, and it was like running to a fire, so I got the Chicago fellow to go with me and we found the Cossack, and he was drunker than usual. There is a kind of liquor here called vodka, which skins wood alcohol and carbolic acid to a finish, and when a man is full of it he is so mad he wants to cut his own throat. This driver had put up sideboards on his neck and had two jags in one, and we hired him by the hour.

I told the Chicago man the circumstances and that I had got to get dad out of his trance, and he said he would help me. When I was out riding the day before I noticed that the road was full of great dane dogs, wolf hounds and stag hounds, which followed their master's sledges out in the country, and the dogs loafed around, hungry, looking for bones, and fighting each other, so I decided to get the dogs to chase our sledge and make dad think we were chased by wolves. I thought that would make dad stand without hitching, and it did.

The Chicago man bought some cannon firecrackers, and I bought a cow's liver, and hitched it to a rope, and hid it in the back seat, and my Chicago friend and I took the back seat, and we got dad in the seat behind the driver, and started about an hour before dark out in the country, through a piece of woods that looked quite wolfy. On the way out the driver let his horses run away a few times, like you have seen in Russian pictures, and dad was beginning to sit up and take notice, and seemed to act like a man who expects every minute to be thrown over a precipice and mixed up with dead horses. Dad touched the driver once on the coat-tail and told him not to hurry so confounded fast, and the driver thought he was complaining because it was too slow, and he gave a Comanche yell and threw the lines into the air, and the horses just skedaddled, and run into a snow bank and tipped over the sledge, and piled us out on top of dad, but dad only said: "This is getting good."

Piled us out on top of dad 269

We righted up, and dad wanted to know where all the pups came from that we had passed. I had been throwing out pieces of meat into the road for a mile or so, and the dogs were having a picnic. It was getting pretty dark by this time, and we started back to town, and I threw out my liver, fastened to the rope, and the Chicago man, who had given the driver a drink of vodka when we tipped over, told him, in Russian, that when the dogs began to follow us, to get hold of the liver, to yell "wolves," and give the team the rein, for a five-mile run, and yell all the time, because we wanted to give the old gentleman a good time.

Well, uncle, I would have given anything if you could have seen dad, when the dogs began to chase that liver, and bark and fight each other. The driver yelled something in Russian, and pointed back with his whip, the Chicago man said: "My God, we are pursued by a pack of ravenous wolves, and there is no hope for us," and I began to cry, and implored dad, if he loved me, to save me.

Dad stood up in the sledge 267

Pursued by a pack of ravenous wolves 271

Dad stood up in the sledge and looked back, and saw the wolves, and he was scared, but he said the only thing to do was to throw something overboard for them to be chewing on while we got away, but he sat down and pulled a robe over his head and his lips were moving, but I do not know whom he was addressing.

The Chicago man touched off a couple of cannon firecrackers behind the sledge, but that only kept the dogs back for a minute, and dad said probably the best thing to do was to throw me overboard and let them eat me, and I said: "Nay, nay, Pauline," and then I think dad fainted away, for he never peeped again until the team had run away a lot more, and I cut my liver rope, and when we got into the suburbs of St. Petersburg the dogs had overtaken the liver, and were fighting over it.

The driver had to pull up his horses as we struck the town, and dad must have got a whiff of the driver's vodka, because he come to, and we got to the hotel all right, and I thought dad would simply die in his tracks, but the ride and the excitement did him good, and he wanted to buy a gun and go out wolf hunting the next day, but our tickets were bought and we shall get out of this terrible country to-morrow.

Dad woke me, up in the night and wanted to know if I saw him when he pulled his knife and wanted to get out and fight the pack of wolves single-handed. I am not much of a liar, but I told him I remembered it well, and it demonstrated to me that he was as brave a man as the czar, "the Little Jack Rabbit," as his people call him.

Well, thanks to my wolf hunt, dad is all right again, and now we shall go to some country where there is peace. I don't know where we will find it, but if such a country exists, your little Henry will catch on, if dad's money holds out.

Yours, covered with Gore.

Hennery.



Chapter XXII.

Dad Wears His Masonic Fez in Constantinople -- They Find the Turks Sensitive on the Dog Question -- A College Yell for the Sultan Sends Him Into a Fit.

Constantinople, Turkey. -- My Dear Old "Shriner" -- We got out of Russia just in time to keep from being arrested or blown up with a bomb. Dad wanted to go to Moscow, because he saw a picture once of Moscow being destroyed by fire by Napoleon, or somebody, and he wanted to see if they had ever built the town up again, but I felt as though something serious was going to, happen in that country if we didn't look out, and so I persuaded dad to go to Turkey, and the day we started for Constantinople we got the news that the Nihilists had thrown a bomb under the carriage of the Grand Duke Sergius and blew him and the carriage into small pieces not bigger than a slice of summer sausage, and they had to sweep his remains up in a dustpan and bury them in a two-quart fruit jar. Wouldn't that jar you?

When dad heard about that you couldn't have kept him in Russia on a bet, and so we let the authorities have all the money we had, giving some to each man who held us up, until we got out of the country, and then we took the first long breath we had taken since we struck the Godforsaken country of the czar. If the bombs hold out I do not think there will be a quorum left in Russia in a year, either czars, dukes or anything except peasants on the verge of starvation and workingmen who have not the heart to work. I wouldn't take the whole of Russia as a gift, and have to dodge bombs night and day.

Say, old man, you never dreamed that I knew all about you and dad joining the Masons that time, but I watched you and dad giving each other signs and grips, and whispering passwords into each other's ears, in the grocery, nights, after you had locked up. I thought, at the time, that you and dad were planning a burglary, but when you both went to the lodge one night and stayed till near morning, and dad came home with a red Turkish fez and told ma that you and he had joined the shrine, which was the highest degree in Masonry, and you and he were nobles, and all that rot, I was on to you bigger than a house, and you couldn't fool me when you and dad winked at each other and talked about crossing the hot sands of the desert.

Well, dad brought his red fez along, 'cause I think he expected he would meet shriners all over the world, that he could borrow money of. When we struck Constantinople and dad saw that every last one of the Turks wore a red fez, he felt as though he had got among shriners, and he got his fez out of his trunk and he wears it all the time.

Dad acts as familiar with the Turks here as though he owned a harem. We go to the low streets, about as wide as a street car, where Turks are selling things, with dad wearing his fez, and he begins to make motions and give grand hailing signs of distress, and the Turks look at him as though he had robbed a bank, and they charge enormous prices for everything, and dad pays with a smile, thinking his brother Masons are fairly giving things away. He looks upon all men who wear the fez as his brothers, and they look at him as though he was crazy in the head.

The only trouble is that dad insists on talking to the women here without an introduction, and a woman in Turkey had rather die than have a Christian dog look at her. Dad was buying some wormy figs of a merchant, who was seated on the floor of his shop, and giving him signs, when a curtain behind the Turk was pulled one side and a woman with beautiful eyes and her face covered with a veil, came out with a cup of coffee for the Turk. Dad shook hands with her, and said: "Your husband and I belong to the same lodge," and he was going to go inside and visit the family, when the woman drew a small dagger out of the folds of her dress, and the Turk drew one of these scimeters, and it looked for a moment as though I was going to be a half orphan, particularly when dad put his hand on her shoulder and petted it, and smiled one of those masher smiles which he uses at home, and said: "My good woman, you must not get in the habit of jabbing your husband's friends with this crooked cutlery, though to be killed by so handsome a woman would indeed be a sweet death," but the bluff did not go, and the woman disappeared behind the curtain, and dad had the frantic husband to deal with.

When dad put his hand on her shoulder and petted it 276

I have never seen a human being look as murderous as that Turk did as he drew his thumb across the blade of his knife, drew up his lip and snarled like a dog that has been bereaved of a promising bone by a brother dog that was larger.

The Turk looked through his teeth, and his eyes seemed to act like small arc lights, that were to show him where to cut dad, and dad began to turn pale, and looked scared.

"Give him the grand hailing sign of distress," said I as dad leaned against a barrel of dried prunes. Dad said he had forgotten the sign, and then I told him the only way out of it, alive, would be to buy something, so dad picked up a little jim-crack worth about ten cents, and gave the Turk a five-dollar gold piece, and while the Turk went in behind the curtain to get the change I told dad now was the time to skip, and you ought to have seen dad make a sprint out the door and around a corner, and up another street, while I followed him, and we got away from the danger of being stabbed, but dad got his foot into it again before we had gone a block.

Nobody in Constantinople ever hurries, or goes off a walk, so when the people saw an old man, with a fez on his head, running amuck, as they say here, followed by a beautiful boy, they began to crawl into their holes, thinking dad was crazy, but when we were passing a sausage store, where about 20 dogs were asleep in the street, and dad kicked half a dozen dogs and yelled, "get out, you hounds," that settled it, and they knew he was wrong in the head, and they yelled for the police, and we were pulled for fast driving, and taken before a Turkish justice of the peace, followed by the whole crowd.

Get out you hounds 282

The justice did not wear a fez, but had on a turban, so dad did not give him any signs, but after jabbering a while they sent for an interpreter, who could talk pigeon English, and then dad had a trial, and I acted as his lawyer. I told about how dad had tried to be kind and genial to another man's wife, and how, in his hurry to get away from the murderous husband he fell over a mess of dogs, and that he was a distinguished American, who was in Turkey to negotiate a loan to the sultan.

Say, that fixed them, and they all made salams to dad, and bowed all over themselves, and the justice of the peace prayed to Allah, and the interpreter said we could go, but to be careful about touching a Turkish woman or a dog, particularly a dog, as the Turks were very sensitive on the dog question. So we went out of the courtroom and wandered around the town, and you can bet that dad didn't look at any more women, though they were everywhere with veils that covered their faces so nothing but their eyes could be seen.

Gee, but you never saw such eyes as these Turkish women have. They are big and black, and they go right through you, and clinch on the other side. Dad says the facilities for getting into trouble are better in Constantinople than any place we have been, as the men look like bandits and the women look like executioners. Dad thanked me for helping him out of that scrape by claiming he was the agent of a financial syndicate that wanted to lend money to the sultan. If I had said dad was a collecting agency, to make the sultan pay up, they would have sentenced him to be boiled in oil.

Well, we thought we had been in trouble before, but we are in it now worse than ever. We heard at the hotel that at 11 o'clock in the morning the sultan would pass by in a carriage, with an escort, on the way to a mosque, to pray to Allah, and everybody could see the sultan, so we got a place on a balcony, and at the appointed time the procession came in sight. It was imposing, but solemn, and the people on both sides of the street acted like they do in America when the funeral of a great man is passing. No man spoke, and all looked as though they expected, if they moved, to be arrested and have a stone tied to their feet and thrown into the Bosphorus, the way they kill one of the sultan's wives when she flirts with a stranger.

We watched the soldiers, and finally the carriage of the sultan came, and in it was a dried up man, with liver complaint, with a nose like an eagle, and eyes like shoe buttons. He looked as though death would be a relief, and yet he seemed afraid of it, and there was no sound of welcome, such as there would be if Roosevelt was riding down Michigan avenue at Chicago, on the way to the stockyards to pray to Armour, instead of to Allah.

You could have heard a pin drop. I said: "Dad, this is too solemn, even for a sultan. Let's give him the university yell, and show that mummy that he has got two friends in Constantinople, anyway." "Here she goes," says dad, and we leaned over the railing, just as the sultan's carriage was right in front of us and not ten feet away, and in that oppressive silence dad and I opened up, "U-Rah-Rah-Wis-Con-Sin, zip-boom-Ah!" and then we started to sing, "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-Night."

There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-Night 279

Well, if any man in the crowd had touched off a bomb, there could have been no greater consternation. The sultan turned pale, as pale as so yellow a man could, and became faint, and fell over into the arms of a general who sat beside him, the Bazi Bazouks on horseback began to ride up and down the street, the crowd scattered, the sultan's carriage was turned around and rushed back to the palace, with the ruler of Turkey having a fit, and about a hundred soldiers came up on the veranda, where dad and I had broke up the procession, and they lit on dad like buzzards on a dead horse, and took possession of the hotel, and began to search our baggage.

Another took me by the ear 285

One Turk choked dad until his tongue hung out of his mouth, and another took me by the ear and stretched it out so it was long as a mule's ear, and they took us to a bastile and dad says it is all up with us now, because they will drown us like a mess of kittens in a bag, and all because we woke them up with a football yell in the wrong place.

Well, we might as well wind up our career here as anywhere. Good-by, old man. You will see our obituary in the papers.

Your repentant,

Hennery.



Chapter XXIII.

The Bad Boy and His Dad Meet the Cream of the Harem -- "Little Egypt" Does a Dancing Stunt -- The Sultan Wants to Send Fifty Wives to the President.

Constantinople, Turkey. -- My Dear Grocer-pasha: When I wrote you last I thought you would be in mourning for dad and I before this, as there seemed nothing for the Turks to do but to kill us after we had stampeded the sultan and all his soldiers by giving them a university yell, but after we had been confined in a sort of jail over night, dad and I had a heart to heart talk, and my diplomacy saved us for the time being. I told dad that what we wanted to do was to tell the Turks that dad represented the American people, and had a communication to make to the sultan personally, which would make him rich and happy.

Well, say, they bit like a bass, and the next day they took us before the sultan at the palace. Dad dug up a package of blank gold mining stock in a mine that he was going to promote, though the mine was only a small hole in the ground, and the stock had been offered for one cent a share, the par value being a hundred dollars, so a man who got a share for a cent would, when the mine got to paying, get a hundred dollars for every cent he invested.

Dad filled out one of the stock certificates for 1,000,000 shares, which would represent a capital equal to all the debts of Turkey, and we went before the sultan, and we couldn't have been treated better if we had owned a brewery. Dad told his story to the sultan through an interpreter, while I looked around at the gorgeous surroundings and tried to think of something to do to wake them up.

Dad said he came right fresh from the American people, and was authorized by his mining company to present the sultan with untold millions, for pure love of the Turkish people, whom they had seen riding and leading camels at the Chicago world's fair, and dad produced the stock certificate for 1,000,000 shares of stock in the Golden Horn Gold Mining and Smelting company, and took out a handful of $20 gold pieces and showed them to the crowd as specimens of gold that came from our mine.

He said our people did not expect anything in return, but just desired the good will of the Turkish empire. He said that President Roosevelt desired him to present his warmest regards to the sultan, and to invite him to visit America, and if he would consent to do so, an American war vessel would be furnished for him and the white house would be turned over to him for his harem, and dad said the president wanted him particularly to impress upon the sultan that if he came he must bring his folks, all his wives that would be apt to size up for beauty with our American women.

He must bring his folks, and all his wives 289

Well, you ought to have seen that sickly looking sultan brace up when dad handed him the millions of mining stock, and he grabbed the paper like an old clothes buyer would grab a dress suit that a wife had sold for 60 cents, belonging to her husband. He also wanted to see the gold that dad had shown as coming from the mine, and when dad showed him the yellow boys he took them as souvenirs and put them in his girdle, and then I thought dad would faint, but he kept his nerve like a poker player betting on a bobtail flush.

The sultan asked so many questions about America that I was afraid dad would get all balled up, but he kept his nerve, and lied as though he was on the witness stand trying to save his life. Dad told the sultan he was authorized by the American people to inquire into the industries of Turkey, and what he particularly desired was an insight into the harems, as a national institution, because many American people were gradually adopting the customs of the orient, and he desired to report to congress as to whether we should adopt the customs of Turkey with her dried prunes and dates with worms in, and her attar of roses made of pig's lard; her fez, to cure baldness, and her outlandish pants and peaked red Morocco shoes, and her harems.

The sultan said he would like to show us a little bunch of the cream of the harem, who would do a stunt in the way of dancing, to celebrate the good feeling of the American people, and the visit of the distinguished statesman and gold miner to his realm, and dad said the sultan couldn't turn his stomach with no cream of the harem, only they must keep their hands off him, and the sultan promised he should be as safe as a "unique," whatever that is.

Dad and I had hired knee breeches and things of a masquerade ball store, and we didn't look half bad when the crowd of shieks and things formed a crescent around the sultan, who sat in a sort of barber's chair with an awning over it, and they sounded a hewgag or something, and about a dozen pretty fine looking females, dressed like the ballet in a vaudeville show, came in and began to dance before the sultan.

Dad stood it first rate until a girl got on the carpet barefooted and began one of those willowy sort of dances that nearly broke up the Chicago fair, when people left the buildings filled with the work of the world's artists, in all lines of progress, and went to the Midway in a body to see "Little Egypt," but when this dancer waltzed up to dad and wiggled in a foreign language, dad sashayed up to her and I couldn't hold him back.

He was just getting warmed up 293

He was just getting warmed up to "balance to partners," when a frown came over the sultan's face and he looked cross at dad, and then the hewgag sounded, and the girls scattered out of a side door and dad wanted to follow, but I held him by the coat, and it was over. I think those girls were the only ones in the whole harem that were good looking.

Dad breathed hard a little from his exercise, and said he was ready to inspect the stock, and the sultan detailed a tall negro, with a face dried up like a mummy, and we started out through the harem, dad pulling the long hair on the side of his head over his bald spot, and throwing his shoulders back and drawing in his stomach to make him look young.

Well, say, there is nothing about a harem, much different from keeping house at home, except that there is more of it. The idea people get of harems is that the women are all young and beautiful, and that they sit around a swimming tank and play guitars and keep the flies off the man who owns the place, while he smokes the vile Turkish tobacco burning in a jardiniere, through a section of rubber hose, and goes to sleep like a Chinaman smoking opium, and that they drink rare wines and dance with bangles on their legs and ropes of pearls on their necks and arms.

I have seen alleged imitations of a Turkish harem on the stage, with American girls doing the acting, and it would make you feel as though you would invest in a harem when you got old enough, but, gee, when you see a regular harem, run by an up-to-date Turk, you think of the Mormon apostle who has 40 wives of all ages, from 70 down to a 16-year-old hired girl, with a hair-lip and warts on her thumbs. This harem was like a big stock barn in the states, with a big room to exercise the colts, and box stalls for the different wives and their families to live in and do their own cooking and washing.

Instead of sitting by a bath playing a harp, the poor old wives stand by a washtub and play tunes on the washboard, and scrub, and take care of children. I thought the custom of spanking children was an American institution, but it is as old as the ages, for I saw a Turkish mother grab up a child that had lifted a kitten by the tail, and take it across her knee and give it a few with a red hand covered with soapsuds, and the young Turk yelled bloody murder, just like an American kid, and then sat down on its knees, so the spanking wouldn't hurt, and called its mother names in a language I couldn't understand, but I knew what the child said, by instinct. Dad started to interfere, because he is a member of the humane society, but the unique that was showing us around saved dad's life by pushing him along, before the woman got a chance to brain him with the washboard.

The women mostly had on these baggy Turkish trousers, like the Zouaves wear, and a jacket, and a cloth around their heads, and they acted as though if the next meal came along all right they would be in luck. We saw a few women pretty white, and they were Circassian slaves, with big eyes and hoops in their ears, and a little different clothes on, but there were none that dad would buy at an auction, or at a bargain sale, if they were marked down to 99 cents.

We passed one woman running an American sewing machine, and dad said he'd bet she was an American, and he went up to her and said: "Hello, sis!" She stopped the machine, looked up at dad with a sort of Bowery expression, and said: "Gwan, Chauncey Depew, you old peach, or I'll have you pinched," and the unique took dad by the arm and pulled him along real spry, but he hung back and looked over his shoulder at the woman, but she went on sewing, and dad said to me: "Well, wouldn't that frost you?" And we went on making the inspection.

I don't think I ever saw so many children, outside of an orphan asylum, all about the same size and all looking exactly alike. They all had the same beady black eyes that look as though they were afraid of getting caught in a trap, like muskrats, and their noses had the same inquiring appearance, as though the owner was speculating as to how much money the visitors had in their pockets, and whether it was fastened in. Race suicide is impossible in Turkey, but a race of bandits is growing up that will let no foreigners with a pocketbook escape.

It took us an hour to go through the harem, and it was more like going through the quarters of the working women of a home laundry in the tenement district of a large city, than a comic opera, as we had been led to expect by what we had read of harems. When we went into the harem I think dad was going to insist on having the women dance for him, while he sat on a throne and threw kisses at the most beautiful women in all the world, but before we had got around all the box stalls I think if any of them had started to dance dad would have stampeded in a body.

We finally got back to the great marble room, where the sultan was sleeping in a stuffed chair, surrounded by his staff, and one of them woke him up, and he asked dad what he thought of the home life of a crowned head, and dad said it beat anything he had ever seen, and he should recommend to his government that the harem system be adopted in America, and actually the sultan seemed pleased. He said as an evidence of his love for America he wanted to present to the president, through dad, 50 of his wives, and if dad would indicate where he wanted them delivered, they would be there, Johnny on the spot, or words to that effect.

At first I thought dad would faint away, but I whispered to him that it would be discourteous to decline a present, after giving the sultan a gold mine, and that may be the old man would be so mad, if he declined the wives, that he would tie stones to our legs and sink us in the Bosphor-ous, so dad rallied and said, on behalf of his government, he would accept the kindly and thoughtful gift of his highness, and that he would cable for a war vessel to take the wives to his own America, and he would notify the sultan when to round them up and load them on the vessel.

Well, sir, I do not know what possessed me to make a scene, before we got out of the presence of the sultan, but it all came to me sudden, like an inspiration comes to a poet. I had been eating some fruit that I bought in a paper bag, and when I had eaten the last of it, I wondered what I would do with the bag, and then I thought what fun it would be to blow the bag up, and suddenly burst it, when all was still. So I blowed up the bag, so it was as hard as a bladder, and tied a string around the neck, and waited. I did not think how afraid everybody in these old countries is of bombs, or I never would have done it, honestly.

The sultan was signing some papers, and looking out of the corners of his eyes to see if anybody was present who was suspicious, and dad was getting ready to make a salam, and back out of the presence of the ruler of Turkey, when I got behind some of the officials who were watching the sultan, and I laid my paper bag on the marble floor, and it was as still as death, and all you could hear was the scratching of the pen, when I jumped up in the air as though I had a fit, and yelled "Allah," and came down with my whole weight on the paper bag, and of all the stampedes you ever saw, that was the worst.

Stampede 299

You know what a noise it makes to bust a paper bag. Well, this was the toughest old bag I ever busted, and it sounded like a cannon fired down cellar somewhere, and the air was full of dust, and before I could get up the sultan had tipped over the table and run yelling into another room, praying to "Allah," and all the staff had lit out for tall timber, and there was nobody left but dad and the unique and myself, and the unique took dad by the arm and started for the door, and we were fired out.

As I went out of the room I looked around, and there was a Turk's head sticking out of every door to see how many had been killed by the bomb, and as we got out doors, dad said "Now we have to get out of Turkey before night, or we die. Me for Egypt, boy, if we can catch a boat before we are drawn and quartered." So here goes for Cairo, Egypt.

Yours only,

Hennery.



Chapter XXIV.

The Bad Boy and His Dad Arrive in Cairo -- At the Hotel They Meet Some Egyptian Princesses -- Dan Rides a Camel to the Pyramids and Meets with Difficulties.

Cairo, Egypt. -- My Dear Old Irish Vegetable: Gee, but you ought to see dad and I right now at a hotel, waiting for a chance at a room, when a bride and groom get ready to vacate it, and go somewhere else. This hotel is full of married people who look scared whenever there is a new arrival, and I came pretty near creating a panic by going into the parlor of the hotel, where a dozen couples were sitting around making goo-goo eyes at each other, and getting behind a screen and, in a disguised voice, shouting, "I know all! Prepare to defend yourself!"

The women turned pale and some said, "At last! At last!" while others got faint in the head, and some fell on the bosoms of their husbands and said: "Don't shoot!" You see, most of these wives had husbands somewhere else that might be looking for them. I have warned dad not to be seen conversing with a woman, or he may be shot by a husband who is on her trail, or by the husband she has with her.

Well, sir, of all the trips we have had anywhere, the trip from Constantinople here was the limit. For two or three days we were on dinky steamboats with Arabs, Turks, negroes and all nationalities camping on deck, full of fleas, and with cholera germs on them big enough to pick like blueberries, and all of the passengers were dirty and eat things that would make a dog in America go mad. The dog biscuit that are fed to American dogs would pass as a delicate confection on the menu of any steamboat we struck, and I had rather lie down in a barn yard with a wet dog for a pillow and a cast-off blanket from a smallpox hospital for a bed, than to occupy the bridal chamber of any steamboat we struck.

And then the ride across the desert by rail to reach Cairo was the worst in the world. Passengers in rags, going to Mecca, or some other place of worship, eating cheese a thousand years old made from old goat's milk, and dug from the Pyramids too late to save it, was what surrounded us, and the sand storm blew through the cars laden with germs of the plague, and stuck to us so tight you couldn't get it off with sandpaper, and when we got here all we have had to do is to bathe the dirt off in layers.

It takes nine baths to get down to American epidermis 304

It takes nine baths to get down to American epidermis, and the last bath has a jackplane to go with it, and a thing they scale fish with. But we are all right now, with rooms in the hotel, and rested, and when we go home we are going to be salted down and given chloroform and shipped as mummies. Dad insists that he will never cross a desert or an ocean again, and I don't know what is to become of us. Anyway, we are going to enjoy ourselves until we are killed off.

The first two days we just looked about Cairo, and saw the congress of nations, for there is nothing just like this town anywhere. There are people from all quarters of the globe, the most outlandish and the most up-to-date. This place is an asylum for fakirs and robbers, a place where defaulters, bribers, murderers, swindlers and elopers are safe, as there seems to be no extradition treaty that cannot be overcome by paying money to the officials. I found that out the first day, and told dad we should have no standing in the society of Egypt unless the people thought he had committed some gigantic crime and fled his country.

Dad wanted to know how it would strike me if it was noised about the hotel that he had robbed a national bank, but I, told him there would be nothing uncommon or noticeable about robbing a bank, as half the tourists were bank defaulters, so he would have to be accused of something startling, so we decided that dad should be charged with being the principal thing in the Standard Oil Company, and that he had underground pipe lines running under several states, gathering oil away from the people who owned it, and that at the present time he was worth a billion dollars, and his income was $9,000,000 every little while, and, by ginger, you ought to see the people bow down to him. Say, common bank robbers and defaulters just fell over themselves to get acquainted with dad, and to carry out the joke, I put some kerosene oil on dad's handkerchief, and that clinched it, for everybody loves the smell of a perfume that represents a billion dollars.

All the women wanted to dance with dad in the hotel dance, and because they thought I must be heir to all the oil billions, they wanted to hold me on their laps, and stroke my hair, as though I was it. I guess we are going to have everything our own way here, and if dad does not get eloped with by some Egyptian princess, I shall be mistaken. The Egyptians are pretty near being negroes, and wear bangles in their ears, and earrings on their arms. You take it in the dark, and let a princess put her arms around you, and sort of squeeze you, and you can't tell but what she is white, only there is an odor about them like "Araby the blessed," but in the light they are only negroes, a little bleached, with red paint on their cheeks. If I was going to marry an Egyptian woman, I would take her to Norway, or up towards the north pole, where it is night all day, and you wouldn't realize that you were married to a colored woman. To be around among these Egyptians is a good deal like having a pass behind the scenes at the play of Ben Hur in New York, only here the dark and dangerous women are the real thing, instead of being white girls with black paint on.

We have just got back from the pyramids, and dad is being treated for spinal meningitis, on account of riding a camel. I never tried harder to get dad to go anywhere on the cars than I did to get him to go to the pyramids by rail, as a millionaire should, but he said he was going to break a camel to the saddle, and then buy him and take him home for a side show. So we went down to the camel garage and hired a camel for dad, and four camels for the arabs and things he wanted for an escort, and a jackass for me. There were automobiles and carriages, and trolleys, and everything that we could have hired, and been comfortable for the ten-mile ride, but dad was mashed on the camel, and he got it.

Well, sir, it was not one of these world's fair camels that lay down for you to get on, and then got up on the installment plan, and chuck you forward and aft, but a proud Egyptian camel that stands up straight and makes you climb up on a stepladder.

Dad got along up the camel's ribs, when the-stepladder fell, and he grabbed hold of the hair on the two humps, and the humps were loose and they lopped over on the side, and it must have hurt the camel's feelings to have his humps pulled down, so he reached around his head and took a mouthful out of the seat of dad's pants, and dad yelled to the camel to let go, and the Arabs amputated the camel from dad's trousers, and pushed dad up on top with a bamboo pole with a crotch in it, and when dad got settled between the humps he said, "Let 'er go," and we started.

Dad could have had a camel with a platform on top, and an awning, but he insisted on taking his camel raw, and he sat there between those humps, his trousers worked up towards his knees, showing his red socks and blue drawers, and his face got pale from sea sickness, and the red, white and blue colors made me think of a fourth of July at home. We went out of town like a wild west show, and dad seemed happy, except that every time an automobile went whizzing along, dad's camel got the jumps and waltzed sideways out into the sandy desert, and chewed at dad's socks, so part of the time dad had to draw up his legs and sit on one hump and put his shoes on the other hump. The Arabs on the other camels would ride up alongside and steer dad's camel back into the road, by sticking sharp sticks into the camel, and the animal would yawn and groan and make up faces at me on my jackass, and finally dad wanted to change works with me and ride my jackass, but I told him we had left the stepladder back at Cairo, so dad hung to his mountainous steed, but the dust blew so you couldn't see, and it was getting monotonous when the queerest thing happened.

You have heard that camels can fill up with water and go for a week without asking for any more. Well, I guess the week was up, and it was time to load the camels with water, for as we came to the Nile every last camel made a rush for the river, and they went in like a yoke of oxen on a stampede, and waded in clear up to the humps, and began to drink, and dad yelled for a life preserver and pulled his feet up on top and sat there like a frog on a pond lily leaf.

Sat there like a frog on a pond lily leaf 308

My jackass only stepped his feet in the edge, and dad wanted me to swim my jackass out to the camel and let him fall off onto the jack, but I knew dad would sink my jack in a minute, and I wouldn't go in the river. Well, the camels drank about an hour, with dad sitting there meditating, and then the dragomen got them out, and we started off for the pyramids, which were in plain sight like the pictures you have seen, with palm trees along the Nile, and Arabs camping on the bank, and it looked as though everything was going to be all right, when suddenly dad's camel stopped dead still and wouldn't move a foot, and all the rest of the camels stopped, closed their eyes and went to sleep, and the Arabs went to sleep, and dad and the jackass and I were apparently the only animals in Egypt that were awake.

Dad kicked his camel in the ribs, but it wouldn't budge. He asked me if I could't think up some way to start the procession, and I stopped my jackass and thought a minute, and told dad I had it. I had bought some giant fire crackers and roman candles at Cairo, with which I was going to fire a salute on top of the biggest pyramid, to celebrate for old America, and I told dad what I had got, and I thought if I got off my jackass and fired a salute there in the desert it would wake them up.

Dad said, "all right, let 'er go, but do it sort of easy, at first, so not to overdo it," and I got my artillery ready. Say, you can't fire off fireworks easy, you got to touch a match to 'em and dodge and take your chances. Well, I scratched a match and lit the giant fire cracker, and put it under the hind legs of dad's camel, and when it got to fizzing I lit my roman candle, and as the fire cracker exploded like a 16-inch gun, my roman candle began to spout balls of fire, and I aimed one at each camel, and the whole push started on a stampede for the pyramids, the camels groaning, the Arabs praying to Allah, dad yelling to stop 'er, and my jackass led the bunch, and I was left in the desert to pick up the hats.

Started on a stampede for the pyramids 311

I guess I will have to tell you' the rest of the tragedy in my next letter.

Yours with plenty of sand,

Hennery.



Chapter XXV.

The Bad Boy and His Dad Climb the Pyramids -- The Bad Boy Lights a Cannon Cracker in Rameses' Tomb -- They Flee from Egypt in Disguise.

Cairo, Egypt. -- My Dear Old Geezer: I broke off my last letter in sight of the pyramids, when I was left alone on the desert, my jackass having stampeded with the camels, on account of my fireworks, and I presume you think I was all in, but I got to the pyramids before the stampeded caravan did. I saw a car coming along, and I just got aboard and in ten minutes I was at the base of the big pyramid, and the camel with dad on between the humps, was humping himself half a mile away, trying to get there, and the other camels, with the Arabs, were stretched out like horses in a race, behind, and my jackass was right next to dad's camel, braying and occasionally kicking dad's camel in the slats.

There were about a hundred tourists around the stampede of the camels, and I told them my the base of the big pyramid, all looking towards dad, the great American millionaire, was on the runaway camel in advance, and asked them to form a line across the trail and save dad, but when the camel came nearer I was ashamed of dad. He had his arms around the front hump of the camel, and he was yelling for help to stop his menagerie, and his legs were flying in the air, and every time they came down they kicked a hole in the side of the camel.

I was ashamed of dad 319

Well, sir, I thought dad was a brave man, but he blatted like a calf, and when the camel stopped and went to eating a clump of grass dad opened his eyes, and when he saw that the procession had stopped he rolled off his camel like a bag of wheat, and stuck in the sand and began to say a prayer, but when he saw me standing there, laughing, he stopped praying, and said to me: "I thought you were blown up when that jackass kicked the can of dynamite. You have more lives than a cat. Now, get a hustle on you and we will climb that pyramid, and then quit this blasted country," and dad sat down on a hummock and began to pull himself together, after the most fearful ride he ever had. He said the camel loped, trotted, galloped, single-footed and shied all at the same time, and when one hump was not jamming him in the back the other hump was kicking him in the stomach, and if he had a gun he would shoot the camel, and the Arabs, and bust up the show.

By the time dad got so he could stand up without leaning against a pyramid the Arabs came up and they all talked at once, and drew knives, and it seemed as though they were blaming dad for something. We found an interpreter among the tourists, and he talked with the Arabs, and pointing to the camel dad had ridden, which was stretched out on the sand like he was dead, he told dad the Arabs wanted him to pay for the camel he had ridden to death, and foundered by letting it drink a wagon load of water, and then entered in a race across the desert, and the interpreter said dad better pay, or they would kill him.

Pay, or they would kill him 316

Dad settled for the camel for a hundred dollars, and a promise of the skin of the camel, which he was going to take home and have stuffed. Then a man who pretended to be a justice of the peace had dad arrested for driving off of a walk, and he was fined $10 and costs for that, and then all the Arabs stuck him for money for one thing and another, and when he had settled all around and paid extra for not riding back to Cairo on the camel, we got ready to climb up the pyramid. Dad said he wouldn't ride that camel back to Cairo for a million dollars, for he was split up so his legs began where his arms left off, and he was lame from Genesis to Revelations.

But I never saw such a lot of people to pray as these pirates are. Just before they rob a man they get down on their knees on a rug, and mumble something to some god, and after they have got you robbed good and plenty, they get down and pray while they are concealing the money they took from you. Gee, but when I get home I am going to steer the train robbers and burglars onto the idea of always being on praying grounds.

Well, I told dad he hadn't better try to climb up the pyramid, that I would go up, 'cause I could climb like a goat, and when I got up to the top I would fire a salute, so everybody would know that a star spangled American was on deck, but dad said he would go up or quit the tourist business. He said he had come thousands of miles to climb the pyramids, and sit in the shadow of the spinks, and by ginger he was going to do it, and so we started.

Well, say, each stone is about four feet high, and dad couldn't get up without help, so an Arab would go up a stone ahead, and take hold of dad's hands, and two more Arabs would get their shoulders under dad's pants, and shove, and he would get up gradually. We got about half way up when dad weakened, and said he didn't care so much about pyramids as he thought he did, and he was ready to quit, but the guide and some of the tourists said we were right near the entrance to the great tomb of the kings, and that we better go in and at least make a formal call on the crowned heads, and so we went in, through dark passages, with little candles that the guides carried, and up and down stairs, until finally we got into a big room that smelled like a morgue, with bats and evil looking things all around, and I felt creepy.

The guides got down on their knees to pray, and I thought it was time to be robbed again. I do not know what made me think of making a sensation right there in the bowels of that pyramid, where there were corpses thousands of years old, of Egypt's rulers. I never felt that way at home, when I visited a cemetery, but I though I would shoot my last roman candle and fire my last giant firecracker right there in that moseleum, and take the chances that we would get out alive. So when the tourists were lined up beside a tomb of some Rameses or other, and the guides were praying for strength and endurance, probably, to get away with all the money we had, I picked out a place up toward the roof that seemed full of bats and birds of ill omen, and I sneaked my roman candle out from under my shirt, and touched the fuse to a candle on the turban of a guide who was on his knees, and just as the first fire ball was ready to come out I yelled "Whoop-la-much-a wano, epluribus un-um," and the fire balls lighted up the gloom and knocked the bats gaily west.

Holy jumping cats, but you ought to have seen the guides, yelling Allah! Allah! and groveling on the floor, and the bats were flying around in the faces of the tourists, and everybody was simply scared out of their boots. I thought I might as well wind the thing up glorious, so I touched the tail of my last giant firecracker to the sparks that were oozing out of my empty roman candle, and threw it into the middle of the great room, and when it went off you would think a cannon had exploded, and everybody rushed for the door, and we fell over each other getting out through the passage towards the door.

I was the first to get out on to the side of the pyramid, and I watched for the crowd to come out. The tourists got out first, and then dad came out, puffing and wheezing, and the last to come out were the Arabs, and they came on their hands and knees, calling to Mr. Allah and every one of them actually pale, and I think they were conscience-stricken, for they began to give back the money they had robbed dad of, and an Arab must be pretty scared to give up any of his hard-earned robberies. I think dad was about the maddest man there was, until he got some of his money back, when he felt better, but he gave me a talking to that I will never forget.

He said: "Don't you know better than to go around with explosives, like a train robber, and fire them off in a hole in the ground, where there is no ventilation, and make people's ears ring? Maybe you have woke up those kings and queens in there, and changed a dynasty, you little idiot." The rest of the crowd wanted to throw me down the side of the pyramid, but I got away from them and went up on top of the pyramid and hoisted a small American flag, and left it floating there, and then came back to where the crowd was discussing the explosion in the tomb, and then we all went down the side of the pyramid.

The guides got their nerve back after they got out in the air, because they wouldn't help dad down unless he paid them something every stone they helped him climb down, so when he got down he didn't have any money, and hardly any pants, because what pants the Arabs didn't tear were worn off on the stones, so when he showed up in front of the spinks he was a sight, and he bought a turban of a guide and unwound it and wound it around him in place of pants. I was ashamed of dad myself, and it is pretty hard to make me ashamed.

We went back to Cairo on the cars, and what do you think, that dead camel that the Arabs made dad pay for was with the caravan going back to town, 'cause we saw him out of the car window with the hair wore off where dad kicked him in the side. The tourists say the Arabs have that camel trained to die every day when they get to the pyramids, and they make some tenderfoot pay for him at the end of each journey. Dad is going to try to get his money back from the Egyptian government, but I guess he will never realize on his claim.

Well, sir, after dad had doctored all night to get the camel rheumatism and spinal meningitis out of his system, we took a trip by boat on the Nile, and saw the banks where the people grow crops by irrigation, and where an English syndicate has built a big dam, so the whole valley can be irrigated, and I tell you it will not be long before Egypt will raise everything used in the world on that desert, and every other country that raises food to sell will be busted up in business, but it is disgusting to take a trip on the Nile, 'cause all the natives are dirty and sick with contagious diseases, and they are lazy and crippled, and beg for a living, and if you don't give them something they steal all you got. You are in luck if you get away without having leprosy, or the plague, or cholera, or fleas.

So we went back to Cairo, and there was the worst commotion you ever saw, about my fireworks in the tomb. The papers said that an American dynamiter had attempted to blow up the great pyramid, and take possession of the country and place it under the American flag, and that the conspirators were spotted and would be arrested and put in irons as soon as they got back from a trip on the Nile.

Well, sir, dad found his career would close right here, and that he would probably spend the balance of his life in an Egyptian prison if wc didn't get out, so we made a sneak and got into our hotel, bought disguises and are going to get out of here tonight, and try to get to Gibraltar, or somewhere in sight of home. Dad is disguised as a shiek, with whiskers and a white robe, like a bath robe, and I am going to travel with him as an Egyptian girl till we get through the Suez canal.

Dad is disguised as a shiek 323

Gee, but I wouldn't be a nigger girl only to save dad.

Your innocent,

Hennery.



Chapter XXVI.

The Bad Boy Writes About Gibraltar -- The Irish-English Army --  How He Would Take the Fortress -- Dad Wants to Buy the "Rock."

Gibraltar, in Spain and England. My Dear Foster Uncle: It seems good to get somewhere that you can hear the English language spoken by the Irish, and the English soldiers are nearly all Irish. When you think of the way the British government treats the Irish, and then you look on while an orderly sergeant calls the roll of a company, and find that nine out of ten answer to Irish names, and only one out of ten has the cockney accent, you feel that the Irish ought to rule England, and an O'Rourke or a O'Shaunnessy should take the place of King Edward. It makes a boy who was brought up in an Irish ward in America feel like he was at home to mix with British soldiers who come from the old sod. Dad says that there is never an army anywhere in the world, except the armies of Russia and Japan, that the bravest men are not answering to Irish names, and always on the advance in a fight, or in the rear when there is a retreat. Dad says that in our own army, when the North and South were fighting, the Irish boys were the fellows who saved the day. They wanted to fight nights and Sundays, and never struck for an eight-hour day, or union wages. When the fighting was over, and soldiers were sick, or discouraged, and despondent, an Irish soldier would come along, maybe on crutches, or with a bullet in his inwards, and tell funny stories and make the discouraged fellows laugh in spite of themselves, and when another fight was on, you had to tie the wounded Irish soldiers to their cots in the hospital, or put them in jail to keep them from forgetting their wounds, and going to the front for one more fight. Dad says if there was an Irish nation with an army and navy, the whole world would have to combine to whip them, and yet the nation that has the control of the Irish people treats them worse than San Francisco treats Chinamen, makes them live on potatoes, and allows landlords to take away the potatoes if they are shy on the rent. Gosh, if I was an Irishman I would see the country that walked on my neck in hell before I would fight for it. (Gee, dad looked over my shoulder and saw what I had written, and he cuffed me on the side of the head, and said I was an incendiary and that I ought to have sense enough not to write treason while a guest on British soil.) Well, I don't care a darn. It makes me hot under the collar when I think of the brave Irish fellows, and I wonder why they don't come to America in a body and be aldermen and policemen. When I get home I am going to join the Fenians, and raise thunder, just as quick as I am old enough.

Keep away from the banks for fear the banks will cave in 329

Well, sir, we have been through the Suez canal, and for a great modern piece of engineering it doesn't size up with a sewer in Milwaukee, or a bayou in Louisiana. It is just digging a railroad cut through the desert, and letting in the water, and there you are. The only question in its construction was plenty of dredging machines, and a place to pile the dirt, and water that just came in of its own accord, and stays there, and smells like thunder, and you see the natives look at it, and keep away from the banks for fear the banks will cave in on them, and give them a bath before their year is up, cause they don't bathe but once a year, and when they skip a year nobody knows about it, except that they smell a year or so more frowsy, like butter that has been left out of the ice box. Our boat went right along, and got out of the canal, because it was a mail boat, but the most of the boats we saw were tied up to the bank, waiting for the millennium. We saw some Russian boats waiting for the war to blow over and as we passed them every Russian on board looked scared, as though we were Japs that were going to fire a torpedo under them, or throw a bomb on deck, and when our boat got by the Russian boat, the crew was called to prayers, to thank the Lord, or whoever it is that the Russians thank, because they had escaped a dire peril. I guess the Russians are all in, and that those who have not gone to the front are shaking hands with themselves, and waiting for the dove of peace to alight on their guns. The Suez canal probably pays, and no wonder, cause they charge what they please to boats that go through, and if they don't pay all they have to do is to stay out, and go around a few thousand miles. It is like a ferry across a little stream out west, where there is no other way to cross, except to wade or go around, and the old ferryman sizes up the wagon load that wants to cross, and takes all they have got loose, and then the travelers are ahead of the game, cause if they didn't cross the stream they would have to camp on the bank until the stream dried up. Some day an earthquake will split that desert wide open and the water in the Suez canal will soak into the sand and the steamboats will lay in the mud, and be covered with a sand storm, and future ages will be discovering full rigged ships down deep on the desert. Dad says we better sell our stock in the canal and buy air ship stock. And talk about business, there is more tonnage goes through the Soo canal, between Michigan and Canada than goes through the Suez and we don't howl about it very much.

Well, sir, I have studied Gibraltar in my geography, and read about it in the papers, and seen its pictures in advertisements, but never realized what a big thing it was. Now, who ever thought of putting that enormous rock right there on that prairie, but God. I suppose the English, when they saw that rock, thought the good Lord had put it there for the English to drill holes in, for guns, and when the Lord was busy somewhere else, the English smoughed the rock away from Spain, by playing a game with loaded dice, and when England got it, that country decided to arm it like a train robber, and hold up the other nations of the earth. When a vessel passes that rock it has to hold up its hands and salute the British flag, or get a mess of hardware fired into its vital parts, but that is all it amounts to, cause it couldn't win any battle for England, and could only sink trading vessels. The walls of the rock are perforated from top to bottom, with holes big enough for guns to squirt smoke and shells, but if the enemy should stay away from right in front of the holes, they might shoot till doomsday and never hit anything but fishing smacks and peddlers of oranges. Gibraltar is like a white elephant in a zoological garden. It just eats and keeps off the flies with its short tail, and visitors feed it peanuts and wonder what it was made for, and how much hay it eats. Gibraltar is like a twenty-dollar gold piece that a man carries in his watch pocket for an emergency, which he never intends to spend until he gets in the tightest place of his life, and it wears out one pocket after another, and some day drops through on to the sidewalk, and a tramp finds it and goes on a bat and gets the worth of his money, and has a good time, if he saves enough to buy a bromo seltzer the next morning after. It is like the Russian war chest, that is never to be opened as long as they can borrow money. If Gibraltar could be put on castors, and rolled around from one country to another, England could whip all Europe and Asia. It would be a Tro Jane horse on a larger scale, and be a terror; but, say, if it got to America we wouldn't do a thing to it. We would run a standpipe up the side, and connect it with an oil pipe line, fill Gibraltar's tunnels and avenues, and magazines and barracks with crude oil, and touch a match to it, and not an Englishman would live to tell about it. Gee, but I would be sorry for the Irish soldiers, but I guess they wouldn't be there, cause they wouldn't fight America. Well, if England ever has a big war, and she gets chesty about Gibraltar, and says it is impregnable, and defies the world to take it, I bet you ten dollars it could be taken in twenty-four hours. If I was a general, or an admiral, I would have about forty tank steamers, loaded with kerosene, and have them land, innocent like, right up beside Gibraltar, ostensibly to sell oil for perfumery to the natives, who would all be improved by using kerosene on their persons. Then I would get on a barrel, on deck of my flag ship, and command the English general to surrender unconditionally, and if he refused I would set a slow match on every oil vessel, and have the crews get in skiffs and pull for the opposite shore, and when the oil got on fire, and rolled up all over Gibraltar, and burned every living thing, I would throw water from a fire department boat on the rock, and she would split open and roll all over-the prairie, and then I would bury the cremated dead out on the desert, and seek other worlds to conquer, like Alexander the Great. But don't be afraid. I won't do it unless they make me mad, but you watch my smoke if they pick on your little Hennery too much, when he grows up.

But I haven't got any kick coming about Gibraltar, cause they treated dad and I all right, and the commander detailed an ensign to show us all through the fortress. Now don't get an ensign mixed up with a unique, such as showed us through the Turkish harem. An English ensign is just as different from a Turkish unique as you can imagine. Every man to his place. You couldn't teach a Turkish unique how to show visitors around an English fortress, and an English ensign in a Turkish harem would bring on a world's war, they are so different. Well, wc went through tunnels in the rock, and up and down elevators, and all was light as day from electric lights, and we saw ammunition enough to sink all the ships in the world, if it could be exploded in the right place, and they have provisions enough stored in the holes in the rock to keep an army for forty years if they didn't get ptomaine poisoned from eating canned stuff. It was all a revelation to dad, and when we got all through, and got out into the sunlight, we breathed free, and when clad got his second wind he broke up the English officers by taking out a pencil and piece of paper, and asked them what they would take for the rock and its contents, and move out, and let the American flag float over it. Well, say, they were hot, and they told dad to go plum to 'ell, but dad wouldn't do it. He said America didn't want the old stone quarry, anyway, and if it did it could come and take it. I guess they would have had dad arrested for treason, only when we got out into the town there was the whole British Atlantic squadron lined up, with the men up in the rigging like monkeys, and every vessel was firing a salute, as a yacht came steaming by. Dad thought war had surely broke out, or that some rich American owned the yacht, but it turned out to be Queen Alexandria and a party of tourists, and when the band played "God Save the Queen," dad got up on his hind legs and sang so loud you would think he would split hisself, and a fellow went up and threw his arms around dad, and began to weep, and the tears came in dad's eyes, and another fellow pinched dad's watch, and the celebration closed with everybody getting drunk, and the queen sailed away. Say, we are going to Spain, on the next boat, and you watch the papers. We will probably be hung for taking Cuba and the Phillipines.

Yours,

Hennery.

Sang so loud you would think he would split hisself 333



Chapter XXVII.

The Bad Boy Writes of Spain -- They Call on the King And the Bad Boy is at it Once More -- They See a Bull Fight and Dad Does a Turn.

Madrid, Spain. -- My Dear Uncle: You probably think we are taking our lives in our hands by coming to Spain, so soon after the Cuban war, in which President Roosevelt charged up San Juan Hill, in the face of over thirty bloodthirsty Spaniards, and captured the blockhouse on the summit of the hill, which was about as big as a switchman's shanty, and wouldn't hold two platoons of infantry, of twelve men to the platoon, without crowding, and which closed the war, after the navy had everlastingly paralyzed the Spanish vessels, and sunk them in wet water, and picked up the crews and run them through clothes-wringers to dry them out; but we are as safe here as we would be on South Clark street, in Chicago. Do you know, when I read of that charge of our troops up San Juan hill, headed by our peerless bear-hunter, I thought it was like the battle of Gettysburg, where hundreds of thousands of men fought on each side, and I classed Roosevelt with Grant, Sheridan, Sherman, Meade and Thomas, and all that crowd, but one day I got talking with a veteran of the Spanish-American war, who promptly deserted after every pay day, and re-enlisted after he had spent his money, and he didn't do a thing to my ideas of the importance of that battle. He told me it was only a little skirmish, like driving in a picket post, and that there were not Spaniards enough there to have a roll call, not so many Spanish soldiers as there were American newspaper correspondents on our side, that only a few were killed and wounded, and that a dozen soldiers in an army wagon could have driven up San Juan hill with firecrackers and scared the Spaniards out of the country, and that a part of a negro regiment did pretty near all the shooting, while our officers did the yelling, and had their pictures taken, caught in the act. So I have quit talking of the heroism of our army in Cuba, because it makes everybody laugh and they speak of Shaffer and Roosevelt, and hunch up their shoulders, and say, "bah," but when you talk about the navy, and Schley, and Sampson, and Clark, and Bob Evans, they take off their hats and their faces are full of admiration, and they say, "magnificent," and ask you to take a drink. Gee, but dad got his foot in it by talking about the blowing up of the Maine, and looking saucy, as though he was going to get even with the Spaniards, but he found that every Spaniard was as sorry for that accident as we were, and they would take off their hats when the Maine was mentioned, and look pained and heart-sick. I tell you the Spaniards are about as good people as you will find anywhere, and dad has concluded to fall back on Christopher Columbus for a steady diet of talk, cause if it had not been for Chris we wouldn't have been discovered to this day, which might have been a darn good thing for us. But the people here do not recall the fact that there ever was a man named Christopher Columbus, and they don't know what he ever discovered, or where the country is that he sailed away to find, unless they are educated, and familiar with ancient history, and only once in a while will you find anybody that is educated. The children of America know more about the history of Spain than the Spanish children. This country reminds you of a play on the stage, the grandees in their picturesque costumes, though few in number, compared to the population, are the whole thing, and the people you see on the stage with the grandees, in peasant costume, peddling oranges and figs, you find here in the life of Spain, looking up to the grandees as though they were gods. Every peasant carries a knife in some place, concealed about him, and no two carry their toad stabbers in the same place. If you see a man reach his finger under his collar to scratch his neck, the chances are his fingers touch the handle of his dagger, and if he hitches up his pants, his dagger is there, and if he pulls up his trousers leg to scratch for a flea, you can bet your life his knife is right handy, and if you have any trouble you don't know where the knife is coming from, as you do about an American revolver, when one of our citizens reaches for his pistol pocket. Spaniards are nervous people, on the move all the time, and it is on account of fleas. Every man, woman and child contains more than a million fleas, and as they can't scratch all the time, they keep on the move, hoping the fleas will jump off on somebody else. When we came here we were flealess, but every person we have come near to seems to have contributed some fleas to us, until now we are loaded down with them, and we find in our room at the hotel a box of insect powder, which, is charged in with the candles. The king, who is a boy about three years older than I am, is full of fleas, too, and he jumps around from one place to another, like he was shaking himself to get rid of them. He gets up in the morning and goes out horseback riding, and jumps fences and rides tip and down the marble steps of the public buildings, as though he wanted to make the fleas feel in danger, so they will leave him. Seems to me if every man kept as many dogs as they do in Constantinople, the fleas would take to the dogs, but they say here that fleas will leave a dog to get on a human being, because they like the smell of garlic, as every Spaniard eats garlic a dozen times a day. They are trying to teach dogs to eat garlic, but no self-respecting dog will touch it. We have had to fill up on garlic in order to be able to talk with the people, cause dad got sea sick the first day here, everybody smelled so oniony. Dad wanted a druggist to put up onions in capsules, like they do quinine, so he could take onions and not taste them, but he couldn't make the man understand. There ought to be a law against any person eating onions, unless he is under a death sentence. But you can stand a man with the onion habit, after you get used to it. It is a woman, a beautiful woman, one you would like to have take you on your lap and pet you, that ought to know better than to eat onions. Gee, but when you see a woman that is so beautiful it makes her ache to carry her beauty around, and you get near to her and expect to breathe the odor of roses and violets, that makes you tired when she opens her mouth to say soft words of love, and there comes to your nostrils the odor of onions. Do you know, nothing would make me commit suicide so quick as to have a wife who habitually loaded herself with onions. Dad was buying some candy for me at a confectioner shop, of a beautiful Spanish woman, and when he asked how much it was, she bent over towards him in the most bewitching manner and breathed in his face and said, "Quatro-realis, seignor," which meant "four bits, mister," and he handed her a five-dollar gold piece, and went outdoors for a breath of fresh air, and let her keep the change. He said she was welcome to the four dollars and fifty cents if she would not breathe towards him again.

Breathed in his face 339

Well, we have taken in the town, looked at the cathedrals, attended the sessions of the cortez, and thew gambling houses, saw the people sell the staple products of the country, which are prunes, tomatoes and wine. The people do not care what happens as long as they have a quart of wine. In some countries the question of existence is bread, but in Spain it is wine. No one is so poor they cannot have poor wine, and with wine nothing else is necessary, but a piece of cheese and bread helps the wine some, though either could be dispensed with. In some countries "wine, women and song" are all that is necessary to live. Here it is wine, cheese and an onion. We went to see the king, because he is such a young boy, and dad thought it would encourage the ruler to see an American statesman, and to mingle with an American boy who could give him cards and spades, and little casino, and beat him at any game. I made dad put on a lot of badges we had collected in our town when there were conventions held there, and when they were all pinned on dad's breast he looked like an admiral. There was a badge of Modern Woodmen, one of the Hardware Dealers' Association, one of the Wholesale Druggists, one of the Amalgamated Association of Railway Trainmen, one of the Farmers' Alliance, one of the Butter and Cheese-men's Convention, one of the State Undertakers' Guild, and half a dozen others in brass, bronze and tin, on various colored ribbons. Say, do you know, when they ushered us into the throne room at the palace, and the little king, who looked like a student in the high school, with dyspepsia from overstudy and cake between meals, saw dad, he thought he was the most distinguished American he had ever seen, and he invited dad up beside him on the throne, and dad sat in the chair that the queen will sit in when the boy king gets married, and I sat down on a front seat and watched dad. Dad had read in the papers that the boy king wanted to marry an American girl who was the possessor of a lot of money, so dad began to tell the king of girls in America that were more beautiful than any in the world, and had hundreds of millions of cold dollars, and an appetite for raw kings, and that he could arrange a match for the king that would make him richer than any king on any throne. The boy king was becoming interested, and I guess dad would have had him married off all right, if the king had not seen me take out a bag of candy and begin to eat, when he said to me, "Come up here, Bub, and give me some of that." Gosh, but I trembled like a leaf, but I went right up the steps of the throne and handed him the bag, and said, "Help yourself, Bub." Well, sir, the queerest thing happened. I had bought two pieces of candy filled with cayenne pepper, for April fool, and the king handed the bag to the master of ceremonies, a big Spaniard all covered over with gold lace, and if you will believe me the king got one piece of the cayenne pepper candy, and that spangled prime minister got the other, and the king chewed his piece first, and he opened his mouth like a dog that has picked up a hot boiled egg and he blew out his breath to cool his tongue and said, "Whoosh," and strangled, and sputtered, and then the prime minister he got his, and he yelled murder in Spanish, and the king called for water, and put his hands on his stomach and had a cramp, and the other man he tied himself up in a double bowknot, and called for a priest, and the king said he would have to go to the chapel, and the fellows who were guarding the king took him away, breathing hard, and red in the face, and dad said to me, "What the bloody hell you trying to do with the crowned heads? Cause you have poisoned the whole bunch, and we better get out."

The king got one piece of the cayenne pepper candy 347

So we went out of the palace while the king's retainers were filling him with ice water. Well, they got the cayenne pepper out of him, because we saw him at the bull fight in the afternoon, but for a while he had the hottest box there ever was outside of a freight train, and if he lives to be as old as Mr. Methuselah he will always remember his interview with little Hennery. The bull fights ain't much. Bulls come in the ring mad as wet hens, cause they stick daggers in them, and they bellow around, and the Spaniards dodge and shake red rags at them, and after a bull has ripped a mess of bowels out of a few horses, then a man with a saber stabs the bull between the shoulders, and he drops dead, and the crowd cheers the assassin of the bull, and they bring in another bull. Well, sir, dad came mighty near his finish at the bull fight. When the second bull came in, and ripped the stomach out of a blind horse, and the bull was just charging the man who was to stab it, dad couldn't stand it any longer and he climbed right over into the ring, and he said: "Look a here, you heathen; I protest, in the name of the American Humane Society, against this cruelty to animals, and unless this business stops right here I will have this place pulled, and --  --  -- "

Dad couldn't stand it any longer 343

Well, sir, you would of thought that bull would have had sense enough to see that dad was his friend, but he probably couldn't understand what dad was driving at, for he made a rush for dad, and dad started to run for the fence, and the bull caught dad just like dad was sitting in a rocking chair, and tossed him over the fence, and dad's pants stayed on the bull's horns, and dad landed in amongst a lot of male and female grandees and everybody yelled, "Bravo, Americano," and the police wrapped a blanket around dad's legs and were going to take him to the emergency hospital, but I claimed dad, and took him to the hotel. Dad is ready to come home now. He says he is through.

Yours,

Hennery.

Dad's pants stayed on the bull's horns 349



Chapter XXVIII.

The Bad Boy and His Dad at Berlin -- They Call on Emperor William and his Family and the Bad Boy Plays a Joke on Them All.

Berlin, Germany. -- My Dear Old Pummer-nickel: Now we have got pretty near home, and you would enjoy it to be with us, because you couldn't tell the town from Milwaukee, except for the military precision with which everything is conducted, where you never take a glass of beer without cracking your heels together like a soldier, and giving a military salute to the bartender, who is the commander-in-chief of all who happen to patronize his bar. Everybody here acts like he was at a picnic in the woods, with a large barrel of beer, with perspiration oozing down the outside, and a spigot of the largest size, which fills a schooner at one turn of the wrist, and every man either smiles or laughs out loud, and you feel as though there was happiness everywhere, and that heaven was right here in this greatest German city.

There is laughter everywhere 353

There is laughter everywhere, except when the Emperor drives by, escorted by his bodyguard, on the finest horses in the world; then every citizen on the street stops smiling and laughing; all stand at attention, and every face takes on a solemn, patriotic, almost a fighting look, as though each man would consider it his happiest duty and pleasure to walk right up to the mouth of cannon and die in his tracks for his pale-faced, haggard and loved Emperor. And the Emperor never smiles on his subjects as he passes, but looks into every eye on both sides of the beautiful street, with an expression of agony on his face, but a proud light in his eye, as though he would say, "Ach, Gott, but they are daisies, and they would fight for the Fatherland with the last breath in their bodies."

The pride of the people in that moustached young man, with the look of suffering, is only equalled by the pride of the Emperor in every German in Germany, or anywhere on the face of the globe. There is none of the "Hello, Bill!" such as we have in America, when the President drives through his people, many of whom yell, "Hello, Teddy!" while he shows his teeth, and laughs, and stands up in his carriage, and says, "Hello, Mike," as he recognizes an acquaintance. But these same "Hello, Bill," Americans are probably just as loyal to their chief, whoever he may be, and would fight as hard as the loving Germans would for their hereditary Emperor.

I suppose there is somebody working in Berlin, but it seems to us that the whole population, so far as can be seen, is bent on enjoying every minute, walking the streets, in good clothes, giving military salutes, and drinking beer between meals, and talking about what Germany would do to an enemy if the ever-present chip on the shoulder should be knocked off, even accidentally. But they all seem to love America, and when we registered at the hotel, from Milwaukee, Wis., U. S. A., citizens began to gather around us and ask about relatives at our home. They seem to think that every German who has settled in Milwaukee owns a brewery, and that all are rich, and that some day they will come back to Germany and spend the money, and fight for the Emperor.

We did not have the heart to tell them that all the Germans in Milwaukee were going to stay there and spend their money, and while their hearts were still warm towards the Fatherland, they loved the Stars and Stripes, and would fight for the American flag, against the world, and that the younger Germans spoke the German language, if it all, with a Yankee accent. Gee, but wouldn't the people of Berlin be hot under the collar if they knew how many Germans in America were unfamiliar with the make-up of the German flag, and that they only see it occasionally when some celebration of German days takes place.

Well, when dad saw the German Emperor drive down the great street, and got a look at his face, he said, "Hennery, I have got to see that young man and advise him to go and consult a doctor," and so we made arrangements to go to the Palace and see the Emperor and his son, the Crown Prince, who will before long take the empire on his shoulders, if William is as sick as he looks. You don't have to hire any masquerade clothes to call on the Emperor of Germany, like you do when you visit royalty in Turkey and Egypt, for a good frock coat and a silk hat will take you anywhere in the day time, and a swallowtail is legal tender at night; so dad put on his frock coat and silk hat, just as he would to go and attend an afternoon wedding at home, and we were ushered in to a regular parlor, where the Emperor was having fun with his children, and the Empress was doing some needlework.

Dad supposed we would have to talk to the Emperor and the Prince through an interpreter, and we stood there waiting for some one to break the ice, when some one told the Emperor that an American gentleman and his boy wanted to pay their respects, and the Emperor, who wore an ordinary dark suit, with no military frills, took one of the young Princes he had been playing with across his knee and gave him a couple of easy spanks, in fun, and the whole family was laughing, and the spanked boy "tackled" the Emperor around the legs, below the knee, like a football player, and the other Princes pulled him off, and the Emperor came up to dad, smiling as though he was having the time of his life, and spoke to dad in the purest English, and said he was glad to see the "Bad Boy" man, because he had read all about the pranks of the Bad Boy, and bid dad welcome to Germany, and he didn't look sick at all.

And so this is the champion little devil of America 357

Dad was taken all of a heap, and didn't know what to make of the German Emperor talking English, but when the ruler of Germany turned to me and said, "And so this is the champion little devil of America," and patted me on the head, dad felt that he had struck a friend of the family, and he sat down with the Emperor and talked for half an hour, while the young Princes gathered around me, and we sat down on the floor and the boys got out their knives, and we played mumbletypeg on the carpet, just as though we were at home, and all the boys talked English, and we had a bully time. The princes had all read "Peck's Bad Boy" and I think the Emperor and Empress have encouraged them in their wickedness, for the boys told me of several tricks they had played on their father, the Emperor, which they had copied from the Bad Boy, and it made me blush when they told of initiating their father into the Masons, the way my chum and I initiated dad into the Masons with the aid of a goat.

I asked the boys how their dad took it, and told them from what we in America heard about the Emperor of Germany, we would think he would kill anybody that played a trick on him; but they said he would stand anything from the children, and enjoy it; but if grown men attempted to monkey with him, the fur would fly. The Crown Prince came in and was introduced to me, and he seemed proud to see me, cause his uncle, Prince Henry, had told him about being in Milwaukee, and how all the women in that town were the handsomest he had ever seen in his trip around the world, and he asked me if it was so. I referred him to dad, and dad told him the women were the greatest in the world, and then dad made his usual break. He said: "Look ahere, Mister Prince, you have got to be married some day, and raise a family to hand the German empire down to, and my advice to you is not to let them saw off on to you no duchess or princess as homely as a hedge fence, with no ginger in her blood, but you skip out to America, and come to Milwaukee, and I will introduce you to girls that are so handsome they will make you toe the mark, and if you marry one of them she will raise a family of healthy young royalty with no humor in the blood, and you won't have to go off and be gay away from home, cause an American wife will take you by the ear if you show any signs of wandering from your own fireside, like lots of your relatives have done."

Gee, but that made the Emperor hot, and he said dad needn't instill any of his American ideas into the German nobility, as he could run things all right without any help, and dad got ready to go, cause the atmosphere was getting sort of chilly, but the Emperor soon got over his huff, and told dad not to hurry, and then he turned to me and said, "Now, little American Bad Boy, what kind of a trick are you going to play on me, 'cause from what I have read of you I know you will never go out of this house without giving me a benefit, and all my boys expect it, and will enjoy it, the same as I will; now, let 'er go."

I felt that it was up to me to do something to maintain the reputation I had made, so I said, "Your majesty, I will now proceed to make it interesting for you, if you and the boys will kindly be seated in a circle around me." They got into a circle, all laughing, and I took out of my pistol pocket a half pint flask, of glass, covered with leather, and with a stopper that opened by touching a spring, and I walked around in front of each one of the Royal family, mumbling, "Ene-mene-mony-my," and opening the flask in front of each one, and pretty soon they all began to get nervous, and scratch themselves, and the Emperor slapped his leg, and pinched his arm, and put his fingers down his collar and scratched his neck, and the Crown Prince jumped up and kicked his leg, and scratched his back, and said, "Say, kid, you are not hypnotizing us, are you?" and I said, "Ene-meny-mony-my," and kept on touching the stopper.

By and by they all got to scratching, and the Emperor turned sort of pale, but he was going to see the show through to the end, as long as he had a ticket, and he said, "What is the joke, anyway?" and I kept on saying, "Ene-mene-mony-my," and walking around in front of them, and dad began to dance around, too, and dig under his shirt bosom, and scratch his leg, and then they all scratched in unison, and laughed, and a little prince asked how long before they would know what it was all about, and I said my ene-mene, and looked solemn, and dad said, "What you giving us?" and I said, "Never you mind; this is my show, and I am the whole push," and everybody had raised up out of his chair and each was scratching for all that was out, and finally the Emperor said, "I like a joke as well as anybody, but I can't laugh until I know what I am laughing about," and he told dad to make me show what was in the bottle, and I showed the bottle and there was nothing in it, and there they stood scratching themselves, and I told dad we better excuse ourselves and go, and we were going all right enough when dad said, "What is it you are doing?" and as we got almost to the door I said, "Your majesty, I have distributed, impartially, I trust, in the Royal family of Germany, a half a pint of the hungriest fleas that Egypt can produce, for they have been in that flask three weeks, with nothing to eat except themselves, and I estimate that there were a million Cairo fleas in the flask, enough to set up housekeeping in your palace, with enough to stock the palace of your Crown Prince when he is married, and this is that you may remember the visit of Peck's Bad Boy and his Dad."

Dad leaned against a lamp post and scratched his back 364

The Emperor was mad at first, but he laughed, and when we got out of the palace dad leaned against a lamp post and scratched his back, and said to me, "Hennery, you never ought to have did it," and I said, "What could a poor boy do when called upon suddenly to do something to entertain royalty?"

"Well," says dad, "I don't care for myself, but this thing is apt to bring on international complications," and I said, "Yes, it will bring Persia into it, cause they will have to use Persian insect powder to get rid of them," and then we went to our hotel and fought fleas all night, and thought of the sleepless night the royal family were having.

Well, so long, old Pummernickel.

Your only,

Hennery.



Chapter XXIX.

The Bad Boy Writes from Brussels -- He and Dad see the Field of Waterloo and call on King Leopold and Dad and the King go in for a Swim -- The Bad Boy, a Dog and some Goats do the rest.

Brussels, Belgium. -- Dear Old Skate: "What is the matter with our going to Belgium?" said dad to me, as we were escaping from Germany. "Well, what in thunder do we want to go to Belgium for?" said I to dad. "I do not want to go to a country that has no visible means of support, except raising Belgian hares, to sell to cranks in America. I couldn't eat rabbits without thinking I was chewing a piece of house cat, and rabbits is the chief food of the people. I have eaten horse and mule in Paris, and wormy figs in Turkey, and embalmed beef fried in candle grease in Russia, and sausage in Germany, imported from the Leutgart sausage factory in Chicago, where the man run his wife through a sausage machine; and stuff in Egypt, with ground mummy for curry powder, but I draw the line on Belgian hares, and I strike right here, and shall have the International Union of Amalgamated Tourists declare a boycott on Belgium, by gosh," said I, just like that, bristling up to dad real spunky.

"You are going to Belgium all right," said dad, as he took hold of my thumb in a Jiu Jitsu fashion, and twisted it backwards until I fairly penuked, and held it, while he said he should never dare go home without visiting King Leopold's kingdom, and had a talk with an eighty-year-old male flirt, who had a thousand chorus girls on his staff, and could give the Sultan of Turkey cards and spades and little casino in the harem game. "You will go along, won't you, bub?" and he gave my thumb another twist, and I said, "You bet your life, but I won't do a thing to you and Leopold before we get out of the Belgian hare belt," and so here we are, looking for trouble.

It is strange we never hear more about Belgium in America, but actually I never heard of a Belgian settling in the United States. There are Irish, and Germans, and Norwegians, and Italians, and men of all other countries, but I never saw a Belgian until to-day, and it does you good to see a people who don't do anything but work. There is not a loafer in Belgium, and every man has smut on his nose, and his hands are black with handling iron, or something. There is no law against people going away from Belgium, but they all like it here, and seem to think there is no other country, and they are happy, and work from choice.

"Began to sell dad relics of the Battle of Waterloo."

I always knew the Belgian guns that sell in America for twelve shillings, and kill at both ends, but I never knew they made things here that were worth anything, but dad says they are better fixed here for making everything used by civilized people than any country on earth, and I am glad to be here, cause you get notice when you are going to be robbed. They ring a bell here every minute to give you notice that some one is after the coin, so when you hear a bell ring, if you hang onto your pocketbook, you don't lose.

This is the place where "There was a sound of revelry at night, and Belgium's capitol had gathered there." You remember, the night before the Battle of Waterloo, when Napoleon Bonaparte got his. You must remember about it, old man, just when they were right in the midst of the dance, and "soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again," and they were taking a champagne bath, inside and out, when suddenly the opening guns of Waterloo, twelve miles away, began to boom, and the poet, who was present, said, "But hush, hark, a deep sound like a rising knell," and everybody turned pale and began to stampede, when the floor manager said, "'Tis but the wind, or the car on the stony street, on with the dance, let joy be unconfined, no sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet, to chase the glowing hours with flying feet."

Well, sir, this is the place where that ball took place, which is described in the piece I used to speak in school, but I never thought I would be here, right where the dancers got it in the neck. When dad found that the battlefield of Waterloo was only a few miles away, he hired a wagon and we went out there. Well, sir, of all the frauds we have run across on this trip the battlefield of Waterloo is the worst. When the farmers who are raising barley and baled hay on the battlefield, saw us coming, they dropped their work and made a rush for us, and one fellow yelled something in the Belgian language that sounded like, "I saw them first," and he got hold of dad and me, and the rest stood off like a lot of hack drivers that have seen a customer fall into the hands of another driver, and made up faces at us, and called the farmer who had caught us the vilest names. They said we would be skinned to a finish by the faker who got us, and they were right.

368 began to sell things to dad

He showed us from a high hill, where the different portions of the battle were fought, and where they caught Napoleon Bonaparte, and where Blucher came up and made things hum in the German language, and then he took us off to his farm where the most of the relics were found, and began to sell things to dad, until he had filled the hind end of the wagon with bullets and grape-shot, sabres and bayonets, old rusty rifles, and everything dad wanted, and we had enough to fill a museum, and when the farmer had got dad's money we went back to Brussels, and got our stuff unloaded at the hotel. Say, when we came to look it over we found two rusty Colt's revolvers, and guns of modern construction, which have been bought on battlefields in all countries, and properly rusted to sell to tourists. I showed dad that the revolver was unknown at the time of the battle of Waterloo, and that every article he had bought was a fraud, the sabers having been made in America, before the war of the rebellion, and dad was mad, and gave the stuff to the porter of the hotel, who charged dad seven dollars for taking it away.

Dad kept one three-cornered hat that the farmer told him Bonaparte lost when his horse stampeded with him, and it drifted under a barbed wire fence, where it had lain until the day before we visited the battlefield. Say, that hat is as good as new, and dad says it is worth all the stuff cost, but I would not be found dead wearing it, cause it is all out of style.

We have seen the King of Belgium, and actually got the worth of our money. He is an old dandy, and looks like a Philadelphia Quaker, only he is not as pious as a Quaker. Dad wrote to the King and said he was a distinguished American, traveling for his health, and had a niece who had frequently visited Belgium with an opera company, and she had spoken of the King, and dad wanted to talk over matters that might be of interest both to Belgium and to America. Well, the messenger came back and said dad couldn't get to the palace a minute too quick, and so we went over, and as we were going through the park we saw an old man, in citizen's clothes, sitting on a bench, patting the head of a boar hound, and when he saw us he said, "Come here, Uncle Sam, and let my dog chew your pants." Dad thought it must be some lunatic, and was going to make a sneak, and get out, when the man rose up and we saw it was the King, and we went up to him and sat down on the bench, and he asked dad if he had come as the relative of the opera singer, to commence suit against the King for breach of promise, or to settle for a money consideration, remarking that he had always rather pay cash than to have any fuss made about these little matters. Dad told him he had no claim against him for alienating anybody's affections, or for breach of promise, and that all he wanted was to have a little talk with the King, and find out how a King lived, and how he had any fun in running the king business, at his age, and they sat down and began to talk as friendly as two old chums, while the dog played tag with me. We found that the King was a regular boy, and that instead of his mind being occupied by affairs of state, or his African concessions in the Congo country, where he owns a few million slaves who steal ivory for him, and murder other tribes, he was enjoying life just as he did when he was a barefooted boy, fishing for perch at the old mill pond, and when he mentioned his career as a boy, and his enjoyments, dad told about his youth, and how he never got so much pleasure in after life as he did when he had a stone bruise on his heel, and went off into the woods and cut a tamarack pole and caught sunfish till the cows came home.

The King brightened up and told dad he had a pond in the palace grounds, stocked with old-fashioned fish, and every day he took off his shoes and rolled up his pants, and with nothing on but a shirt and pants held up by one suspender of striped bed ticking, he went out in a boat and fished as he did when a boy, with a bent pin for a hook, and he was never so happy as when so engaged, and they could all have their grand functions, and balls, and dinners, and Turkish baths, if they wanted them, but give him the old swimming hole. "Me, too," said dad, and as dad looked down into the park he saw a little lake, and dad held up two fingers, just as boys do when they mean to say, "Come on, let's go in swimming," and the King said, "I'll go you," and they locked arms and started through the woods to the little lake, and the dog and I followed.

Dad and Leopold make a rush for that swimming place 372

Well, sir, you'd a dide to see dad and Leopold make a rush for that swimming place. The King put his hand in the water, and said it was fine, and began to peel his clothes off, and dad took off his clothes and the King made a jump and went in all over, and came up with his eyes full of water, strangling because he did not hold his nose, and then dad made a leap and splashed the water like an elephant had fallen in, and there those two old men were in the lake, just like kids.

I'll swim you a match to the other side 378

"I'll swim you a match to the other side," said the King. "It's a go," said dad, and they started porpoising across the little lake, and then I thought it was time there was something doing; so I got busy and tied their clothes in knots so tight you couldn't get them untied without an act of parliament. They went ashore on the opposite side of the lake, cause some women were driving through the grounds, and then I found a flock of goats grazing on the lawn, and the dog and I drove them to where the clothes were tied in knots, and when the goats began to chew the clothes I took the dog and went back to the entrance of the park, and dad and the King swam back to where the clothes and the goats were, and when they drove the goats away, and couldn't untie the knots, the King gave the grand hailing sign of distress, or something, and the guards of the palace and some cavalry came on the run, and the park seemed filled with an army, and I bid the dog good-bye, and went back to the hotel alone and waited for dad.

When the goats began to chew the clothes 375

Dad didn't get back till after dark, and when he came he had on a suit of the King's clothes, too tight around the stomach, and too long in the legs, cause dad is pusey, and the King is long-geared. "Did you have a good time, dad?" says I, and he said, "Haven't you got any respect for age, condemn you? The King has ordered that you be fed to the animals in the zoo." I told him I didn't care a darn what they did with me; I had been brought up to tie knots in clothes when I saw people in swimming, and I didn't care whether they were crowned heads or just plain dubs, and I asked dad how they got along when their clothes were chewed up. He said the soldiers covered them with pouches and got them to the palace, and they had supper, he and the King, and the servants brought out a lot of clothes and he got the best fit he could. I asked him if the King was actually mad, and he said no, that he always enjoyed such things, and wanted dad and I to come the next day and go fishing with him, barefooted. Say, dad can go, but I wouldn't be caught by that King on a bet. He would get even, sure, cause he has a look in his eye like they have in a sanitarium. Not any king business for your little Hennery.



Chapter XXX.

The Bad Boy's Delayed Letter about Holland and Cuba -- Dad and the Boy go for a Drive in a Dogcart -- They have a Great Time --  Land in Cuba and See the Island t we Fought for.

Havana, Cuba. My Dear Old Greaser: We stopped in Holland for a couple of days after we left Belgium, and it was the most disappointing country we visited on our whole trip. We expected to be walked on with wooden shoes, and from what we had heard of that Duke that married Queen Wilhelmina, we thought we were going to a country where men were cruel to their wives, and swatted them over the head when things didn't go right, but when we saw the queen riding with her husband, as free, from ostentation as a department store clerk would ride out with his cash girl wife, and saw happiness beaming on the face of the queen and her husband, and saw them squeeze hands and look lovingly into each other's eyes, we made up our minds that you couldn't believe these newspaper scandals. And when we saw the broad-shouldered, broad-chested and broad-everywhere women of Holland we concluded that it would be a brave or reckless husband who would be unkind to one of them, and mighty dangerous because the women are stronger than the men, and any woman could whip four men at the drop of the hat, because she could take off her wooden shoes and strike out and a man would think he had been hit by a railroad tie.

Illustration: Any woman could whip four men at the drop of the hat 388

I do not know what makes Hollanders wear wooden shoes, unless they are sentenced to do it, or that they are unruly, and have to be hobbled, to keep them from jumping fences, but the people are so good and honest that after you have met them you forget the vaudeville feature of their costumes, and love them, and wish the people of other countries were as honest as they. For two or three days we were not robbed, and I do not believe there is a dishonest man or woman in Holland, except one. There was one woman that played it on dad in Amsterdam, but I think she only played him for a sucker for a joke, for she laughed all the time.

Dad was much struck at seeing the women selling milk from little carts, hauled by teams of big dogs, and he negotiated with a woman for a dog team and cart, and all one day dad and I put on wooden shoes, and Dutch clothes and drove the dog team around town, and we had the time of our lives, more fun than I ever had outside of a circus, but the shoes skinned our feet, and when the dogs laid down to rest, and dad couldn't talk dog language to make them get up and go ahead, he kicked the off dog with his wooden shoe, and the dog got up and grabbed a mouthful of dad's ample pants and shook dad till his teeth were loose.

Grabbed a mouthful of dad's ample pants 386

A woman driving another mess of dogs had to come and choke the off dog so he wouldn't swallow dad, pants and all. Dad gave her a dollar for rescuing him, and what do you think? Say, she pulled an old stocking of money out of her bosom and counted out ninety-six cents in change and gave it back to dad, and only charged four cents for saving his life, and that couldn't occur in any other country, cause in most places they would take the dollar and strike him for more.

Dad wanted to take the dog team and cart to Milwaukee to give it to a friend who sells red hot weiners, and so we arranged to have the team loaded on the boat, but just before the boat sailed, the dog team was lying down on the dock, sleeping and scratching flees, when the woman dad bought the team of came along and spoke to the dogs in Dutch, and, say, those dogs woke up and started on a regular runaway down the dock, after the laughing woman, and disappeared up the street. Just as the boat whistled to pull in the gang planks, dad and I stood on deck and saw the team disappear, and dad said, "Buncoed again, by gosh, and it is all your condemned fault. Why didn't you hang on to that off dog." Well, we lost our dog team, but we got the worth of our money, for we saw a people who do not eat much beside cabbage and milk, and they are the strongest in the world, and there never was a case of dyspepsia in their country. We saw a people with stone bruises on their heels and corns on their toes, smiling and laughing all the time. We met a people that work all the time, and never take any recreation except churning and rocking babies, and yet never have to call a doctor, because there are no doctors except veterinary surgeons, who care for dogs and cattle.

The people we met in Holland wear wooden shoes to teach them patience and humility. With wooden shoes no frenzied financier of Holland will ever travel the fast road of speculation, slip on a bucket-shop banana peel, and fall on the innocent bystander who has coughed up his savings and given them to the honest financier to safely invest.

The bank of Holland is an old woolen stock ing, and money never comes out of the stocking unless there is a string to it, and the string is the heart string of an honest people, that will stand no trifling. If a dishonest financier came to Holland from any other country, and did any of his dirty work, the women of Holland, who handle the funds, would give him such a hazing that he would never open his three-card monte lay-out in any other country.

It is a country where you get the right change back, and the cows give eighteen carat milk, and the hens have not learned to lay small, cold storage eggs. It is the country for me, if the women would wear corsets, and not be the same size all the way down, so that if you hugged a girl you wouldn't make a dent in her, that would not come out until she got her breath.

And we left such a country and such a people, to come here to Cuba, where the population now comprises the meanest features of the desperate and wicked Spaniards, beaten at their own game of loot, the trickiness of the native Cuban, flushed with pride because his big American brother helped him to drive away the Spaniard that he could never have gotten rid of alone, and with no respect for the American who helped, and only meets him respectfully because he is afraid of being thrown into the ocean if he is impudent, and the worst class of Yankee grafters and highway robbers that have ever been allowed to stray away from the land of the free. That is what Cuba is to-day.

Soulless Yankee corporations have got hold of most of the branches of business that there is any money in, and the things that do not pay and never can be made to pay, are for sale to tenderfeet. The cuban hates the Yankee, the Yankee hates the Cuban, and the Spaniard hates both, and both hate him. In Havana your hotel, owned by a Cuban, run by a Yankee, with a Spanish or Portuguese cashier, will take all the money you bring into it for a bed at night, and hold your baggage till your can cable for money to buy breakfast. It is a "free country," of course, run by men who will fly high as long as they can borrow money for some one else to pay after they are dead, but within ten years the taxes will eat the people so they will be head over heels in debt to the Yankee and the Spaniard, the German and the Englishman, the Frenchman and the Italian, and some day warships will sail into Havana harbor, over the submerged bones of the "Maine," and there will be a fight for juicy morsels of the Cuban dead horse, by the congregated buzzards of strange navies, unless they shall shake the dice for the carcass, and by carefully loading the dice saw the whole thing off on to Uncle Sam, and make him pay the debts of the deceased republic, and act as administrator for the benefit of the children of the sawed off republic, whose only asset now is climate that feels good, but contains germs of all diseases, and tobacco that smells good when it is in conflagration under your nose, and does not kill instantly if it is pasted up in a Wisconsin wrapper, that is the pure goods. If tobacco ever ceases to be a fad with the rich consumer of fifty-cent cigars, and beet sugar is found to contain no first aid to Bright's disease, Cuba will amount to about as much as Dry Tortugas, which has purer air, and the Isle of Pines, which has more tropical scenery and less yellow fever. But now the Island of Cuba is a joy, and Havana is like Heaven, until you come to pay your bill, when it is hell. Streets so wide you cannot see a creditor on the other side, pavements as smooth as the road to perdition, and tropical trees, plants and flowers, with birds of rare plumage, you feel like sitting on a cold bench in the shade, and wishing all your friends were here to enjoy a taste of what will come to those who are truly good, in the hereafter, when suddenly you are taken with a chill up the spinal column, and a cold sweat comes out on the forehead, and the internal arrangements go on a strike because of the cold, perspiring cucumber you had for lunch, and you go to the doctor, who does not do a thing to you, but scare you out of your boots by talking of cholera, and giving you the card of his partner, the undertaker, telling you never to think of dying in a tropical country without being embalmed, because you look so much better when you are delivered at your home by the express company, and then he gives you pills and a bill, and an alarm clock that goes off every hour to take a pill by, and furnishes you an officer to go home to your hotel with you to collect his bill, and you pawn your watch and sleeve buttons for a steerage ticket to New York, where you arrive as soon as the Lord will let you, and stay as long as He thinks is good for you.

Dad has not been much good in Havana, cause he wanted to see the whole business in one day. He got a row boat and went out in the harbor to where the back-bone of the "Maine" acts as a monument to the fellows who yet sleep in the mud of the bottom, and after tying a little American flag on the rigging that sticks up above the water, and damning the villains who blew up the good ship, we went back to town and drove out to the cemetery where several hundred of our boys are buried, where we left flowers on the graves and a cuss in the balmy air for the guilty wretches who fired the bomb, and then we went back to the city and walked the beautiful streets, until dad began to have cramps, from trying to eat all the fruit he could hold, and then it was all off, and I was going to call a carriage to take him to the hotel, when dad saw a negro astride a single ox, hitched to a cart, who had come in from the country, and dad said he wanted to ride in that cart, if it was the last act of his life, and as dad was beginning to swell up from the fruit he had eaten, I thought he better ride in an open cart, cause in a carriage he might swell up so we couldn't get him out of the door when we got to the hotel, so I hired the negro, got dad in the cart, and we started, but the ox walked so slow I was afraid we would never get dad there alive, so I told the negro dad had the cholera, and that settled, for he kicked the slats of the ox in with his heels, and the ox bellowed and run away, and the negro turned pale from fright, and I guess the runaway ride on the cobble stone pavement was what saved dad's life, for the swelling in dad's inside began to go down, and when we got to the hotel he got out of the cart alone, and I knew he was better, for he shook himself, gulluped up wind, and said, "You think you are smart, don't you?" So I will close.

Yours,

Hennery.

<eob>

With Kelly To Chitral

By

W.G.L. Beynon



Chapter I


Introductory

"Would you like to go up to Gilgit?"

"Rather."

I was down in the military offices at Simla, hunting for a book and some maps, when I was asked the above question. No idea of Gilgit had before entered my head, but with the question came the answer, and I have since wondered why I never before thought of applying for the billet.

This was at the end of June 1894, and on the 24th August I was crossing the Burzil pass into the Gilgit district. As day broke on the 31st August, I dropped down several thousand feet from Doyen to Ramghat in the Indus valley, and it suddenly struck me I must have come down too low, and got into Dante's Inferno. As I passed under the crossbeam of the suspension bridge, I looked to find the motto, "All hope relinquish, ye who enter here." It wasn't there, but instead there was a sentry on the bridge, who, on being questioned, assured me that though there was not much to choose in the matter of temperature between the two places, I was still on the surface of the earth. He seemed an authority on the subject, so I felt happier, and accepted the cup of tea offered me by the commander of the guard.

Two hours later I was in Bunji, where I found I was to stay, and two days after that, an officer on his way down to Kashmir passed through, and almost the first question he asked me was, why on earth I had come up to Gilgit. "Gilgit's played out," said he. Well, I had been asked that question several times on my march up, so I may as well explain that there are officially two chief causes which send men up to Gilgit -- one is debts, and the other, the Intelligence Branch. These, I say, are the official reasons, but the real reason is the chance of a "frontier row." In Simla they call them military expeditions. This accounts for the last part of that young officer's speech. There seemed no chance of a row to him, so he was going to other fields, and wondered at my coming up. At first, the result seemed to bear him out, as within two months he was on the war-path in Waziristan, while I was still kicking my heels at Bunji; but luck changed later, and I laughed last.

Well, to continue, my official reason for coming to Gilgit being the Intelligence Branch, I was ordered up to Chitral early in November for some survey work, and thus obtained the knowledge of the route and country that was to stand me in such good stead later on. I finished my work in Chitral in ten days, starting back for Gilgit on the 1st December, arriving there on the 19th. I spent Christmas in Gilgit, and started on the 2nd January 1895 for Hunza, where I expected to remain for the rest of the winter.

News of the murder of Nizam-ul-mulk, Mehter of Chitral, reached Gilgit on the 7th January, and Dr. Robertson, Political Agent at Gilgit, at once made preparations for a visit to Chitral.

Captain Townshend, who was at Gupis with Gough of the 2nd Gurkhas, received orders to march with two hundred and fifty rifles of the 4th Kashmir Infantry. The first detachment started under Gough, the second following under Townshend The British Agent, Captain Campbell, and Surgeon Captain Whitchurch, joined the second party at Ghizr, and they all crossed the pass together. At Mastuj they picked up the remainder of the 14th Sikhs, under Harley, who had not gone down to Gurdon at Chitral, and then started for Chitral, arriving there on the 31st January. Lieutenant Moberly went from Gilgit with a detachment of the 4th Kashmir Infantry and took command of Mastuj. Gough returning to Ghizr, Baird took over command of Gupis, which was garrisoned by the 6th Kashmir Infantry, and I was brought down from Hunza to take over Baird's billet as staff officer. Shortly after, Fowler, R.E., was ordered to Chitral with his Bengal Sappers, and Edwardes, 2nd Bombay Infantry, to the same place, to take command of the Hunza Nagar Levies, which were now called out. Baird was next ordered up to Chitral and relieved by Stewart, R.A. On 21st February, Ross and Jones and the detachment of 14th Sikhs left Gilgit en route for Mastuj. The Hunza and Nagar Levies came in to Gilgit on the 7th March. I issued Snider carbines and twenty rounds ammunition to each man, and they left the next day. These Levies were splendid men, hardy, thick-set mountaineers, incapable of fatigue; and, as a distinguishing badge, each man was provided with a strip of red cloth which they wore in their caps, but which, we afterwards found by practical experience at Nisa Gol, was inadequate.

As news from Chitral had ceased for some days, Captain Stewart, Assistant British Agent in Gilgit, determined to call up the 32nd Pioneers, who were working on the Chilas road, so as to be ready for an advance in case any forward movement was necessary. In consequence of this order, Colonel Kelly marched into Gilgit on the 20th March with two hundred men, Borradaile following on the 22nd with a like party.

On the 21st we heard from Mastuj that Ross's party of 14th Sikhs had been cut up, Ross himself and some forty-six Sepoys being killed, Jones and fourteen men alone managing to cut their way back; he and nine of the survivors being wounded. There was no news of Edwardes and Fowler. This news upset the apple-cart, and telegrams began to fly around, with the result that Colonel Kelly was put in command of the troops in the Gilgit district, with full civil powers on his line of operations. This telegram arrived on the evening of the 22nd. The day before, Colonel Kelly had offered me the position of staff officer to the force, and I naturally jumped at the chance. Dew of the Guides, who was on the sick-list, was sufficiently well to take over my work, so there was no difficulty on that score; and as I had long had my kit ready for any emergency, I merely bundled my remaining possessions into boxes, which I locked up and left to look after themselves till my return.

Here I may as well describe what the force consisted of. First, there were four hundred men of the 32nd Pioneers, commanded by Borradaile, Colonel Kelly having taken command of the column. Bar these two, we were all subalterns. Peterson was the senior, and commanded the second detachment, as we were marching to Ghizr in two parties. Then there was Bethune the adjutant, and Cobbe, and Browning-Smith the doctor -- these were all 32nd Pioneers. Captain de Vismes, 10th Bombay Infantry, came along with us as far as Gupis, where he relieved Stewart, R.A., who, of course, was in command of the two guns of No. 1 Kashmir Mountain Battery. Stewart is an Irishman and the most bloodthirsty individual I have come across. He used to complain bitterly because the Chitralis wouldn't give us a fight every day. Then there was Luard, the Agency Surgeon; we used to chaff him considerably during the march to Gupis, as he turned up in a Norfolk jacket and a celluloid collar. I think he had sent his kit on to Gupis; at any rate, after that place he dressed in Khaki uniform like the rest of us. These were all who started from Gilgit, so I'll introduce the others as we pick them up.


Chapter II


The March Begins

Colonel Kelly assumed command on the 22nd March, and the next morning the first detachment of two hundred Pioneers, under Borradaile, marched off. The local Bible, commonly known as the Gazetteer, states that it never rains in Gilgit; this being so, it naturally started to rain on the morning of the 23rd, and kept it up for two days. We were marching without tents, so the first night the men had to run up their waterproof sheets into shelters.

Colonel Kelly, Luard, and myself started about 2 P.M. to catch up the troops, who had started about 9 A.M. Luard had a beast of a pulling pony, and as his double bridle hadn't got a curb chain, it was about as much use as a headache, so I suggested he should let the pony rip, and promised to bury his remains if he came a cropper. He took my advice and ripped; you couldn't see his pony's heels for dust as he disappeared across the plain. We found him all right in camp when we got there.

The men were already in camp, and pretty comfortable, in spite of the rain. Colonel Kelly had a small tent, and the rest of us turned into convenient cow-sheds. We were not troubled with much baggage, bedding, greatcoats, and a change of clothing; the men had poshteens (sheepskin coats), and everybody pleased themselves in the matter of boots, most of us preferring chuplies -- a native kind of sandal with a leather sock, a very good article in snow, as you can put on any number of socks without stopping the circulation of blood in your feet. Officers and men were all provided with goggles, and very necessary they were.

We had a very jolly mess. The force being so small, the 32nd Pioneers kindly asked the remaining officers to mess with them, every man of course providing his own plate, knife, fork, and spoon, the cooking pots being collected for the general good. We had breakfast before starting, the hour for marching being 7 A.M. as a rule. The Pioneers had some most excellent bacon; good eggs and bacon will carry a man through a long day most successfully. I remember that when that bacon gave out, there was more mourning than over all the first-born of Egypt. Mutton we never ran out of; like the poor, it was always with us.

We got into camp as a rule some time in the afternoon, and then indulged in tea and chupatties; whisky was precious, and kept for dinner, which took place at dusk. Sometimes, when we got into camp late, dinner and tea were merged into one; however, it made no odds, we were always ready to eat when anything eatable came along. The mess provided some camp tables, and most of us managed to bring a camp stool, so we were in the height of luxury. After dinner a pipe or two, and then we turned in; we generally managed to get some grass to put under our blankets, but if we didn't, I don't think it made much difference; we were all young, and used to sleeping out on the hillside after game, frequently above the snow line, so it was no new experience. If it rained or was cold, we generally managed to get into a hut; these are remarkably strongly built, good stone walls, and thick, flat, wooden roofs with a mud covering, a hole in the middle of the floor for the fire, and a hole in the roof for the smoke -- at least that was what we supposed was the idea, but the smoke generally preferred to remain inside.

There were also other discomforts of a minor nature. For instance, the cows and goats used to take it as a personal matter if you objected to their sharing the room with you; they were big enough, however, to catch and turn out, but there were other occupants of a more agile nature, armies of them, whom it was hopeless to try and eject; we suffered so much from their pleasing attentions that we generally preferred to sleep outside, weather permitting.

Our second march was to a village called Suigal in the Punyal district, governed by Raja Akbar Khan, a jolly old chap who came out to meet us on the road; he lives in a castle on the left bank of the river, which is here crossed by one of the highest and longest rope bridges in the country. In spite of his size, he is a very good polo player, as are all his family, some of whom were shut up in the Chitral Fort with Dr. Robertson. He now offered his services and those of his people to Government, which Colonel Kelly accepted, and the old man retired very pleased, to rejoin us later on. At Suigal we managed to get all the troops under shelter, as it was still raining, and it was now the second day that they had been wet through.

The next day the rain had luckily stopped, and towards noon the sun came out, and everybody's dampened spirits cheered up. We marched that day to Hoopar Pari, making a double march instead of halting at Gurkuch. Pari means a cliff -- and the camping ground is a horrid little place shut in by high cliffs close to the bed of the river. There is no village near. It is a desolate place at the best of times, and when there is any wind blowing, it is like camping in a draught-pipe.

From Hoopar Pari we marched to Gupis. Gupis is a fort built by the Kashmir troops last year, on the most scientific principle, the only drawback being that it is commanded on all sides, and would be perfectly untenable if attacked by three men and a boy armed with accurate long-range rifles. Here we picked up Stewart, who was turning catherine wheels at the thought of taking his beloved guns into action. He expressed a desire to try a few shells on the neighbouring villages, to practise his men in ranging; but as there were objections to this plan, the idea was allowed to drop. At Gupis we made a raid on the stores in the officers' quarters and pretty well cleared them out. De Vismes, who took command, had to get a fresh supply up from Gilgit.

We had a merry dinner that night, provided, I think, by Stewart, who used to get up at intervals and dance a jig at the idea of seeing his guns the next morning -- they were coming on with the second detachment under Peterson. From Gupis I sent my pony back to Gilgit, as it was useless taking it any farther, as we doubted being able to take animals over the pass, which eventually proved to be impossible. From Gupis onwards we had to be content with the usual hill track of these countries, good enough for a country pony, but still nothing to be proud of; here we discarded our Government mules, and took coolie transport instead. The march from Gupis to Dahimal is a long, trying one, up and down all the way. Cobbe, who was on rearguard, didn't get in till long after dark.

The village of Dahimal lies on the opposite bank of the river, so we did not cross, but bivouacked on the right bank, where there was some scrub jungle that provided us with wood. The Pioneers had brought four ducks; they were carried in a basket along with the mess-stores. Browning-Smith, who ran the messing, got quite pally with these ducks, and as soon as they were let out of their basket, he used to call them, and off they would waddle after him in search of a convenient puddle. I forget when those ducks were eaten, but I don't remember them at Ghizr, and am sure they didn't cross the pass.

Our next march was a short one to Pingal, only about nine miles. Here we were met by Mihrbhan Shah, the Hakim or governor of the upper part of the valley. Mihrbhan Shah is a bit of an authority in the murder line, having been employed by the late lamented Nizam-ul-mulk as chief murderer. Mihrbhan Shah is particularly proud of one of his little jobs, which he flatters himself he accomplished in a very neat and artistic manner. I forget the details, but it resulted in the death of five men. I asked him in to afternoon tea, Shah Mirza acting as interpreter. We had a long chat, from which I gained some very useful details about the state of the parties in Chitral, who was likely to help, and who wasn't, also a description of the road to Killa Drasan, which I did not know. This latter information seemed so important that I reported it that night to Colonel Kelly, and it was then and there decided to march via Killa Drasan instead of by the usual road through Buni.

I don't, think I have mentioned Shah Mirza before, so I will introduce him now, as he was one of our most useful allies, and is now one of my greatest friends. He belongs to the Punyal family, and is Wazir or governor of Sai and Gor. He lives at Damot, a village in the Sai valley, opposite Bunji, and it was during my stay there that I first got to know him. He has an interesting history, and, among other adventures, has travelled through the Pamirs and Chitral in disguise. He was our chief interpreter, and he, or one of his followers, of whom he had five, always kept near us. His followers were enlisted Levies, and one of them had formerly been my shikaree; in fact, he only left me as he was called out as a levy.

It is the custom of the country for the headmen of districts to come and pay their respects to any Sahib who may travel through their country, and the proper etiquette is to supply your visitors with tea and sweetmeats -- biscuits will do just as well, and they like plenty of sugar. They then pay you the most barefaced compliments, and make the startling assertion that you are their father and mother; upon which you reply that all you have is at their disposal. If they have any petition, -- and they generally have, -- they insinuate it gently in the general conversation, so you have to be looking out for traps of this sort. When you have suffered sufficient evil for the day, you mildly suggest that they are probably fatigued, and would like to rest. They take the hint, and the remainder of the biscuits, and depart. We used to have lots of these visits, which went by the name of "political teas."

Mihrbhan Shah proved very useful to us, I fancy he knew he would get small mercy if he fell into the hands of the opposition, and therefore did all he could to place our force between them and himself. Both at Pingal and our next halting place, Cheshi, he managed to billet all our small force in the villages, and no doubt our men were very thankful as we were getting pretty high up, and the nights were decidedly cold. Although it was a friendly district, we had regular pickets and sentries, and a British officer on duty to see everything was correct.


Chapter III


The Shandur Pass

Shortly after leaving Pingal, the character of the country changed considerably, and instead of a continual alternation of cliff and river bed, the valley became more open and level; we were, in fact, nearing the upper end of the valley. Beyond Cheshi the road leads up a bluff and down the other side on to the bed of the Pandur Lake. This lake had, at the beginning of 1894, been a sheet of water some four and a half miles long, but, the dam at its end having given way in July, it had drained off rapidly; and when I had crossed it in November of the same year, the mud of its bed was only just becoming firm and was cracked and fissured in every direction. It was now covered with a sheet of snow, through which the river twined dark and muddy.

We had now reached the snow line, and our green goggles were taken into use. The march of our column churned the snow and mud into a greasy slime, and the going was very tiring. However, we came in sight of the Ghizr post by 2 P.M., and Gough, of the 2nd Gurkhas, who was in command, came out to meet us. From him we learned that none of his messengers that had been sent to Mastuj with letters had returned, and it was now some ten days since the last communication had reached him; so it became evident that the enemy were between Laspur and Mastuj. We knew that they had not crossed the pass, or we should have seen them before this, so we were pretty hopeful of a fight soon after crossing the pass, and we were not disappointed. At Ghizr we also found Oldham, a Sapper subaltern, who had preceded us by a few days. He had with him a party of Kashmir Sappers and Miners, who were now armed with Snider carbines. The post, which consisted of a block of isolated houses, had been fortified and surrounded with a thorn zareba, and was only sufficiently large for the garrison of Kashmir troops then holding it, so our men were billeted in the neighbouring houses, one of which we turned into a mess and quarters for ourselves.

We halted on the 30th March, in order to allow the second detachment of the Pioneers and the guns to come up, as from here Colonel Kelly intended to march in one column. Here also we picked up the Hunza and Nagar Levies, numbering a hundred men, under their own leaders. They were posted in the village of Teru, some four miles up the valley, and from there could give timely warning if any hostile force crossed the pass. Wazir Humayun led the Hunza crowd, and Wazir Taifu the Nagar. I got to know Humayun very well indeed, and a right good sort he is. He had formerly lived for some five years in Chitral, when Raja Safdar Ali Khan of Hunza had made things too hot for him, but when Safdar Ali fled when we took the country in 1891-92, he was reinstated. Wazir Taifu I did not get to know so well, as the Nagar Levies were left behind at Mastuj, when we went on from there to Chitral. The second detachment under Peterson, and the guns with Stewart, got into camp some time after midday on the 31st March.

In the meantime, every available coolie and pony had been collected, and we calculated on being able to start the next morning, with ten days' rations for the whole force. By 6 A.M. on the 1st April the troops had fallen in and were ready to start, and a nice handy little lot we had. Four hundred Pioneers, two mountain guns, forty Kashmir Sappers and a hundred Levies. Then the coolies were told to load up, and the trouble began. It now appeared that some hundred coolies and ponies from Yasin had bolted during the night. We had put too much faith in Mihrbhan Shah's influence, and all those villagers who were not directly under his government had gone. Those hundred coolies meant the transport of our supplies, and without them we should only have the food actually carried in the men's haversacks. We had cut down our baggage to the vanishing point, and the men were carrying all they could, and we did not dare leave our reserve ammunition behind.

The column had just moved off when this state of things became known and was reported to me. Colonel Kelly was at the head of the column, so I snatched the nearest pony, tumbled its load on to the ground, and went scrambling through the snow after the troops. Of course there was nothing to be done except halt the column until the coolies could be collared and brought back, so Stewart, who had a battery pony with him, was sent off down the road after the absconding coolies. They must have started the evening before, as he only caught a few of them up fifteen miles back, and had great difficulty in bringing them along with him. We met him as we were returning to Ghizr at seven o'clock that evening. Stewart had scarcely gone ten minutes before some fifty coolies were found hiding in a village; they were soon driven out and made to lift their loads. This gave us some six days' rations, and with it we moved off, our great object being to get across the pass and open communications with Mastuj. After that we could see about getting on to Chitral. Our transport consisted of country ponies and coolies, and I remained behind to see the last off and rearguard moving before I started myself.

About two miles from Ghizr post there was a steep ascent where the road twisted and curled among a mass of debris fallen from the cliffs above, and in one place the ponies had to be helped through a narrow passage between two fallen boulders. About midday I caught up the tail of the troops, who were already past the village of Teru, the highest inhabited spot in the valley; there are only a few houses, and these are scattered about in clumps a few hundred yards apart. Passing on, I caught up the battery, and reached the leading infantry, when suddenly the word to halt was passed down the long line.

We were now on a narrow plain, and the snow on either hand of the track which the troops were following in single file was over my waist, as I soon found whenever I left the path in order to reach more quickly the head of the column. On arriving there, I found the track had suddenly ended, and before us was the level expanse of snow-covered valley. Attempts were being made to get the gun mules of the battery through this, but at every step they sank up to their girths, even then not finding firm foothold. Trials were then made of the ground at the sides of the valley, but the snow was found equally deep and soft there; and after spending an hour or so in futile attempts to get forward, it became evident to all that no animal could possibly pass over the snowfield in its present condition. We had only gone some eight miles out of the thirteen to Langar, and it was already three o'clock. There was nothing, therefore, for it but to return, and the word to retire was reluctantly passed along the line, and each man, turning where he stood, moved slowly back towards Ghizr.

But though laden or unladen animals could not cross the pass, we saw no reason to suppose that men could not, and therefore, at Teru, which we reached by four o'clock, a halt was made, and two hundred Pioneers, with Borradaile and Cobbe, and the Sappers under Oldham, were detailed to remain there with the Hunza Levies, and to try and force their way across the pass the next day. Borradaile was to receive all the coolie transport, which he was to send back as soon as he got across the pass, in order that we might follow with the remainder of the troops. His orders were to entrench himself at Laspur, which was the first village across the pass, and if possible open communications with Mastuj.

The guns were immediately sent back to Ghizr, and we set to work to sort out the kits of Borradaile's party from the remainder. The unavoidable confusion at first was something dreadful. First of all, the kits had to be unloaded, then those of Borradaile's party separated and put on one side; the remaining kits were then loaded on the ponies and sent off, as fast as the ponies could be loaded up, back to Ghizr. The ammunition had to be divided, and as much as possible given over in the way of supplies. All this time we had to have a ring of sentries round to stop the coolies from bolting, but as soon as we had got the ponies off, the coolies were collected, and sat down in the snow under a guard. Borradaile's party were then told off into the different houses, and the coolies likewise, still under guard, the ammunition and supplies stacked, and the job was done.

By this time it was about seven o'clock, getting dark, and also beginning to snow. All of us, officers and men, were covered with slush and mud from head to foot, and dripping wet. Smith, who was going with Borradaile's party, had, however, managed to get a fire going in one of the houses, and had got some tea ready, bless him! We had a cup all round, and wished Borradaile and his party good luck. The remainder of us plunged out into the darkness and snow and splashed back to Ghizr. The men, who had started some time before us, were comfortably in their former quarters when we reached Ghizr.

On the way we met Stewart, who had just returned from his coolie hunt, and was seated on a rock, like Rachel mourning for her children, only in his case he was murmuring, not because the guns were not, but because they were back in Ghizr. "His guns were going over that pass even if he had to carry them himself, you may bet your boots on that! and begad, I'll set the gunners to cut a road; and d'ye think now the snow would bear the mules at night when it was frozen at all?"

We got back to the huts we had left in the morning by 8.30 P.M., and there was a general demand for something hot. Our servants, luckily, had been sent back straight, so it was not long before we had something to eat; that was our first meal since 5.30 A.M., and it was now about 9 P.M. We had marched some sixteen miles through snow, and been on foot for some fifteen hours, and here we were back in the same place we had started from. Since midday we had been pretty well wet through, and the wind and cold had peeled the skin off our faces till it hung in flakes; still we were lucky in having a roof over our heads, as it had now started to snow in earnest. After dinner we weren't long before turning in.

We were up early the next morning, but Stewart and Gough were up still earlier, and were making sledges and trying experiments with loads. They came in flushed with success, swearing that they had dragged the whole ammunition of the guns by themselves across half a mile of snow, and that they would have the guns over the pass in no time. Unluckily, the snow was still falling, and as Borradaile had all the available coolie transport, we were forced to wait till he could send it back. By noon he sent in a letter by one of the levies, saying he had been unable to start, as heavy snow was still falling, but would try the next day.

Shah Mirza now came up to me and said that there was a mullah in the village who had an infallible charm for stopping the snow, and a present of a few rupees would no doubt set it in motion. I promptly inquired how it was the mullah was not carrying a load, but was told he was too old to help in that way, but would be only too delighted to overcome the elements; so I gave the Mirza to understand that if the mullah would stop the snow-storm the Sirkar would make him, the mullah, a great man; in the meantime, I would give him a couple of rupees on account. Shah Mirza went off joyfully, evidently having implicit faith in the mullah.

Shortly after this, Gough came up, saying that the Kashmir troops in the post had volunteered to make a road through the snow, and if he could take fifty of them with four days' rations to Teru, a sufficient track might be made to Langar, our next camping ground, just this side of the pass, to enable the guns to be carried there without much difficulty. Colonel Kelly's permission having been obtained, we set about collecting all the shovels and spades we could find in the village. Among others I got hold of the mullah's, who became very indignant; but I pointed out to him that as his prayers seemed to have no effect on the snow, perhaps his shovel would make up for their deficiencies. We managed, by instituting a house-to-house visitation, to collect some twenty spades of sorts, and with those supplied by the troops, we got altogether some forty, which were handed over to Gough. He and Stewart and fifty Kashmir Sepoys started off that day to Teru, taking with them half a dozen sledges that had been made out of ghi boxes.

Later in the day we had to send out foraging parties for wood and bhoosa (chopped straw) as the commissariat reported their supply as running out; in fact, these parties had to go out every day during our stay in Ghizr.

Early the next morning I got a note from Stewart, asking that the battery might be sent up to Teru, as there was enough fodder there for the mules, and experiments could be made for getting the guns along. I got the battery off sharp, but it was nearly noon before they got to Teru. The snow had ceased falling, and, the clouds clearing off, the sun made a blinding glare off the freshly fallen snow.

After breakfast I started off for Teru myself, to see how Borradaile was getting along, and, finding he had started, I left my borrowed pony at the village, and, pushing on, caught up the rearguard a short way beyond where we had been forced to turn back on the 1st April. Here I found Stewart, Gough, and Oldham with the fifty Kashmir troops, two Sappers and Miners, and rearguard of the Pioneers, staggering along under the guns and ammunition in a track that had been beaten out by the troops marching in front. For some reason or other the sledges did not seem to act, partly, I think, because the track, being made by men marching in single file, was too narrow and uneven; at anyrate, when I arrived, the guns, wheels, carriages, and ammunition had been told off to different squads, about four men carrying the load at a time, and being relieved by a fresh lot every fifty yards or so. Even thus the rate of progression was fearfully slow, about one mile an hour, and the men were continually sinking up to their waists in snow. Added to this, there was a bitter wind, and a blinding glare, while the men were streaming with perspiration.

I know my own face felt as if it had been dipped in boiling water, and during the next few days the whole skin came off in flakes.

I may as well here describe the tribulations of the advanced party, prefacing my remarks by saying that they are founded on reports and hearsay, and therefore I beg any slight inaccuracy may be forgiven me. When I turned back to return to Ghizr, the party carrying the guns were just arriving at a stream called the Shamalkhand, which flows from a high pass of the same name, which is often used as a summer route to Mastuj, but at that time of year is impassable. From this stream to Langar, the camping ground on the eastern side of the Shandur Pass, is some four miles, the valley being open and fairly level, but covered with thick dwarf willow on the banks of the stream flowing down the centre which confines the road to the western side of the valley. The main body of the party I could see about one and a half miles ahead; they had already crossed the stream. That was about 4 P.M., and the rearguard did not get into camp till 11 P.M., and even then the guns had to be left about a mile from camp.

At Langar there is only one little wretched hut about six feet square, which was used as a shelter by the officers and one or two sick men, the remainder huddling round fires in the snow. Luckily, as I have already said, there was a plentiful supply of wood to be had for the cutting. Many of the men, I hear, were too tired to cook their food, but simply lay down exhausted near the fires, the officers getting something to eat about midnight. Very little sleep was there for either officers or men that night, most of them passed it huddled up round the fires, or stamping up and down to keep warm.

Early the next morning the Pioneers and Levies started to cross the pass, while the remainder brought the guns into camp, which work, I believe, took the best part of the day.

On leaving the camping ground, the track leads sharply to the right, following the course of the Shandur stream, which is now merely a rushing brook. The ascent is fairly precipitous for about a mile, and is followed by a very gradual ascent, -- so gradual, in fact, that it is difficult to say when the top of the pass is actually reached. This slope constitutes the pass, and is some five miles long, and twelve thousand three hundred and twenty feet above the sea; absolutely bare of trees, and with two fair-sized lakes upon its surface, it is easy to imagine the deadly cold winds that sweep across it. The lakes were now frozen over, and the valley was one even sheet of spotless snow lying dazzling under the sun. It is this combination of sun and snow which causes so much discomfort and snow blindness; I had before crossed this same pass in December on a cloudy day, and although the whole of it was covered with freshly fallen snow, I did not even find it necessary to wear the goggles I had in my pocket ready for use.

The distance from Langar on the east to the village of Laspur on the west of the pass is not more than ten miles, yet Borradaile's party, leaving Langar at daybreak, did not reach Laspur till seven o'clock at night.

Strange as it may seem, the men suffered greatly from thirst, and from some mistaken idea of becoming violently ill if they did so, they refused to eat the snow through which they were floundering. Towards evening, as they reached the western end of the pass, three men, evidently an outpost of the enemy, were seen to bolt from behind some rocks and make good their escape, in spite of an attempt by the Levies to catch them.

The descent from the pass to the village of Laspur is some two miles long, and down a steep and rather narrow ravine. The Hunza Levies covered the spurs on each side, while the Pioneers descended down the centre. So sudden and unexpected was their arrival that the inhabitants were caught in the village, and naturally expressed their extreme delight at this unexpected visit -- so polite of them, wasn't it? They also said that they would be glad to help us in any way we desired. They were taken at their word, and sent back next day to bring on the guns, while that night they were politely requested to clear out of some of their houses, which were quickly put into a state of defence and occupied by our troops. Supplies were also required of the village.

The next day was spent by the detachment in completing the defences, and collecting supplies and coolies. Towards evening a report was brought in that the enemy had collected to the number of about a hundred some three miles away. So Borradaile took out some of the men to reconnoitre. Some men were seen in the distance, but these the Levies declared to be only villagers, and as it was getting dusk, the party returned to camp, only then learning that a levy had been taken prisoner. The man had gone some distance ahead of his fellows, and had been captured by two men who jumped out on him from behind a rock. That evening the guns were brought in by the Kashmir troops and the coolies, amid cheers from the Pioneers.

Nothing, I think, can be said too highly in praise of this splendid achievement. Here were some two hundred and fifty men, Hindus and Mussulmans, who, working shoulder to shoulder, had brought two mountain guns, with their carriages and supply of ammunition, across some twenty miles of deep, soft snow, across a pass some twelve thousand three hundred and twenty feet high, at the beginning of April, the worst time of the year. It must also be remembered that these men were carrying also their own rifles, greatcoats, and eighty rounds of ammunition, and wearing heavy sheepskin coats; they had slept for two nights in the snow, and struggled from dawn till dark, sinking at every step up to their waists, and suffering acutely from a blinding glare and a bitter wind. So much for the rank and file; but in their officers they had had splendid examples to follow, especially Stewart and Gough, if one may select when all did so nobly. Both these officers took their turns with the men, Stewart with his gunners, and Gough with his Gurkhas, in carrying the guns, and both, with utter unselfishness and with complete disregard for their own personal comfort, gave their snow glasses to sepoys who, not having any, were suffering from the glare experienced on the first day. It is by these small acts that officers can endear themselves to their men, who, knowing that their officers have their welfare at heart, will follow wherever they may lead.

Thus was the Shandur Pass first crossed, and a position established from whence the force could work down to Mastuj and thence to Chitral.

I may here mention that so little did the Chitralis imagine that we could cross the pass, that letters were found in Laspur stating that the British force was lying in Ghizr, the men unable to move from frostbite, and the officers from snow blindness; also that since then fresh snow had fallen, and no forces would now be able to cross for several weeks. In fact, the Chitralis looked upon the game as entirely in their own hands; the surprise of our arrival was therefore all the more complete.

Having brought the guns and Borradaile's party safely across the pass, I return and relate Colonel Kelly's and my own experiences.

After leaving the guns being dragged through the snow to Langar on the 3rd April, I walked back to Teru. On the way I saw the mullah's shovel sticking up in the snow, with one half of the blade snapped off. Alas, poor mullah! At Teru I found the battery mules and drivers; these were ordered back to Ghizr, as they could be more easily fed there, and would be protected by the garrison of the post. I eventually got back to Ghizr before dark and reported events, and, just my luck, got a bad go of fever the next day. Great Scott! I did feel a worm! I was shivering with ague and my face was like a furnace. I hadn't a bit of skin on it either, and it was painful to eat or laugh from the cracked state of my lips. I managed to struggle through some necessary official letters, but as a staff officer that day I was not much use.

Colonel Kelly determined to start himself the next morning, with the Nagar Levies and Shah Mirza, as we had managed to collect half a dozen coolies to carry our kits. I went with Colonel Kelly, the remainder of the Pioneers coming on as soon as the coolies from Borradaile's party arrived; we were expecting them the next day, the 5th April.

I turned in early that night, after having covered my raw face with some Vinolia powder that Colonel Kelly happened to have. I had not before known that these powders were supposed to be of any use. I had a vague sort of idea that they were used for sprinkling babies, but was unaware of the reason of this strange rite; however, I will now give the Vinolia Company what I believe is called an unsolicited testimonial. I stuck to that powder till I got to Mastuj, by which time my face had become human again. Colonel Kelly had a beard, so he didn't suffer so much. The next morning I felt much better, had no fever, and, thanks to the Vinolia, my face was much less painful.

We got the Levies and our kits off early, and about noon Colonel Kelly and I started on some borrowed ponies, which we rode as far as we could and then sent back. Having caught up the Levies, we tramped forward along the track made by the first column, occasionally finding deserted sledges and bits of broken spades. The snow was now somewhat firmer than when the first party had crossed, owing to the top of the snow thawing slightly in the sun every day and being frozen hard again every night; all the same, the slightest divergence from the track plunged us up to our waists in snow.

The only one of our party who could walk on the snow without difficulty was my bull-terrier "Bill," a spotted dog of doubtful ancestry. He had been given to me as a bull-terrier when he was only a little white rat of a thing, and I had raised him at Bunji on tinned milk. He was a most uncanny dog (the joke is unintentional), and it was commonly believed in the force that his father was a tom cat. Poor Bill! Before he got to Laspur he was so snow blind that until we got to Mastuj I had to open his eyes for him every morning and bathe them with hot water before he could see, and he was hardly well again a month later.

We got into camp that night before dusk, pretty well fagged and wet, and as soon as the coolies came in with our kits, we scraped a hole in the snow and pitched the colonel's small tent. In camp we found a few men who had been placed in charge of some ammunition that had been left behind for want of transport. This guard were mostly suffering a bit from snow blindness, but were otherwise all right, as they had run up shelters and had plenty of wood and their bedding. When I got at my kit, I took out a bottle of quinine and dosed our servants and orderlies all round, so that they should not have any excuse for getting fever, and then took some myself for the same reason. We then laid out our bedding in the tent, while the servants went into the hut, and turned in immediately after dinner, and had a very comfortable night.

We were up before dawn the next morning, and, as we had slept in our clothes, it was not long before we had had breakfast and struck camp. By 6 A.M. we were climbing the ascent to the pass. There was a wind whistling straight in our faces, and I had no idea anything could be so cold; it simply went clean through you, and I quite expected to hear my ribs sing like an Aeolian harp. When we got on to the pass, the sun rose and the wind dropped quite suddenly, and presently we had taken off our greatcoats on account of the heat. After going about an hour, I began to suffer from mountain sickness, a curious and distinctly unpleasant sensation, very much like having a rope tied tightly round one's chest and back, and the shortness of breath necessitating a halt every hundred yards or so. Colonel Kelly did not suffer from it at all, but trudged along without a halt the whole way. That is the only time I have ever suffered from mountain sickness, and I have crossed the Shandur both before and since, as also other passes, without feeling any inconvenience.

By noon we had almost reached the highest point of the pass, and were skirting the larger lake, when we met the coolies of Borradaile's party returning with an escort of some of the Kashmir troops. They all seemed pretty lively in spite of the poor time they had been having; but as they are used to crossing the Shandur at all times of the year, I daresay our sympathy was a good deal wasted.

We were soon descending into the Laspur valley, and we had hardly dropped three hundred feet before all sense of sickness left me, and I felt as fit as possible. A short way out of the village we were met by a patrol which Borradaile had sent out to meet us, and by two o'clock we were in camp, where we found Oldham in command, Borradaile having gone on a reconnaissance down the valley. The previous day news had been brought in that the enemy were assembled in the valley, and a small party had gone out, as I have already related. On the morning of the 6th April, Borradaile accordingly determined on another reconnaissance, this time taking the guns with him, they being carried by Laspuri villagers, who no doubt thought the game very poor fun. Gough went with the party, Oldham remaining in command of the post, which was garrisoned with the maimed, the halt, and the blind -- in other words, with men suffering from frostbite and snow blindness, of whom there were some twenty-six of the former and thirty of the latter; those men of the Kashmir troops who were fit to march being sent back across the pass as escort to the coolies.

When the reconnoitring party had gone some three miles down the valley, they came across the old camp fires of the enemy. At Rahman, two miles farther on, they left the snow behind, much to everybody's delight, and by one o'clock entered the village of Gasht, some eleven miles from Laspur, and about half-way to Mastuj, the Levies crowning a small knoll in the middle of the valley at the lower end of the village. From here they reported they could see the enemy some three miles farther down the valley, who were evidently engaged in building sangars and entrenching themselves. A short council of war was held as to the advisability of attacking them, but, considering that the force consisted of only a little over a hundred men and some fifty Levies, besides the two guns, and also the time of day, it was decided to return to camp, which was reached by dark. The day's work was highly creditable to all concerned; the march to Gasht and back had been some twenty-two miles, and information had been obtained of the position in which we might expect opposition from the enemy. On getting into camp, Borradaile's party found Colonel Kelly and myself waiting their arrival, eager to hear their news.


Chapter IV


From Laspur To Gasht

That night we had beef for dinner. This may appear a trivial fact, but it meant a great and blessed change from the eternal mutton we had been living on, none of us having tasted beef for quite six months, except in its condensed or tinned state, which does not count. Gilgit is a dependency of Kashmir, whose ruling family, being Hindus, strongly object to cow-killing, and therefore the law runs that no cows are to be slaughtered; hence none of us since crossing the bridge at Kohalla had tasted fresh beef. But now we were in Chitral territory, and a Mussulman country, so we were free to kill cows, but did so unostentatiously, as nearly all our force were Hindus. The dark deed was accomplished thus: on the houses being searched on the arrival of the first party at Laspur, an innocent little calf was found in one of the houses, and quick as thought then and there despatched. I will not reveal the murderer's name, because I do not know it. All traces were removed, and for the next few days we enjoyed hot roast beef.

We were a merry party, but what a set of ruffians we looked! Stewart and Gough were both suffering from snow blindness, owing to their generous action in giving their goggles to sepoys, and passed most of their spare time with their heads over a basin of hot water, dabbing their aching eyes; none of us had much skin on our faces, and what little remained was of a patchwork description; none of us had shaved for days -- we couldn't have stood the torture; and our clothes, too, were showing signs of wear and tear. We all now slept in our clothes, partly for the sake of warmth, and also to be in readiness in case of emergency. There we were, sitting or lying on our bedding, which was spread on the floor round the room, the latter divided, like all Chitrali houses, into loose stalls by low partitions, a small fire burning in the centre of the room, from which a thick pillar of smoke rose and hung like a cloud from the roof, through a hole in which part of it escaped. Our swords and revolvers were hanging on the walls or from pegs in the beams, the whole scene dimly lit by one or two candles. It might look very picturesque, but I always consider the best hotel is good enough for me.

As there was not space enough in the stalls for all of us, Colonel Kelly and I, as the last comers, slept in a little room off the main one; here was evidently the winter store of fodder for the cattle as it was half full of bhoosa (chopped straw). This we spread evenly over the floor to the depth of some two feet, and then laid our blankets on top. There was just room enough for us to lie out straight, the Colonel taking one side and I the other, and a softer or more luxurious bed could hardly be imagined. We had to be careful, though, not to drop matches about, and to put out our pipes before going to sleep. A halt had been ordered for the following day, to give the men suffering from snow blindness and frostbite a chance to recover, so we turned in with the blissful consciousness of not having to turn out at dawn, and slept like the dead.

The next day, April 7, was spent in hurrying forward all arrangements for an advance on the morrow. We also sent round messengers to all the villagers to come in and make their submission, on pain of having their villages burned; and seeing that we now had the upper hand, at any rate in their valley, the inhabitants came in without much hesitation, and also brought in a certain amount of supplies; consequently by night we had sufficient local coolies to carry all our baggage, supplies, ammunition, and, most important of all, the two guns. About noon on this day, Raja Akbar Khan of Punyal, whom I have before mentioned as meeting us on the march from Shoroh to Suigal, came into camp with fifty Levies, bringing in a convoy of ninety Balti coolies with supplies. We were getting along famously now, so Colonel Kelly decided to advance the next day without waiting for Peterson's detachment, as our first object was to open communication with Mastuj.

We had a political tea that afternoon: all the leaders of the Levies, old Raja Akbar Khan, Humayun, Taifu, the Nagar Wazir, Shah Mirza, and one or two princelings who had come up to see some fighting, all squatted round our little room on the straw, swigging sweet tea and munching biscuits, quite a friendly gathering; in fact, so much tea was consumed that the mess president swore he would send in a bill.

We always got our earliest and most reliable information from the Levies, as most of them had blood relations among the Chitralis. They also knew just where to look for hidden grain and supplies of all sorts. As a rule there was generally a cache under or near the fireplace in the main room, but I have also seen the Levies find them in the most unlikely places, and very queer odds and ends they sometimes pulled out of these under-ground storerooms.

On the morning of April 8th the column was formed up and ready to start by 9 A.M. Poor Gough was being left behind at Laspur in command of the garrison, which consisted of some twenty-five Kashmir troops, and the Nagar and Punyal Levies, in all about a hundred. The Levies were to come on as soon as the second party arrived. Our force, therefore, consisted of two hundred Pioneers, two guns, forty Kashmir Sappers, and fifty Hunza Levies. Our order of march was as follows: first of all went the Levies; then, with an interval of some five hundred yards, came the advance guard of a half company of Pioneers; the main body consisted of Kashmir Sappers, guns, one company of Pioneers, ammunition, hospital baggage, and rearguard of half company Pioneers. Both advance and rear-guards were commanded by British officers. It was a lovely, fine morning, and we were all in the best of spirits, and looking forward to leaving behind the detestable snow, and therewith our chief source of discomfort.

Poor old Gough looked awfully dismal at being left behind, but it was the fortune of war. At Gurkuch, at Gupis, at Ghizr, there was only one cry from officers and men -- British and Native -- "For Heaven's sake take us on with you!" The natives always added that they would never be able to face their womenfolk again if there had been fighting and they not in it. The Britisher expressed his disgust at what he called "his bally luck" in more forcible terms, but it meant the same thing, and we are all the same colour under the skin.

Off we went, through the village and across the stream by a rickety bridge, then down the left bank for about a mile, when we came to a small hamlet, -- I forget its name, -- and here I fell out and paid a visit to the house of Mahomed Rafi, the Hakim of the Laspur district. This hoary-headed old rascal had been playing fast and loose for a long time, but had at last cast in his lot openly with the enemy; he had a long list of offences to answer for, and is believed to be one of the actual murderers of Hayward about 1872.

Hayward was globe-trotting up Yasin way when these ruffians rushed his camp, seized him, and carried him into a wood with the intention of killing him. He asked them to defer the performance until daylight, as he should like to look on the world once more. This they agreed to, and soon after dawn made him kneel down and hacked off his head. Such is the story. Poor Hayward's body was brought into Gilgit, and he lies in an orchard close to the British Agency. I can quite imagine Hayward, or any man who has any appreciation of the grandeur of Nature in her wilder moods, wishing to see the sun rise once again over these tumbled masses of snow peaks and bare cliffs. The startling sensation of the immensity of these hills in comparison with man's minuteness strikes home with almost the stunning effect of a sudden blow.

It is said that the calm pluck of Hayward touched even his murderers, callous as they are to bloodshed It makes a sensational picture: a solitary figure in the foreground standing alone on the edge of a pine wood high up in the lonely grandeur of the everlasting hills, the first flush of dawn reddening the snow on peak after peak, changing the pure white to pink, the cold blue to purple, the tumbled sea of mountain summits gradually growing in distinctness, the soft mist rising from the valleys, and the group of wild figures standing within the shade of the pines. Hayward takes one long look on all this loveliness, and turns towards his executioners -- men say that even they hesitated.

Mahomed Rafi, who was supposed to have actually killed Hayward, was now Hakim of Laspur, and, as I have said, had joined the enemy.

When I had travelled through Laspur in November last, the old ruffian had come to pay his respects, and accompanied me part of the way to Mastuj, and while doing so, had stopped at a house to give some orders, and had informed me that this was one of his houses. On passing it now, I thought a visit might be useful, so, getting Shah Mirza and his Levies, I got permission to search the house. It had evidently only recently been occupied for on bursting in the door we found the cooking pots in the fireplace and fresh meat hanging in one of the rooms. After a short search we found the grain store, with several mounds of grain, which was afterwards taken into Laspur. There was nothing much more that we could find in our hasty search, but I picked up an empty spectacle-case, astonished at finding it in such a place, as Mahomed Rafi never wore spectacles in his life. I showed it to Colonel Kelly, who promptly annexed it, as he was in want of one, having mislaid his own. Shah Mirza also collared a fowl, which no doubt formed his next meal.

I caught up the column before they had gone much more than a mile, just as they were crossing a stream. After that we had some level marching into the village of Rahman, and by this time the snow was only lying in patches. Here we made a short halt. From Rahman there is a path across the hills to Chitral, by means of a nullah called the Goland Gol, of which mention will be made hereafter but at this time of year it was impossible to use this path, owing to the snow.

During the halt, the headman of the village came up to make his salaams, and also told me that a man of Ghizr had passed through that morning, escaping from the enemy. He was reported to be one of Gough's messengers, captured when taking letters to Moberly at Mastuj. I told the headman that he had better show his goodwill by bringing in the man, which he promised to do, and sent him in that night to our camp at Gasht. We learned little from him, except that the enemy were going to fight us between Gasht and Mastuj, and that the latter place was all right. This man had no idea of numbers, and when asked the strength of the enemy, replied invariably that there were very many men, but seemed equally uncertain if there were five hundred or five thousand collected in the sangar before us, and yet he had been a prisoner in their camp for some fifteen days.

I found the best way of getting information out of the prisoners was to set Shah Mirza or Humayun on the job. They used to squat down over the fire with the prisoners and engage them in conversation gradually getting what they knew out of them by simple-looking questions. Of course I couldn't do this as I didn't know their language, and the presence of a British officer put them on their guard at once.

Between Rahman and Mastuj the country is pretty much the same, a narrow valley running between high, stony hills, their tops covered with snow and their feet with boulders; then the bed of the valley more or less rocky, and the river winding from side to side, and below the main level of the valley, at depths varying from fifty to two hundred feet, the sides nearly always sheer cliff; at intervals were nullahs, down which ran streams of snow water from the hills to the river, or fans of alluvial deposit brought down by floods in previous years. On the flank of one such fan we found the village of Gasht, which we reached by 3.30 P.M. The Levies had already occupied the knoll at the lower end of the village from whence the enemy had before been seen; so, after fixing on a camping ground and giving the necessary orders, the officers all went forward to have a look.

From the top of the knoll there was an extended view of the valley, and I was able to point out the position of Mastuj, which was hidden by some rising ground, and also the general direction of the road. About three miles ahead we could distinctly see a sangar filled with men on the left bank of the river. That sangar was, as far as we could judge, on the right flank of the enemy's line. A few men could also be seen climbing a steep stone shoot on the right bank of the river, so evidently the enemy were going to try the effect of a stone avalanche as we went underneath. A good deal of discussion went on as to whether the enemy's main defence was on the left bank, in which case we should have to attack across the river, or on the right bank, in which case the present visible sangar was a flanking bastion.

At last someone suggested tea, so the meeting broke up. Colonel Kelly and I stayed behind. I asked Colonel Kelly for permission to take some of the Levies and have a cast forward. I took the Hunza men and my shikaree, Faquir, as he could translate my orders to the Levies. Off we trotted, and by the time the other officers were having tea, I was well up the hillside. It was impossible to be rushed, as the ground was pretty bad, so I extended my men, -- when it comes to sniping, one man is a smaller target than two, -- and we skirmished up and forward, so as to bring us well above the enemy's line. In half an hour we were high enough to see all the valley below, and the enemy's position was spread out like a map. I sent the Levies on about a hundred yards, and then made them line a ridge, while I sat myself comfortably down and sketched the whole show.

With my glasses I could count the men in each sangar. They were evidently cooking their evening meal, as thin columns of smoke rose from each sangar in the still evening air. I could also make out the paths leading up the cliffs from the river, and saw men going down to fetch water. I sat and watched long after I had got all the information I wanted, as I might perhaps get some useful tips that I had overlooked. It was very peaceful sitting there, but presently the sun dropped behind the hills, and it got too chilly for comfort. A whistle to the Levies and a wave of the hand brought them back, and we scrambled down the hill again, and were back in camp before dark. Here I heard that the Punyal Levies had been sent for from Laspur to come along at once.

As soon as I had explained the enemy's position to Colonel Kelly, orders were issued for the attack next day. They were short and simple. On the arrival of the Punyal Levies, they were to start, with a guide we had procured, to turn out the men above the stone shoot on the right bank of the river. I, with the Hunza Levies, was to start at 6 A.M. and work through the hills to the right rear of the enemy's position. The main body would start at 9 A.M. and attack in front. The baggage to remain in camp under a guard commanded by Sergt. Reeves, Commissariat. Then we had dinner and went to bed.


Chapter V


Chokalwat

At 5 A.M. the next morning, my orderly, Gammer Sing Gurung, woke me. It was still dark, and I dressed as quickly as possible, so as not to disturb the others, who were snoring peacefully around me. Dressing consisted of putting on my coat, putties, and some canvas shoes with rope soles. I knew the ground I should be going over would be pretty bad, and with rope soles you can skip about rocks like a young lamb, whereas shooting boots would send you flying over the cliffs. By the time I had had some poached eggs and a cup of tea, the Hunza Levies were waiting outside, so I got into my sword and trappings and went. As I passed out, Colonel Kelly wished me good luck, and I said, "Au revoir till twelve o'clock." The others snored peacefully.

Gammer Sing and the fifty Hunza Levies were ready, and I had put some chupatties into my haversack overnight, so off we went. By the time we were clear of the village, it was getting light, so, keeping close to the edge of the hills, we struck up a side nullah, took a slant across it, and then began the climb. By this time it was broad daylight. We kept climbing and gradually working round the face of the hill to the right, until we struck the snow line, and I calculated we were pretty well as high as any sangar the enemy might have on the hill. My idea was to get above them, and I didn't want my party swept into space by a stone avalanche. Still, to make matters secure, I detached ten men to go higher up still, and I had five minutes' halt to give them a start.

It was now about 7.30 A.M., and I wanted to push on, so as to be well on the right rear of the enemy by nine o'clock. Once there, we could time our attack at our leisure. Events, however, worked out somewhat differently. The ground now got very bad, and presently we came to a stone shoot which extended high up above us, while ending in a cliff a little below. This we crossed carefully, one man going at a time. Each step set the whole slide in motion and brought stones bounding down from above. The best way was to take it at a rush. We got safely across that, and the ground got worse and worse, and finally we were brought to a halt. I sent men to find a path above and below, the remainder sat down under cover, while I examined the ground in front with my glasses. It was eight o'clock now, and I was congratulating myself in having got so far, as another half-mile would bring us on to a spur which ran down on the right flank of the enemy's line.

As I was looking at this spur, I noticed that there was a nice grassy slope just about level with us, and below that the cliffs went almost sheer down into the river. Once on that slope, we could pretty well play skittles with the sangars below, as we could even now see clearly into them. Unfortunately, the ground between looked frightful, a series of ridges like the teeth of a saw, the northern faces being covered with snow, which made the going particularly treacherous. I had hardly noticed this when there was a puff of smoke and a report, and I saw to my disgust that on the edge of my nice grassy slope were a few clusters of innocent-looking rocks, which I now saw to be sangars, evidently occupied. Just at this moment a man ran across the slope and began waving his coat to someone below, and more men showed themselves among the rocks.

The Levies were still looking for a path, and Humayun wanted to return the enemy's fire; but as the Levies were armed only with carbines, and I hadn't heard the whistle of the enemy's shot, I judged it would be a waste of ammunition. To get the distance, I told Gammer Sing, who had his Martini, to try a shot at the man waving his choga, with his sights at eight hundred yards. I saw the bullet kick the dust to the right of the man, who jumped for a rock, so I knew carbines were no good at that distance.

A path was now found a little lower down, so I ordered an advance and on we went. Our appearance was the signal for the enemy to open fire, but as only one or two bullets sang over us, I knew they couldn't have many rifles. We worked on steadily forward to about five hundred yards, when shots began to drop among us, so under cover of a ridge I divided the men into two groups, and sent the first group forward under cover of the fire of the second, until the first group reached the next ridge, when they covered the advance of the second group.

The ground was shocking bad, and what made it more annoying was that, as we were attacking towards the north, and the snow lay on the northern slopes, we had to test our way every step, and keep in single file just when our advance was most exposed. I had to have a man in places to help me along. I don't mind bad ground when after mahkor, as you can take your own time, but I strongly object to taking the place of the mahkor. Our advance never stopped, but by ten o'clock we had only gone some two hundred yards, and I could see our force crossing the river on to the plain below.

The enemy in our front now began to get excited, and we saw several of them run back and make signals to those below. There was now only one ridge between us and the enemy, and we made for it. As we rose, the enemy's fire became pretty warm, but we were soon under cover again, and as our advanced men gained the ridge, they began firing and yelling as hard as they could go. I thought something was up, so made a rush, a slip, and a scramble, and I could see over the ridge as the rear party came scrambling along. I soon saw the cause of the yelling. About a hundred yards in front of us was the grassy ridge, and across this the last of the enemy was bolting, and in a few minutes had disappeared amid the most appalling yells from the Levies. That was the last our party saw of them, for we now found our path again blocked up by a precipice and again I had to send men above and below to find a practicable way. I then called for a return of casualties, and found we had escaped scot free (I expect the enemy had too). So thus ended our bloodless battle.

While a path was being looked for, Humayun and I sat down in a quiet corner and shared chupatties, and watched the fight below, which was just beginning. First we saw the advance guard get on to the plain and extend, and presently they were joined by the main body, and the whole formed up for attack; then the firing line extended and the advance commenced. Presently we saw the sangars open fire, answered by volleys from our men. Then came a larger puff of smoke and a murmur from the men round me, as a shell pitched across the river and burst over a sangar. It was as pretty a sight as one could wish for, and I felt as if I should have been in a stall at Drury Lane. I could have stopped and watched the show with pleasure. It was quite a treat to see how steadily the 32nd Pioneers worked across the plain; but just then the men below shouted that they had found a path, while I could see those above working their way on to the grassy slope. These latter now shouted that there were no enemy left on the hill, so we chose the lower road, and gradually worked our way down, joining the grassy spur lower down -- only it wasn't grassy here at all, but chiefly precipice. We got down somehow, chiefly on all fours, but by the time we had reached the sangars, the enemy had bolted, and they were occupied by our men. It had taken us nearly an hour to get down. Here I came across Colonel Kelly, and after shaking hands, I looked at my watch and found it was just twelve, so I had made a good shot at the time of our meeting when we parted in the morning.

Now I will give you an account of the attack carried out by the main body. It is the official account, so I can back its correctness.

The action at Chokalwat on the 9th April is thus described: "On the morning of the ninth April I advanced to the attack of the enemy. In the early morning Lieutenant Beynon, with the Hunza Levies, ascended the high hills on the left bank of the river to turn the right of the position and attack in rear. The Punyal Levies were sent up the hills on the right bank to turn out the men above the stone shoots.

"I advanced in the following manner: -- 

Half Coy. 32nd Pioneers, advanced guard. Kashmir Sappers and Miners       --  Half Company 32nd Pioneers         | Two guns 1st Kashmir Mountain      |= Main Body Battery, carried by coolies        | One Company 32nd Pioneers        -- 

"The baggage, under escort of the rearguard, remained in Gasht till ordered forward after the action.

"An advance was made to the river, where the bridge had been broken, but sufficiently repaired by the Sappers and Miners for the passage of the infantry. The guns forded the river, and the force ascended to the fan facing the right sangars of the enemy's position.

"The configuration of the ground was as follows: The road from the river after leaving Gasht brought us on to an alluvial fan, the ascent to which was short and steep; it was covered with boulders and intersected with nullahs; the road led across this fan and then along the foot of steep shale slopes and shoots, within five hundred yards of the line of sangars crowning the opposite side of the river bank, and totally devoid of any sort or description of cover for some two miles; it could also be swept by avalanches of stones set in motion by a few men placed on the heights above for that purpose.

"The enemy's position consisted of a line of sangars blocking the roads from the river up to the alluvial fan on which they were placed. The right of the position was protected by a snow glacier, which descended into the river bed, and furthermore by sangars, which extended into the snow line up the spur of the hills.

"The course of the action was as follows: The advanced guard formed up at about eight hundred yards from the position and the main body in rear. The 32nd Pioneers then advanced to the attack. One section, 'C' Company, extended (left of line). One section, 'C' Company, extended in support. Two sections, 'C' Company, 'A' Company, in reserve. The guns now took up position on the right and opened on 'A' sangar at a range of eight hundred and twenty-five yards. As the action progressed, the supporting section of 'C' Company advanced and reinforced. The remaining half of 'C' Company advanced, and, leaving sufficient space for the guns, took up their position in the firing line on the extreme right. Volley firing at first was opened at eight hundred yards, but the firing line advanced one hundred and fifty to two hundred yards as the action progressed. At a later stage, one section of 'A' Company was pushed up to fill a gap on the right of the guns in action in the centre of the line. The enemy, after receiving some well-directed volleys and correctly played shells, were seen to vacate 'A' sangar by twos and threes until it was finally emptied. During our advance to the fan, shots were heard in the direction of the hills, Lieutenant Beynon having come into contact with the enemy in their sangars up the hillside, who were driven from ridge to ridge. When 'A' sangar was vacated, attention was directed on 'B' sangar, and the same course adopted, with the same result; at the same time those driven down from the hills above streamed into the plain, and there was then a general flight. Six shrapnel were fired into the flying enemy at ranges of a thousand, twelve hundred, and thirteen hundred and fifty yards (three rounds per gun).

"A general advance was then made down precipitous banks to the bed of the river, covered by the fire of the reserves, the river forded, and sangars 'A' and 'B' occupied. The guns were then carried across, and, the whole line of sangars having been vacated, the column was re-formed on the fan; the line taken in crossing enabled the enemy to get well on their way to Mastuj; the advance was then continued to a village a mile and a half farther along the river, where a halt was made. The casualties consisted of one man of the 32nd Pioneers severely wounded, and three Kashmir Sappers slightly. The action commenced at 10.30 A.M. and lasted one hour. The position was of unusual natural strength, and the disposition of the sangars showed considerable tactical ability, being placed on the edge of high cliffs on the left bank of the river. The enemy were computed at four to five hundred, and were armed with Martini-Henry and Snider rifles. Several dead were found in the sangars, and the losses I estimate to have been from fifty to sixty."

By the time I had joined Colonel Kelly, the Pioneers had re-formed and were advancing, so I had very little time to take a look at the sangars. I saw one or two bodies lying around, and the shells seemed to have knocked sparks pretty successfully out of the stone breastworks. I also noticed the neat little cooking places the enemy had made behind their sangars, showing that they had been there for some time.

The advance was carried on without a check for about one and a half miles, when we came to a cluster of huts near the termination of the plain, the river here making a slight sweep towards the left side of the valley. An advance guard was thrown out well to the front, and under their protection the column halted and the men fell out. I had a first-class thirst by this time, and Gammer Sing made several trips to the river before it was quenched. Gammer Sing and I always share the same tin mug on the march. It is his mug, but he always gives me first go. In return I supply Gammer Sing with tobacco, so it is a fair division of labour. Here I finished my chupatties, and some kind man -- I think it was Borradaile -- gave me a stick of chocolate, my own store having run out, but I managed to get it replenished at Mastuj.

Good old Stewart came up as pleased as Punch at having had his first fight. Said he, "And d'ye think now that me shells killed many of the beggars? sure and their corpses ought to be just thick." He was pained to hear that in all probability we should not catch up the enemy again that day, I really think nothing less than twelve hours' hard fighting every day, with short intervals for refreshments, would satisfy him.

One of the guns, when being brought up the cliff, had slipped off the coolies and fallen down to the bottom again, breaking off the foresight, but Stewart mended it during the halt.

At the same time, the Sappers were hard at work pulling down a house for materials to build a bridge, but before it was actually begun, we heard that the river could be forded again lower down, so the bridge was not built. By this time the men were sufficiently rested, the whole column had closed up, and orders sent back for the baggage to come on.

Off we started, the Punyal Levies working down the right bank, the Hunzas on the left, the main column following the left bank of the stream. By 4 P.M. we reached the ford and crossed to the right bank, the water not being much above our knees. And almost immediately after, we saw some men drawn up on the spur we were approaching; they turned out to be the Mastuj garrison, who, on finding the besieging force halting, had come out to find out the reason. If they had only heard our guns and turned out at once, they would have cut the line of retreat of our opponents, and the whole crew must have been wiped out. Unfortunately the fort of Mastuj is built far down the reverse slope of a fan, and although some of the sentries reported they heard firing, it was thought they must be mistaken.

By 5 P.M. we had got on to the spur, and found Moberly, with part of the garrison, all looking very fat and fit; evidently the siege had not worried them much so far. A detachment of the 14th Sikhs (the remains of Ross's company) were left on the spur to cover the baggage coming in, while our column trotted down to the fort, getting there by 5.30 P.M. Here we found Jones with his arm in a sling. Our force bivouacked in a garden attached to the fort, the trees of which had been lopped to deprive the enemy of shelter, and the farther wall destroyed. This we precious soon built up again, and within an hour our force was comfortably entrenched and cooking its dinner.

What a blessing it was to be down again in a decent climate! Fires were still pleasant at night, but in the daytime the bright, cool weather was splendid.

Moberly's servant soon had some tea and chupatties ready, and while we were eating them, Bretherton, who had been out clearing some village on the other side of the fort, came in.

There was lots of news, both to hear and relate, and we were hard at it when there came the sound of a volley from the direction in which we were expecting the baggage.

Somebody said, "Cuss those niggers! why can't they let us have our tea in peace?" -- it wasn't Stewart, -- and there was a general scramble for swords and belts. A company of the Pioneers was soon doubling off, while the rest of us strolled up the road to see what the row was. We met the baggage coming in, and heard that the 14th Sikh picket had heard some people moving in the river bed, and had let drive a volley at them -- result unknown. As soon as the last of the baggage had passed, we followed it, and the picket was withdrawn. Later that night we sent back a messenger with an account of the day's fighting and the relief of Mastuj to Gilgit, but the messenger -- a levy -- shortly returned, having been fired on, and returned the fire, so it was evident that a good many of the enemy were still sneaking about.

We officers slept in the fort that night, four or five of us in a room. Mastuj is of the ordinary type of country fort, square, with a tower at each end and one over the gateway, curtains between each tower about eighteen to twenty feet high, and the towers another fifteen feet higher still. The whole place is built of layers of stones and wood plastered together with mud, while there is generally a keep or citadel inside which commands the rest of the fort, and in which are the governor's and women's quarters. In Mastuj, of course, we used these as officers' quarters. The whole fort is a horribly dirty and tumble-down old place; the roof of the officers' quarters had to be propped up, as it was considered unsafe, and I quite believe it. The rooms had the usual hole in the roof for the smoke to get out at, but Moberly had erected a stove in his room, which was a great improvement.



Chapter VI


The Reconnaissance From Mastuj

While at Mastuj we heard from Jones the story of the disaster at Koragh -- which I will give.

Ross, with Jones and about ninety-three Sikhs, left Mastuj on the 7th March, with the intention of helping Edwardes and Fowler, who were believed to be in danger at Reshun, and marched to Buni; leaving a detachment there of thirty-three sepoys under a native officer, he marched with Jones and sixty men for Reshun, hoping to arrive there that day.

After leaving Buni, the road runs for some distance along flat ground until the junction of the Turikho and Yarkhun rivers is reached. At this point the road leads up along the face of a cliff and then down on to a small plain, where are a few houses and some patches of cultivation. This is known as the village of Koragh, and immediately after, the river runs between the cliffs, which draw together and make the mouth of the defile. The path which follows the left bank crosses the debris fallen from the cliffs above and then runs along the edge of the river at the foot of another and smaller cliff, or in summer, when the river is full, the path runs over this smaller cliff. Ross's party took the lower road. After the second cliff the paths lead on to a small plain about two hundred yards wide at its greatest width, and perhaps half a mile long, and then runs up and across the face of a third cliff which drops sheer down into the river. This cliff forms the end of the trap. It would be hard to find a better place for an ambuscade.

Ross's advance guard was on this plain, approaching the spur which closes the trap, when they were fired on. Ross went forward to reconnoitre the ground, and at once saw the impossibility of driving the enemy out with his small force, and therefore ordered Jones to go back and hold the entrance of the defile to enable them to escape. On the first shot being fired, the coolies had chucked their loads and bolted, as likely as not helping to man the sangars enclosing the party. Jones, taking ten men, made an attempt to reach the mouth of the defile, but found it already occupied by the enemy, who had run up stone sangars, and by the time he had got within a hundred yards of it, eight of his ten men were wounded. He therefore fell back on the main party, who had taken refuge in some caves at the foot of the cliff.

The caves, now half full of water, owing to the rising of the river, can be seen in the photograph. The party remained in these caves till 9 P.M., when they made another attempt to cut their way out, but were driven back by avalanches of stones. They then had to scale the mountainside, but were stopped by an impossible cliff, and one sepoy, falling over, was killed, so they came back to the caves dead tired. Here they remained the whole of the next day, the enemy trying an occasional shot from across the river, where they had erected sangars; but the Sikhs had, in their turn, built sangars across the mouth of their cave, which sheltered them.

Then the enemy tried rolling stones over the top of the cliff, but this only had the effect of strengthening the sangars, so they shut that up.

During that day, Ross and Jones came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be done but cut their way out; everyone must take his chance, the rush to be made about 2 A.M. On the morning of the 10th, accordingly, at the time fixed, they made their sortie.

A heavy fire was at once opened on them from both sides of the river, while avalanches of stones were sent hurtling down the cliffs. A number of sepoys were killed or knocked senseless by stones, but the remainder reached the sangars, and cleared out the defenders at the point of the bayonet. Here poor Ross was killed by a bullet through the head, after having, so the natives say, pistolled some four of the enemy. The latter, after being driven out of the sangars, bolted up the hillside, and again opened fire from among the rocks. By the time the small band reached the maidan, there were only some seventeen men, headed by Jones: of these, Jones and nine others were wounded.

Here the little party formed up, and tried to help any more of their friends who might be struggling through, by heavy volley-firing into the sangars on both sides of the river. After some ten minutes of thus waiting, during which they twice drove off attacks of the enemy's swordsmen, who tried to close with them, and losing three more men, Jones, noticing an attempt of the enemy to cut the line of retreat, and despairing of any more of the detachment escaping, gave the order to retire. This was carried out slowly and leisurely till they reached Buni, at about 6 A.M., when they joined the detachment they had left behind. Jones and his party remained in Buni till the 17th, the enemy not daring to attack them, and they were unable to move, having no transport for their wounded.

After Ross had left Mastuj, Moberly remained in command of the fort, and on the 10th March was joined by Captain Bretherton of the Commissariat who came in with two sepoys from Ghizr.

Moberly heard that Ross had left a small party at Buni, and though he sent messengers to this party, he never received any reply, the messengers probably being captured.

On the 13th, hearing that the enemy were occupying the Nisa Gol, a position some six miles from Mastuj, he reconnoitred up to it, and found some sangars, which he destroyed, but no enemy.

A reinforcement of sixty sepoys came in that day from Ghizr. The next two days were spent in trying to collect coolies for transport, and on the 16th, in spite of the non-arrival of any coolies, he set out to Buni with a hundred and fifty sepoys, each man carrying a sheepskin coat, two blankets, a hundred and twenty rounds of ammunition, and three days' cooked rations.

He halted that night at Sanoghar, where he collected some fifty coolies, and learned by signal from Mastuj that Bretherton was sending some fifty Yarkhun coolies the next day -- fifty Punyal Levies also joined him that evening. Starting the next morning, he reached Buni by 5 P.M., when he found Jones and the remains of the Sikhs. The return journey was begun two hours later, at 7 P.M., and carried on steadily all night, a small body of the enemy following, but not daring to attack. Mastuj was reached between 10 and 11 A.M. the next day, 18th March.

By the 22nd March the enemy had surrounded the fort, and the siege began. Nothing of any event happened, the enemy contenting themselves with long-range firing, only one man being slightly wounded and two ponies killed. On the 9th of April "up we came with our little lot," and the siege was raised.

Early the next morning we were up and going through the state of the supplies and available amount of transport.

Transport and supplies were an everlasting source of worry, as it generally is with every army, great or small.

We soon got a return of the supplies in Mastuj. I forget how many days it was, but none too much for our force and the Mastuj garrison. Bretherton was sent back to bring up supplies from the rear, and messengers were sent to order in the villagers. We wanted their grain to eat, and men to carry it. The villagers began to come in after a bit, and brought a small amount of grain with them.

Stewart was hard at work getting ponies for his guns in place of the mules left behind; the gun wheel and carriage saddles were sent for, and shortly arrived.

The Levies were billeted in the houses which had lately been occupied by the enemy, and we soon had pickets out round the fort. In showing the Levies the houses they were to occupy, I examined the enemy's system of loopholes and sangars, and found they were very well made indeed. In the house which had lately been occupied by Mahomed Issar, their commander-in-chief we found the trunk of a tree which the enemy were converting into a cannon. It didn't require cannon to bring the walls of Mastuj down, -- a good strong kick would have been quite sufficient. Shortly after we had reached Chitral, Moberly reported that part of the wall had fallen on a sleeping sepoy, who was luckily saved by some beams catching and protecting him from being crushed by the debris. There was no apparent cause for the collapse, but the man is supposed to have sneezed.

The next day a fatigue party was sent out to Chokalwat to destroy the enemy's sangars, and bury any dead bodies that might be lying about. This party would also act as a covering party to Peterson, who was expected to arrive that day. With Peterson came Bethune and Luard, all very sick at having missed a fight. This detachment brought the strength of the Pioneers up to four hundred rifles.

The Hunza and fifty Punyal Levies were sent to reconnoitre towards Nisa Gol that day, and fifty more Punyals up the Yarkhun valley to forage. The rest of the day was spent in writing reports, making out official returns, and other necessary nuisances.

Colonel Kelly and I were writing in a tent pitched on the roof, and I had pretty well got through my work by 5 P.M.; and then Colonel Kelly had out the maps and returns of supplies, etc., and, Borradaile being called, there was a small council of war.

As I have before said, Colonel Kelly had practically settled at Pingal to advance by Killa Drasan, but the question was, when should we be in a position to do so? Here came in that everlasting transport and supply question. We could now, of course, cut down our baggage by leaving behind warm clothes and poshteens, as the weather would be getting hotter every day as we descended to lower latitudes; but this only meant that the men would have to carry less themselves, and, try as we would, it seemed as if we could only raise enough transport for seven days' supplies, five on coolies and two days in the men's haversacks. It was seven days' march to Chitral by the direct route, and though our intelligence pointed to the fact that supplies in the Chitral fort were probably plentiful, it was yet only summer. Then, again, we might, or we might not, get supplies on the road. We worried the question up and down and inside out, but we couldn't increase the transport by one coolie. Borradaile was for going on. I said, "The first man in Chitral gets a C.B."

Just then Raja Akbar Khan and Humayun came back, so we went out to hear their report. Old Akbar smiled a fat smile all over his face, and Humayun twirled his long moustache, -- he has a fine black beard and moustache and a deep bass voice. Akbar Khan curls his beard like an Assyrian king, and smiles good-naturedly at everything.

They reported that they had seen the enemy building sangars, and that there were many men, also cavalry. Their report was clear enough, and from their description I could pretty well place the position of the different sangars, as I had been over the ground with Harley on my previous visit to Chitral. To make matters certain, I suggested that I should reconnoitre the position next day. This was agreed to, and it was also determined to attack the enemy on the 13th April, as it was no use giving them time to entrench themselves more than we could help.

I started off about 9 A.M. on the morning of the 12th April, mounted on a transport pony. I had about fifty Hunza and Punyal Levies, under Humayun and Akbar Khan, with me; these two also had ponies, Akbar Khan having managed to get two over the pass with great difficulty. It was a lovely morning, and we were all very cheerful except Gammer Sing, who wanted to come along with me; but as he had to get my kit sorted and put right for the next day's march, I left him behind, but took his rifle and ammunition.

We dropped over the bluff and forded the Laspur stream, which was hardly over the men's knees, and then kept along the bed of the river, with a few scouts well up the hills on our left, the Mastuj or Yarkhun river protecting our right. After about two miles we came to a small homestead and Humayun told me there was a wounded man inside; so in I went, and found the poor beggar with his right leg smashed by a bullet just above the knee. There were a lot of women and children and two men in the house, his brothers, so I gave them a note to Luard, and told them to carry the man into Mastuj, which they did. Luard set his leg, and by this time he is no doubt well and happy.

Shortly after that, we climbed up from the bed of the river on to a narrow ledge which ran along the foot of the hills about two hundred feet above the river. Here we left our horses, and went scrambling along among the fallen debris for about half a mile, when we came to the foot of a stone slope, and I noticed our advanced guard had halted on the top, and on asking the reason, Humayun said that the enemy were occupying the next spurs. So up we went, and found the fact true enough, but the next spur was some thousand yards away; so on we went across that slope, and on to the next, eventually reaching a very nice little place some eight hundred yards from the spur occupied by the enemy.

From here I could see pretty well the whole of the position occupied by the enemy, except the end of the Nisa Gol nullah where it debouches on to the river. I tried going up the hill, but that only made matters worse, so I determined to sketch what I could see from here, and then try across the river. In order not to be interrupted, I sent five men well up the hill on to a spur, from whence they could see any man who tried to sneak up for a shot, and spread out the rest in skirmishing order to my front. Humayun and Akbar got behind a rock and went to sleep, and I got out my telescope and set to work.

The enemy seemed rather interested in our proceedings -- we could see their heads bobbing up and down behind the sangars; but after we had settled down, they gradually took courage, and, coming outside, sat down to watch us. This was very nice of them, for very soon I had a complete list of the garrison of each sangar, and from where I was could see the sort of gun they were armed with, -- a few rifles among the lower sangars, and nearly all matchlocks among the higher and more inaccessible ones. It was a calm, peaceful scene: the enemy sitting outside their sangars sunning themselves; and my men lying down, a few watching, the rest sleeping, one or two enjoying a friendly pipe.

Shortly after, we saw two gallant young sparks come riding along the plain on the opposite side of the river, evidently having been sent by the general to report on our proceedings. They pulled up opposite us and watched us for a short time, and then one slipped off his horse, which was led by the other behind a big boulder. Thinking they would merely watch us, I shouted to my men to keep an eye on them, and went on sketching. Presently there was a bang, and ping came a bullet over our heads. The beggar was potting at us at about a thousand yards, unpardonable waste of ammunition! I put a rock between us, and went on sketching, everyone else did ditto, and presently our friend shut up, but after a time, finding things slow, I suppose, he began again. This seemed to annoy Humayun, who asked for the loan of my rifle, and he and Akbar went dodging down the hill. They disappeared behind a dip in the ground, and presently I saw them come out lower down among some bushes, and gradually they worked their way down to the edge of the river about eight hundred yards from our friend, who was calmly sitting in the open, having occasional pot shots at us, while his friend had come out and was evidently criticising the performance.

Presently there was a bang from our side of the river, and a spurt of dust on the opposite maidan where the bullet struck. Humayun had over-judged the distance. By the time he was ready for another shot, our two friends were legging it across the plain as fast as their ponies could gallop. He got in a couple of shots more, but they did not hurt anybody.

As soon as Humayun commenced firing, the sangars in our front began humming like a beehive and presently shot after shot came dropping among us; the enemy evidently had plenty of ammunition, and for some minutes things were quite lively; but, finding we made no response, they calmed down gradually, and peace once more reigned supreme.

I chaffed old Humayun, when he came back, on his shooting powers, and he grinned in response.

I now noticed rather a commotion among the garrison of the sangars across the Nisa Gol nullah; the men began turning out, and one or two ran towards the higher sangars, evidently passing on some news. Presently I saw a crowd of men, mostly mounted, with others on foot carrying flags. Then came a fat man in white, with a standard-bearer all to himself. All the garrisons of the sangars turned out, and I counted them -- there were over a hundred in each.

The commander-in-chief rode up the whole length of the nullah, and then walked up the spur on which are shown sangars Nos. 16 and 17 in the sketch. Here he sat down, and, I have no doubt, calculated the odds on his winning when the action came off. After a time he came down the hill, and the procession moved down along the nullah and out of sight.

When I had finished my sketch, I shut up my telescope and said -- 

"Now we'll go across the river."

"Why do you want to cross the river?" said Humayun.

"I want to see the end of the nullah," said I.

"Their cavalry will get you," said he.

"What cavalry?" said I.

"You've just seen two of them," said he.

"Get out!" said I; "you're pulling my leg."

"Don't go," said he.

"I'm going," said I.

"Where the Sahib goes, I follow," said he.

"Come on, Ruth," said I. "'Whither thou goest, I will go!' I've heard that remark before."

These hillmen have an extraordinarily exaggerated idea of cavalry. Any young buck on a long-tailed screw is a Chevalier Bayard to them. Why, you've only to move ten yards to your right or left in any part of the country, and no cavalry could reach you, while you could sit and chuck stones at them.

Down we dropped again into the river bed, leaving a few men to signal any movement of the enemy while we were crossing. We had our ponies brought up and rode across the stream, the men fording, then we scrambled up the high slope of the opposite bank and shouted for the remainder to follow.

A short distance up the hill, and I could see the end of the nullah, with a large sangar covering the road. This was what I wished to know, so, after a careful look, having seen all I wanted, we started homewards by the opposite bank to that by which we had come, crossing the river again by a bridge which Oldham had been employed the day before in mending, and reached Mastuj by 1 P.M.

I gave in my report to Colonel Kelly, and then got out orders for the next day's march.

I also suggested that some light scaling ladders should be made, as I expected we should find them very useful in crossing the Nisa Gol. Accordingly, Oldham set his Sappers to work, and by evening had ten light scaling ladders ready, each about ten feet long, and light enough to be carried by one man.

A certain amount of supplies and some coolies had been collected. The guns had been mounted on ponies, and could now march along faster than when carried by coolies.

Everything was ready for an early advance the next morning, so as a little diversion we were photographed by Moberly. Moberly was coming out the next day in command of a company of Kashmir troops; after the expected fight, he would return to Mastuj to resume command, and the Kashmir troops would be put under my charge.

The orders for next day were to march at 7 A.M., baggage to remain in Mastuj till sent for, and then to come out under escort of part of the garrison, who would escort back any wounded we might have, Luard coming out in charge of the field hospital and returning with the wounded to form a base hospital at Mastuj.

I managed to get a bottle of whiskey out of Moberly. It belonged, I believe, to Fowler, but as he was either a prisoner or dead, he wouldn't require the whiskey. I also replenished my store of chocolate.


Chapter VII


The Fight At Nisa Gol

Next morning, 13th April, we were all having a good square breakfast by 6 A.M., and punctually at seven o'clock the column moved off, headed by the Levies.

Our force consisted of -- 

400 Pioneers, 100 Kashmir Infantry, 40 Kashmir Sappers, 2 Mountain guns, 100 Hunza and Punyal Levies;

rather less than a single battalion, and not much with which to force our way through seventy miles of bad country, but still we were determined to get to Chitral before the Peshawur force.

It was a perfect morning, nice bright sunshine, and a jolly fresh feeling in the air, sort of day that makes you want to take a gun and go shooting; in fact, just the very day for a fight.

The Levies were across Oldham's bridge in no time, but the Pioneers had to cross it slowly, as it was very jumpy, and only four men could be allowed on it at a time. The guns were sent up to a ford some three hundred yards up the stream. After crossing the main stream there was still a creek to be forded, but this was not much above the men's knees. This gave the Levies time to get ahead and send some scouts up the hills to the right, in order to give timely warning if the enemy should try on the rolling stone dodge, but the hills just here did not lend themselves very readily to this mode of warfare. When our little army got across the river, the advance guard was halted and the column formed up, and then on we went. Peterson was in command of the advance guard, with orders to halt when he reached the edge of the plain to allow the column to close up for the attack. On the order to advance he was to hug the hill on his right.

Just before the maidan the road drops down on to the river bed, and then runs up on to the maidan itself, which gradually slopes up to the centre, where it is divided by a deep nullah that I think they call in America a canon. The sides of this nullah are in most places perpendicular, varying from two hundred and fifty to three hundred feet in depth, with a small stream running along the bottom, the amount of water depending on the melting of the snow in the hills above. There are two places to cross it, one the regular road to Chitral, which zig-zags down the nullah near the mouth, and the other a goat track about half-way between the road and the hills. Both of these had sangars covering their approach on the enemy's side of the nullah, and any attempt to rush them would have led to great loss of life.

To the casual observer the plain looks perfectly flat, but as a matter of fact the slope is rather more pronounced at the foot than at the top near the hills, with the result that from the sangar covering the main road, the upper end of the plain is partially hidden from fire.

The plain also is really a succession of what may be described as waves running parallel with the nullah, which afford very excellent shelter to any attacking force. In fact, the only obstacle is the nullah; but, as you may see from the photos, this obstacle is no small one, and could only be crossed by two paths as far as we knew. Our object was to find another path, and to get to close quarters with the enemy.

So much for the ground: now for the fight. Peterson and the Levies got on to the maidan and extended, while the main body formed up for attack. Then the order to advance was given, and off we went.

Peterson and the Levies were in the firing line and extended, the Levies on the right.

As the remaining companies reached the level plain, they first formed into line and went forward in the regular everyday style. The ground was very nice for parade movements, a gentle, grassy slope with plenty of room. The Levies, however, were not keeping close enough to the hillside, and were gradually pushing Peterson's company off to the left, where they would have been exposed to the fire of the big sangar plus the flanking fire from the sangars up the spur on the left bank of the river.

Colonel Kelly accordingly sent me off to change their direction more to the right, and to close the Levies until they were wanted. I found Humayun's pony taking shelter under a rock, so, mounting it, I galloped after Peterson, gave him the order, and then closed the Levies on their right. This made a gap into which we of the supporting companies pushed, so now we had two companies in the firing line, two in support, and the Kashmir Company in reserve. In this formation we pushed on till we came under fire of the sangars, and had reached the valley running up into the hills, about four hundred yards from the nullah, thus again giving room for the Levies to form line on the right of the Pioneers.

The fun now began as the enemy started plugging away at us from the sangars on the spur, but not much at present from the lower ones, as only the flank of Peterson's company could be seen.

Stewart had got his guns into action and was shelling sangar No. 16. After a time Peterson engaged the sangars on the maidan, and they gave him a pretty warm time of it.

The Levies opened fire at three hundred yards, rather close range to begin an action, and it was very amusing watching them; their instruction in volley-firing had only just been begun, but they had entire faith in its efficiency.

The section commanders used to give the word to load in their own language, but the order to fire was "fira vollee," and they were supposed to fire on the word "vollee." If any man fired before the order, -- and they frequently did, -- the section commander used to rush at the culprit and slap him severely on the nearest part of him. As the Levies were lying down, the slaps were -- on the usual place.

After a time the fire from the sangar slackened, and as things seemed to be going all right, I stopped the Levies firing, and, taking two of them, went forward up to the edge of the nullah to see if there was any sign of a road. We followed the edge upwards for some two hundred yards, and then I told the two levies to go on until they found a place, and then went back.

The fire from the sangar had recommenced, as Stewart's attention had been turned towards others, so Colonel Kelly sent orders to Stewart to send in one or two more shells, which had the desired effect.

I now sent Gammer Sing to get a fresh supply of ammunition for the Levies, which he brought, and I then followed Colonel Kelly down the line to the Pioneers. In the meantime the guns had changed their position, and were engaged with the lower sangars, as was also Peterson, who, I think, was under the hottest fire the whole time, as he had the attention of two big sangars entirely paid to him. The guns also got hit a bit, and among others two of the drivers were killed; they were the owners of the gun ponies, and remained with the ponies under a guard of four Kashmir sepoys, who had commands to shoot any man trying to bolt. They and their ponies of course made a large target, but the ponies also acted as a protection. One more of the Pioneer companies now came into the firing line, and these three companies devoted their entire attention to one sangar, whose fire was now very intermittent.

I now got Colonel Kelly's leave to go and look for a path, and hailed Oldham to come and help me work forward therefore in front of the firing line, to do which we had to ask Borradaile to stop one company firing, which he very kindly did. We struck the nullah close opposite the empty sangar No. 15, and from there followed the edge till we were well within sight of the sangars in the middle of the maidan, without having found a place where we could get down, but we noticed a track which led up the opposite bank. We therefore turned back and retraced our steps till we came to a spot which we had examined before, but had thought impossible. Where we stood the drop was sheer for some seventy feet, but then there came a ledge, from which we thought we could scramble down on to the bed of the stream and up the opposite side, where we had noticed the track. We therefore hurried back; Oldham for his Sappers, and I to report to Colonel Kelly. I likewise asked for the reserve company of Kashmir troops to cross over as soon as a path could be made under cover of the fire of the already extended companies of the Pioneers. Colonel Kelly assented, and I sent off a note to Moberly to bring up his company. When I got back to the nullah, I found the Pioneers extended along the edge, and Oldham's Sappers already at work.

The Levies in the meantime had heard of a path higher up in the hills, and were sent off to cross as best they could. Having nothing more to do, I sat down where Oldham's men were at work, and watched the proceedings. The men in No. 16 sangar had evidently had enough of it, their sangar having been pretty well knocked about their ears, and when any of the survivors tried a shot, it called down a volley on him. Presently they began to bolt, and then the laugh was on our side.

That sangar was a death-trap to its garrison -- their only line of escape was across some open, shaley slopes within four hundred yards of our firing line, and the Levies were now working along the hill, and would catch them in the sangar if they didn't clear out. The result was like rabbit shooting You'd see a man jump from the sangar and bolt across the shale slope, slipping and scrambling as he went; then there would be a volley, and you'd see the dust fly all round him -- perhaps he'd drop, perhaps he wouldn't; then there would be another volley, and you'd see him chuck forward amid a laugh from the sepoys, and he'd roll over and over till he'd fetch up against a rock and lie still. Sometimes two or three would bolt at once; one or two would drop at each volley, and go rolling, limp and shapeless down the slope, until they were all down, and there would be a wait for the next lot. An old sepoy lying near me declared as each man dropped that it was his particular rifle whose aim had been so accurate, until Borradaile called him sharply to order, and told him to attend to business. Presently a crowd of men appeared higher up on the same spur, and someone called out that they were Levies. Just then one of them dropped on his knee and fired in our direction, there was a volley back, and the men disappeared again.

Oldham had now managed, with ropes and the scaling ladders, to get down on to the ledge below, so calling to Moberly to bring along his company, I dived down, followed by Gammer Sing and then Moberly, and one or two men of the Sappers followed him, and we, thinking the whole company was coming, went scrambling down to the bottom. We slid down the ropes on to the ladders, and from them on to the ledge, followed it a bit along the cliff, and then down a shale and debris slope to the stream, across that and up the other side. Scrambling on all fours up the opposite side, I heard Oldham, who was ahead of me, shout back that the company wasn't following. I yelled, "Run up a sangar, and we can hold on till they come," and finished my scramble up to the top.

Then we took a look round to see how things stood.

Devil a sign of the company coming down the rope was there, and the Pioneers seemed to have disappeared too.

Then we numbered our party -- three British officers, my orderly, and eleven Sappers, the latter armed with Snider carbines only; my orderly was the only one with a bayonet. There was a low ridge in front of us hiding the enemy's sangars, so we lined this with the Sappers, till we could see what the game was. We now saw the Pioneers moving down the nullah towards the river, while at the same time the Levies showed on the ridge and took possession of the sangar. We were all right, I saw, so I gave the order to advance -- keeping along the edge of the nullah so as to get at the sangars. Of course just my luck that as we started to advance, the buckle of my chuplie broke; there was no time to mend it, so I shoved it into my haversack, and went along with one bare foot; luckily the ground was not very stony.

As soon as we topped the swell of the ground, we saw the enemy bolting in twos and threes from the nearest sangar, now about two hundred yards off, and presently there came a rush right across our front. We opened fire, trying volleys at first, but the Sappers were useless at that, never having had any training, so independent firing was ordered. During the halt Moberly had a narrow shave, a bullet passing between his left hand and thigh, as he was standing superintending the firing. His hand was almost touching his thigh, and the bullet raised the skin of the palm just below the little finger.

The nearest sangar was now pretty well empty, and the Pioneers from the other side of the nullah were firing obliquely across our front, rather too close to be pleasant; so we altered our advance half right, so as to cut into the line of retreat of the enemy, and made for a jumble of stones out in the open; by the time we reached it, there was a stream of men flying right across our front, horse and foot, at about five hundred yards, so again we opened fire. Moberly and I both took carbines from the men, as they were firing wildly; the sepoy whose carbine I took invariably managed to jam the cartridge, partly his fault, and partly the fault of the worn state of the extractor. Gammer Sing was plugging in bullets quietly on my right, and gave me the distance as five hundred yards. I knew he was pretty correct, as I watched his bullets pitch. I sang out the distance, and we got merrily to work. Oh, if I had only had a company of my regiment, I think even Stewart would have been satisfied. Precious soon the rush had passed us, and we had to begin putting up our sights, and of course then the cream of the business was over.

About this time Shah Mirza came along, and, seeing me with only one chuplie, offered me his, which I accepted, as it was a matter of indifference to him whether he went barefooted or not. I sent him off to bring up the Levies, who were looting the arms and securing the prisoners from the sangars.

Cobbe now appeared with some few Pioneers, and shortly after, a whole company, but the enemy were now quite out of sight; however, a company was sent in pursuit. Colonel Kelly came up, and we congratulated him, and there was a general demand for cigarettes, Moberly, I believe, being the happy possessor of some. As we were grouped round Colonel Kelly, "whit" came a bullet over us, some idiot up the hill leaving his P.P.C. card, I presume.

One of the first questions I asked was, what had become of the Kashmir Company, and then first heard the following curious incident.

It appears that after the first few of us had gone down the cliff, and the rest were preparing to follow, a bullet struck some cakes of gun-cotton lying on the ground by the head of the path, where they had been placed while the Sappers were at work. The bullet, striking these cakes, ignited them, and they blazed up, and Borradaile, fearing an explosion, ordered a retirement of those troops nearest it to cover some thirty yards in rear, where they were protected by a wave of the ground. The enemy, seeing our men bolting, as they thought, rushed out of their sangars, but were promptly fired into by the Pioneers. Just then the Levies on the ridge and our small party showed across the nullah, threatening their line of retreat; this was apparently more than they had bargained for, so they began to bolt, as I have said. Then the Pioneers moved down the nullah and crossed by the goat track.

Peterson's company had found a box full of Snider ammunition in one of the sangars, so the Kashmir Company was sent back to look for any more, and also to demolish the sangars. I took the opportunity to have a look at them too. I was surprised at the magnificent way in which they were built, partly sunk into the ground, and made of huge boulders that required many men to move, and with head cover constructed of logs in the most approved fashion, evidently made by men who had been properly instructed. As I neared the largest sangar, I saw a native clothed in a red dressing-gown, sitting on the ground with a long native jezail. Rather surprised at seeing one of the enemy thus armed, I went up to him, and as I did so, he picked up his gun. I had my revolver on him in a second, and told him to drop the gun, which he did. I then asked him who he was, and found he was our long-lost child -- I mean levy -- who had been captured at Laspur. The enemy had not treated him badly, but had taken his carbine and his choga, hence the dressing-gown; in return he had sneaked a gun when the enemy were flying. I set the Kashmir troops to work, and then went back, meeting Humayun and his captives on the way.

"Humayun," I said, "your levy is over there."

"Is he alive?" said Humayun, looking in a most bloodthirsty way at his prisoners.

I assured him he was. Thereupon Humayun gave a jump, caught hold of both my hands, and kissed them violently. I was afraid he was going to kiss my ruby lips, but he didn't. He and Akbar Khan then went scuttling across country to the sangar, followed by a crowd of his men, whooping and yelling with joy.

The guns were now coming across the nullah, and the column was being formed up with the intention of crossing the river to Sanoghar, where it was proposed to camp for the night. Part of the Levies and a company of the Pioneers were sent ahead to clear the village of any evilly disposed persons; arrangements were made for bringing up the sick and wounded; and a signal message was flashed back to Mastuj for the baggage to come out.

The fight was over by 12.30 P.M., so we had only been about two hours from start to finish. Our losses were six killed and sixteen wounded, two of whom died next day. Three of the battery ponies were also killed.

The path down to the river was so steep and the rickety bridge over it so unsafe that it was determined to camp on the side of the river on which we were, especially as we should have to recross the next day.

A camping ground was soon found, pickets thrown out, and the wounded brought in.

A deputation from Sanoghar village was now seen coming across from the opposite bank. Most of the deputation on arrival seemed half naked; we thought this was a sign of humility on their part, but I heard afterwards that the Levies had come across them, and taken their chogas in exchange for that of their man in the red dressing-gown.

This deputation gave the usual yarn about being compelled to fight against us, and how glad they were that we had won.

We made our usual reply, that they could and must show their gladness by providing coolies and supplies, all of which would be paid for. We also made them send over charpoys (beds) for the wounded.

We had taken some twelve prisoners, who came in useful as transport; in fact, until we got to Chitral every man we caught was turned into a beast of burden and given a load; and if he was an Adamzada, or nobleman, he was given the heaviest load that we could find for him, oftentimes much to the delight of the poorer coolies, as an Adamzada is exempt from coolie labour in ordinary times.

The coolies used to bolt at every opportunity, which was only natural, and there was not much difficulty in doing so. As often as not, we got into camp after dark, when the coolie simply put down his load and walked off; but as our supplies diminished, we naturally required fewer coolies -- at any rate, we managed to get all our baggage into Chitral.

Moberly now handed over the company of Kashmir troops to my tender charge and departed back to Mastuj, so now I had the command of the Levies and one company added to my numerous other duties, so generally I was pretty well on the hop.

By dark the baggage had come in, the dead either buried or burnt according to their religion, and the wounded attended to and made as comfortable as we could make them under the circumstances.

Oldham and some fifty Levies who had been reconnoitring down the left bank of the river had returned, and by nine we got some dinner.

Just as we were turning in, the picket on the road over the nullah first let drive a volley, and Oldham, who was on duty, took some men and doubled out to see what was the matter. On his return, he reported the picket had heard someone moving in the nullah, and as the sentry's challenge had not been answered, they had let drive at it.


Chapter VIII


The March Resumed Through Killa Drasan

We were up by daylight the next morning, had breakfast, and were ready to march by 7 A.M. The wounded were sent back under Luard and the escort who had brought out the baggage, and we moved off in the opposite direction. Our order of march was always the same, each company taking it in turn to act as advance or rear guard, and every British officer, with the exception of Colonel Kelly and Borradaile, taking his turn on duty.

When my company of Kashmir troops was on rear or advance guard, I went with it; at other times I went with the Levies or Colonel Kelly, whichever seemed most useful.

Our march for this day led for some miles along a flat, grassy plain, a continuation of the Nisa Gol Maidan, then up and over a fairly high spur, and gradually down to the river bed opposite the village of Awi or Avi. Here we had a halt for the men to drink, as it was pretty thirsty work marching in these hot valleys. We passed a village or two on the opposite bank, but our side of the river was a desert of rocks and stones. There was a small bridge at Awi, so Cobbe, with fifty men and Shah Mirza as interpreter, was sent across to collect supplies from Buni, the village in which Jones had remained for a week after the Koragh affair. The main body continued along the right bank parallel with Cobbe's party.

During our halt two men had come in, bringing two ponies, which were much appreciated by Colonel Kelly and Borradaile.

When we got opposite Buni, there was a halt at the head of the column, and Colonel Kelly sent me on to find out the reason.

I forgot to mention that when we were encamped at Sanoghar, a man -- Chitrali -- had come in, having escaped from the enemy. His brothers were followers of Suji-ul-mulk, the little boy whom Surgeon-Major Robertson, as he then was, had made Mehter, and who was besieged in Chitral with our troops. The opposition party, represented by Mahomed Issar, Sher Afzul's foster-brother, had therefore, on capturing this man, put him in quod at Killa Drasan. He had managed to escape the day of the fight, and joined us that evening, and we promptly made use of him as a guide.

This guide now informed us that the road ahead was destroyed, and would take two days to repair, but, by turning up a spur on the right, we could get past the broken part of the road.

In consequence of this there was a halt while the Levies ascended the spur and reconnoitred the top, and very soon we saw them signalling back that all was clear. Sending back the news to Colonel Kelly, I remained with the Levies, who now turned sharp to the right and began the ascent. Humayun offered me a pony, which I thankfully accepted, and noticed that there were now two or three ponies where before there had been none. I didn't say anything at the time, but shortly after there appeared an order to say all captured ponies were to be given up to the Commissariat after the battery had had first pick. It was an awful pull up that spur. I suppose we went up at least two thousand feet. I was all right, as I had a pony, but it must have been agony for the laden coolies. Once up, the going was easy enough; open, grassy downs, gradually sloping down from where we stood to the junction of the Yarkhun and Turikho valleys, though the actual sides of the tableland dropped steeply down to the rivers. By our present divergence we had turned the flank of any position the enemy could take up between Mastuj and Killa Drasan, and had also got the higher ground, our road from here onwards being down hill.

I went ahead now with the Levies, as I wanted to find out if the fort was held at Drasan.

We got to the edge of the downs by 2 P.M., looking straight down on the fort, which was the other side of the river, but from our position we could see right down into the interior.

The place was evidently deserted, for as we were watching, I saw a man go up and try the door, but, finding it closed, he went away again. The villages all round seemed deserted, and I could only see two men driving some cattle high up in the hills.

Before I had finished my sketch, the advance guard came up, and, shortly after, Colonel Kelly. There was a short halt to let the tail of the column close up, and then we commenced the descent. We were down on the river bank in twenty minutes, and the Levies waded across, I on my pony. We found the remains of a bridge which had evidently only just been destroyed, and the material, I fancy, thrown into the river. The Levies were soon up to the fort, and we had the main gate down in a jiffy by using a tree as a battering-ram, and then the Levies went through the place like professional burglars. Before I had hardly got into the courtyard they had found the grain store, and were looting it. I put Gammer Sing on sentry duty over the entrance, and, Borradaile coming up, we inspected it, and found enough grain to last us some months. We now set the Levies to work to get beams for repairing the bridge; at first we could not find any long enough, until the Levies noticed the roof poles of the verandah. We had them out and ran them down to the river bank, opposite to where the Pioneers had drawn up on the farther bank.

It took some time to build the bridge, and it was pretty rickety when done, but it saved the men having to ford. Only one man fell into the river, but he was pulled out all right. The baggage did not arrive at the bridge till dark, and most of the coolies waded across, as there was not time for them to cross in single file on the bridge. The battery also forded, but the donkeys had to be unladen and the loads carried across by hand, and the donkeys were then driven in and made to swim. It was night before the rearguard began to cross, Cobbe, who was in command, not getting in till close on nine o'clock. A couple of shots were fired after dark, and there seemed no satisfactory explanation as to why they were fired, but nobody was hit. The coolies were all put into the courtyard of the fort and a guard on the gate, and they soon had fires going, round which they huddled.

As it was impossible to carry away all the grain we had found, I got permission to issue a ration to all the coolies, who had most of them no supplies of any description, and, telling the guard who had replaced Gammer Sing to let the coolies in in single file, I then sent some Levies to drive them up like sheep. The news soon spread that food was going cheap, and they didn't require much driving. The flour was in a bin about six feet square, by four feet high, and only a small round hole at the top. We soon enlarged that so that a man could get in. I furnished him with a wooden shovel evidently meant for the job, and gave the order for the men to file in. As each man came in he received a shovelful, into his skirt tail, and then had to march round a box and out of the door. It took some two hours to finish the job, and even then the flour was not expended, while the grain, of which there was some in more bins, had not been touched. I left the guard over the door, and got back in time to get orders out for the next day's march, by which time Cobbe and the rearguard had come in, dinner was ready, and it had begun to rain.

We were camped in front of the fort, the men in a field, ourselves alongside on a praying place overlooking the river. The Levies were on the right, the ammunition and stores piled by the quarter-guard, the coolies locked up in the fort, and the pickets all right, so we turned in. Towards morning the rain began to fall heavily, so I pulled my bedding under the fort gateway, where I found Stewart and Oldham had already got the best places; however, I found a spot between two levies, and finished the night comfortably enough. We had not done a bad day's work on the whole. Marched from seven in the morning till six at night, covering some twenty miles of hilly country, made a bridge, and occupied one of the chief forts of the country. Cobbe, with the rearguard, had had the poorest time, but he had had the satisfaction of raiding into Buni.

We woke up next morning to find a dull grey sky and the rain pouring down, everything damp and miserable, and the cook having a fight with the wood to make it burn. Our proposed march for the day being only a short one, we did not start till eight A.M. As we were moving off, a Kashmir sepoy turned up who had been one of Edwardes' party, and whose life had been saved by a friendly villager who gave him some Chitrali clothes. I told him to fall in with the company, and he came down with us to Chitral. The remainder of the flour was distributed among the sepoys, and we took as much grain as we could find carriage for, but it was very little.

A small convoy of Punyal Levies joined us that day; they had been foraging up the Yarkhun valley, and had been sent after us by Moberly. Our road led along the valley through cornfields and orchards, which, in spite of the rain, looked very pretty and green. The trees were just in their first foliage and the corn about a foot high, while all the peach and apricot trees were covered with bloom. We did not see a soul on our march, but the officer in charge of the rear-guard reported that as soon as we left Killa Drasan, the villagers came hurrying down the hill in crowds.

At one place we had a short halt on account of a battery pony, which was amusing itself by rolling down a slope with a gun on its back; it was brought back nothing the worse for its escapade, and we resumed our march.

Before getting into camp, our road led up from the lower valley on to some gentle, undulating spurs of the main range of hills; here there was a cluster of villages, and every available spot was cultivated.

On one of these spurs we camped, where three small villages or clusters of houses formed a triangle, the centre of which was a cornfield. This formed an excellent halting-place, as the men were billeted in the houses, each giving the other mutual protection. We formed our mess in part of the rooms of the headman's house, one Russool of Khusht; he was foster-father to the late Nizam-ul-mulk, but had acknowledged the opposition and joined Sher Afzul. (In the photograph he is sitting half hidden behind the Mehter's left arm, with his head rather raised.)

As we had been great friends during my first visit to Chitral, -- (he was awfully fond of whisky), -- I've no doubt he was pleased to hear I had been his guest in his own house, but I never had an opportunity to thank him, as he left Chitral hurriedly just before our arrival. The house is the best I have seen in Chitral, a fine stone-paved courtyard, surrounded on three sides with rooms and a verandah, a fine old chinar tree near the gateway on the fourth side. The principal rooms are high and larger than usual, but of the usual pattern. I think we got two companies of the Pioneers and ourselves into this house alone.

By three o'clock we had settled down, and were getting dry. The Levies were sent out foraging, and brought in several ponies. As our stores decreased, and more ponies were brought in, we had spare ponies for riding, and we were nearly all mounted by the time we reached Chitral. However, we had not been there ten days before the owners began turning up, and we were ordered to give them back, much to our disgust. It was quite a treat to be in camp and settled before dark, and I've no doubt the coolies were as thankful as we were. The only drawback to our food was the flour of which the chupatties were made; it was coarse to a degree, and seemed to consist chiefly of minute speckly pieces of husk, which used to tickle our throats up in the most unpleasant manner, and had a nasty habit of choking the swallower, in addition to being highly indigestible. We used at last to sift the flour through linen, and the residuum was a surprise and revelation.

We had intended to march the next morning by 7 A.M., with the intention of getting to a village called Parpish, but as it was still pelting with rain, the march was deferred, to give the weather a chance of clearing up, which it very kindly did about 10 A.M., when we started. The Kashmir Company was on advance guard that day, so I went with them, two levies leading, as usual, about a quarter of a mile ahead. We struck up country for about two miles, till we got to a kotal, or saddle, from whence we had a splendid view of the surrounding country. During a halt, Colonel Kelly came up, and I was able to point out to him the different places -- Koragh Defile, where Ross's party had been cut up, Reshun, where Edwardes and Fowler had held out for a week, and Barnas, a village we reached the next day. All these places were on the opposite bank of the river and several thousand feet below us. We had, by taking our present route, avoided a very difficult and dangerous part of the country, and no doubt much disgusted the inhabitants, who, on the old route, would have had all things their own way.

By two o'clock we had reached the village of Gurka, where we were met by a deputation, from whom we demanded certain supplies to be brought to our camp on pain of severe punishment if not complied with, and by 4 P.M. we got to the hamlet of Lun, and as there was a good camping ground, good water and firewood, Colonel Kelly decided to halt there. Here also supplies were demanded, the amount depending a good deal on the number of houses and the knowledge of the locality possessed by Humayun. The Lunites paid up smartly enough, as we were too close neighbours to allow of any hesitation; but the Gurka contribution had only partly come in the next morning, so that a party of the Levies was sent back, and the Gurka villagers had the trouble of bringing the loads along to Barnas, instead of only two miles into Lun, while the headman was made to carry a box of ammunition all the way to Chitral.

Before evening the sun came out, and it was very jolly in camp. We had some nice short turf to lie on, and the night was not too cold for comfort. There were good places for the pickets, and the camp was compact and handy.


Chapter IX


Nearing Chitral

The next morning, April 17th, we started sharp at 7 A.M. Two prisoners had been brought in the night before, one of whom had a Snider and twenty rounds of ammunition, the other a matchlock. They confessed that they had fought us at Nisa Gol, and stated they were now going home. We thought differently, and requested them to carry boxes of ammunition; one of them, the owner of the Snider, objected, on the ground that he was a mullah, but the objection was overruled as frivolous, and he accompanied us to Chitral. We always gave the ammunition to doubtful characters, as they were then under the direct supervision of the guard, and the loads were also more awkward and heavier than skins of flour.

We dropped down the hills now to the river bank. I was on rearguard, a nuisance at the best of times, as any check at the head of the column acts on the rearguard in increasing ratio to the length of the column, so a good deal of time is spent in wondering why the dickens they don't get on in front. That was a particularly bad day for halts: the first one was caused by the column having to cross the Perpish Gol, a very similar place to the Nisa Gol, but undefended. About two miles farther on, the road ran across the face of a cliff, and had been destroyed; it took some three hours to repair it, and then the baggage could only get along slowly.

We had some five unladen donkeys that were kept at the end of the baggage column in case of need, and, one of them trying to push past another, they both rolled over the cliff and went down about a hundred feet on to the road below, which here made a zigzag. The first donkey who came down landed on his head and broke his silly neck; but the second donkey had better luck, and landed on the first donkey in a sitting position. He got up, sniffed contemptuously at his late friend, and resumed his journey. We rolled the remains of the elect over the cliff into the river, and also resumed our course.

During this march and following ones we frequently saw the bodies of men floating down the river or stranded in shoals. They were probably the Sikhs killed with Ross, or perhaps some of Edwardes' party. By 4.30 P.M. the rearguard had crossed the cliff, and, rounding the shoulder of a spur, descended to a plain, bare of vegetation, with the exception of the inevitable wormwood. We crossed this for about a mile, and then struck down to the river, and saw the Pioneers and guns drawn up on the farther bank, and just moving off.

The road on the right hand having been again destroyed a few miles beyond, the direction of the column had been changed, and, a ford having been found, the troops had waded across, with the intention of camping that night at the village of Barnas, the rearguard arriving just in time to see the main body move off towards the village. The Levies had been left behind to help the baggage across, and rendered invaluable assistance, saving many a man from drowning.

I found most of the coolies with their loads still on the right bank of the river, leisurely proceeding to strip before wading across; the loads had to be carried on their heads, the water being well above their waists. Those loads that could be divided were carried over piecemeal, the coolie returning for the second part after taking the first across. This idea was all very fine in theory, but we found that most of the coolies, having made the first trip, sat down on the bank and proceeded to dress, leaving the remainder of their load to find its way across as best it could. Luckily Sergeant Reeves was on the farther bank, and I having also crossed over, we proceeded to drive every coolie back into the river, until there was not a load left on the opposite bank.

Rudyard Kipling, in his story of the taking of the Lungtungpen, tells how, after the scrimmage in the village, "We halted and formed up, and Liftinant Brazenose blushin' pink in the light of the mornin' sun. 'Twas the most ondacent parade I iver tuk a hand in -- four-and-twenty privates an' a officer av the line in review ordher, an' not as much as wud dust a fife between 'em all in the way of clothin'." As I stood on that bank, with the evening sun lighting up the river, I thought of "Liftinant Brazenose," and also blushed. True, I was clothed myself, but instead of twenty-five, I had two hundred coolies in the same condition as that bashful officer's army.

It took us some three hours before all those loads were over, during which we had some exciting moments. Most of the coolies found the stream too strong to stem alone, and so they crossed in parties of a dozen or more, holding hands; but now and then a man would try by himself, generally with the result that half-way across he would get swept off his feet, and go floating down the stream, vainly endeavouring to regain his footing. Then there would be a rush of two or three of the levies, the man would be swung on to his feet, and his load fished for. One man I thought was bound to be drowned; he had somehow tied his load on to his head, and, being washed off his feet, his head was kept down below the water, while his legs remained waving frantically in the air. The load, being light, floated, and in this manner he was washed down stream, till two levies reached him, and, swinging him right side up, brought him spluttering ashore.

I often noticed, when sending an old man back for the remainder of his load, that some youngster who had brought his whole load across would volunteer to bring the remainder of the old man's, and, of course, I was only too glad to let him. We found the young men easy to manage, and the old men were let down lightly; it was the middle-aged man, full of strength and his own importance, who sometimes tried to raise objections, but it was getting late, and no time for fooling, so we drove our arguments home with a gun butt, and the man obeyed. The rearguard crossed in the dark, and by nine o'clock I was able to report to Colonel Kelly that everybody had arrived in camp, just as dinner was ready.

I didn't turn in till late that night, as I was on duty, and had to go scrambling round the pickets; even at that late hour I saw many men still cooking, probably preparing food for the next day.

As our supplies were now reduced to less than three days, our march the next morning was ordered for 10 A.M., in order to allow foraging parties to go out at daybreak to scoop in anything they could find.

In the meantime, I sent some levies forward to the next village to reconnoitre.

The foraging parties did not bring in much, but in our case every little was of importance, and by 10 A.M. we started. Our front in camp had been protected by a deep nullah; it took some time getting across this. By the time we cleared the village, we met our returning scouts, who reported having seen the enemy in the village of Mori, and reported their strength as some one hundred men on foot, and about twenty horsemen. So we all cheered up at the chance of a fight.

The road now dropped down to the river bed, and ran along the foot of some cliffs three or four hundred feet sheer above the roadway; there was about a mile of this, and then two miles of narrow path along the face of steep shale slopes and cliff face high above the river. Any force once caught in this place could be cut off to a man. The path was so narrow that in many places the gun ponies could not have turned round.

Colonel Kelly, however, was not to be caught in this way, so the advance guard was ordered to go right through this part of the road till they reached the maidan on the farther side, to hold that, and send back word that they had done so, the main body halting in the meantime till a clear road was announced. Half-way through, the advance guard found the road broken, but it was soon mended, and the end of the road under the cliff reached. Here there was a flattish bit of maidan for about fifty yards before the path ascended, and crossed the face of slope and cliff. The officer in command of the advance guard, thinking this was the maidan mentioned in his orders, sent back word that he was through the defile, and the road clear. Accordingly the main body advanced with a flanking picket on the cliff above. I was with Colonel Kelly at the head of the column, when, turning a corner, we came slap on top of the halted advance guard. There was no time to stop now, and the advance guard was hurried on to allow the main body to, at least, get clear of the cliffs and on the slopes. We got at last on to the slopes, but found the road broken in several places, which delayed the column considerably; luckily, I knew the Levies were on ahead, but I was glad when we reached the end of the bad track.

When we were once more on the move, I went ahead to join the Levies, and find out about the reported enemy. I found the Levies on the maidan that our advance guard should have occupied in the first place, and with them two men who had come out from the village of Mori, now only some two miles away.

These men reported that Mahomed Issar had left about 7 A.M. for Khogazi, taking all his following with him, and that he would defend a position known as the Goland Gol, just in front of that village.

I now went ahead with the Levies, and we swept through the village till we saw clear open country ahead, and satisfied ourselves that there were none of the enemy left.

I then ordered the Levies to ransack every nook and cranny for supplies, and went myself in search of a camping ground. That was not a very difficult job, and I soon came upon a nice garden and orchard, with big shady mulberry trees, and a stream flowing down the centre. On one side was the house that Mahomed Issar had occupied, and belonged to one of Sher Afzul's leading men. It was a well-built house, and inside we found some thirty sacks of caraway seeds, the stuff they put in what are called "wholesome cakes for children."

The Pioneer native officers told us that each sack was worth at least one hundred rupees in Peshawur, but we would gladly have exchanged the whole amount for half the amount of flour. One of the sacks was emptied out and the men allowed to help themselves; each man took away a handful or so, as natives are very fond of it for cooking purposes, especially for curry, a little going a long way. The whole camp smelt of caraway seed, and not an unpleasant smell either. The house was pulled down for firewood. Everyone was delighted with the camp, and it was as picturesque as could be desired. The weather was first-class for bivouacking, the trees were in full leaf, and gave a delightful shade, while the ground was covered with a good sound turf.

Foraging parties were sent out immediately, and the villagers who had met us promised to go and induce their friends to return. In fact, they did collect some ten men, each of whom brought a small sack of flour, and with that and what the foraging parties brought in, we had enough for ourselves and the coolies for three days, by which time we hoped to arrive in Chitral. A good deal of the grain brought in consisted of unhusked rice and millet, what canary birds are fed on in England, -- good enough for the coolies, at any rate, most of them having been used to it from childhood. We tried to get the village water-mills going, but all the ironwork had been carried away, and we had no means of quickly refitting them, so the unthreshed rice and millet seed was issued as it was, and the men had to grind it as best they could, with stones. We still had some goats and sheep, and the men used to get a meat ration whenever there was enough to go round.

The rearguard was in by 5 P.M. that day, the first time since we had left Mastuj that it had come in before dark. Things were looking up.

The bridge at Mori had been burned, but we heard of another some two miles farther down, which, if destroyed, could be more easily mended, and as the reputed position taken up by the enemy could be turned from the right bank of the river, it was determined to repair it.

Consequently, early the next morning, Oldham and his Sappers, with a covering party of one company of Pioneers under Bethune, and the Hunza Levies, started to repair the bridge, and be ready to cross and turn the enemy's flank, should he be found awaiting us.

An hour later the main body started over a road leading along a high cliff. Here and there the enemy had evidently made attempts to destroy the road, but so ineffectually that the advance guard hardly delayed its advance for five minutes to repair it, and by 10 A.M. we had reached the broken bridge, and found Oldham and his party hard at work mending it.

The great difficulty was want of beams to stretch across from pier to pier, but attempts were being made to get these from an adjacent village on the opposite bank of the river.

The bridge would not be ready for some two hours at earliest, so Colonel Kelly sent me on to reconnoitre the Goland Gol, which we expected the enemy to hold. I kicked my pony into a gallop and hurried forward.

About a quarter of a mile farther on, I saw one of the road-bearing beams of the destroyed bridge which had stranded on the opposite bank, and sent back a note describing where it could be found.

Another quarter of a mile brought me up to the Punyal Levies, who were already reconnoitring the spurs where the army were supposed to be; but after a careful look through my glasses, we came to the conclusion that there was no enemy, and again advanced. We reached the Goland Gol, which is a narrow nullah running up into the hills on the left bank of the river, the sides being impracticable for several miles, and down the centre of which rushes a mountain torrent, the road to Chitral crossing this latter, just before it flows into the Yarkhun river, by means of a bridge. This bridge we found destroyed, but I sent half the Levies across by fording the stream a hundred yards higher up, and made them occupy the ridge on the far side, and put the remainder on to repair the bridge. I also gave my pony and a note to one of the levies, whom I sent back with a report to Colonel Kelly, who, on receiving it, had work on the other bridge knocked off, as it was no longer wanted.

We hunted for the beams of the Goland Gol bridge, which we found jammed in the stream a short way down, only one out of the four being smashed, and soon had them back in their places. Then we laid a roadway of boards from a hut near, and filled up the holes with branches, and had the bridge ready before the advance guard arrived. I sent back word, and then crossed the stream and joined the remainder of the Levies on the farther side. Here I found several sangars which covered the approaches to the bridge, and soon had them down, and then went on to the village of Khogazi, which was about a mile ahead.

We swept through that village in the usual manner from end to end, finding only one man who turned out to be a Gilgiti; he had been carried into slavery several years previously, but had married and settled down. From him we learned that Mohamed Issar, with a following of about one hundred men, had arrived the day before about noon; shortly after, a messenger came in from Sher Afzul, telling him to come into Chitral without delay, and consequently the whole party had set off about 4 P.M. All the villagers, he said, had fled up the Goland Gol to the higher hills, but he would try and bring in any he could find. He did not think the enemy would try and fight again, though there was a place called Baitali, just before the opening into the Chitral valley, where, if any opposition was offered, it would be made. The position could be turned from both flanks, and ponies could go, but it was not a good road. He professed himself as willing to go and find out if the Baitali Pari was occupied, so I sent him off. I knew the place as one of the worst bits in the whole road between Mastuj and Chitral, but I also knew it could be passed by crossing the river at Khogazi and climbing the hills on the right hand, and down on to the Chitral river above its junction with the Yarkhun river. This would be convenient if the Chitral bridge was destroyed, as it would take us along the right bank, on which stands the fort; but I knew also of a ford about two miles above the Chitral bridge, where we could cover our passage, as the ground was level and open.


Chapter X


We Reach The Goal

I picked out a camping ground even better than we had enjoyed at Mori, and then shared some chupatties and chocolate with Rajah Akbar Khan.

The main body came in by two o'clock, and the baggage shortly after. Foraging parties were sent out, and Oldham sent to report on the bridge in case we decided to cross. He reported it as practicable, so a guard was put on it to keep it so.

Stewart came into camp that day like a bear with a sore head. "Here had he been hauling his guns over condemned precipices in pursuit of an invisible enemy. Call this war! it was only a route march. For a promenade he preferred the Empire Theatre."

We tried to console him with hopes of a fight before Chitral, but he declared the Chitralis had grievously disappointed him, and went off to see about fodder for his ponies. Alas, poor Stewart! he didn't get his desire.

As soon as we had settled down in camp, Colonel Kelly told me to try and find some man who would carry a letter into Chitral, to warn the garrison of our approach. I got hold of Shah Mirza, and asked him if he knew anyone who would go. First, we tried the man who had escaped from Killa Drasan, but he refused; then Shah Mirza volunteered to go himself, but he was too useful to be spared. Just as we were wondering who we could get to go, Humayun and Akbar Khan turned up, evidently excited, and escorting a man who was bearing letters from Chitral. He handed over a letter addressed to "The officer commanding troops advancing from Gilgit." Inside was a letter from Surgeon-Major Robertson, saying that Sher Afzul had fled on the night of the 18th April, and the siege of Chitral was raised. He enclosed a return of the killed and wounded, which, he requested, might be forwarded to India. Then we went through the list, and came across poor Baird's name among the killed. This was the first we had heard of it, the natives all declaring that it was Gurdon who had been killed. Among the wounded we came across Surgeon-Major Robertson severely and Captain Campbell severely. Poor old General Baj Singh and Major Bicham Singh were killed, and all together the casualties amounted to one hundred and four killed and wounded out of three hundred and seventy combatants. So the garrison had evidently had a lively time of it. Then we set to work and pumped the messenger dry of all the news he could tell, the details of which are now too well known for me to relate. The man had a passport from Surgeon-Major Robertson, sending him to Killa Drasan, so he was allowed to go. We also found out from him that there was no enemy between us and Chitral, at which Stewart swore openly. My spy returned on meeting the Chitral messenger.

There was no difficulty now in getting a man to go to Chitral, so we sent off one with a note, saying we should arrive next day by noon, the 20th April.

The news had spread quickly through camp, and the native officers came round to hear about it. We sent back a post to Mastuj by some Nagar Levies who had just brought in a post, and then had a good discussion as to the causes that led to the raising of the siege.

I don't know if any of the other officers felt it, but I know, speaking for myself, that with the departure of any uncertainty about our arrival in Chitral in time to save the garrison, a good deal of interest also departed.

I felt inclined to agree with Stewart, that the enemy had given us a just cause for complaint by not playing the game. At any rate, they might have given us a run for our money in front of Chitral, and this seemed to be the general idea throughout the column, consequently our opinion of the Chitrali pluck sank considerably.

We marched at 6 A.M. the next morning punctually, and by noon the advance guard was in the Chitral valley. A halt was ordered to allow the main body to form up, as the guns had had a bad time getting through the Baitali Pari, and had to be unloaded and carried by hand for some distance.

After about two miles we came in sight of the Chitral bridge, which had not been destroyed, and, soon after, of the fort, with the Union Jack still floating on one of the towers.

We crossed the bridge, closed up the column on the other side, the buglers were sent to the front, and we marched on to the fort with as much swagger as we could put on.

We found the garrison in front of the main gate, and were very glad to shake hands again with all our old friends and congratulate them on their splendid defence.

We had a short halt, and then moved on, and took up a position covering the fort, with our front on a nullah and pickets facing south. Our bivouac was in a nice shady garden, with plenty of good water and wood.

When the men had settled down in camp, the officers went back to the fort, where the garrison gave us breakfast, or rather lunch. There was a great deal to hear and tell, and for the first time we began to realise what a touch-and-go time the garrison had been having. There was only one pause in the conversation, and good old Stewart chipped in with "D'ye think, now, there's any chance of another fight?"

After tiffin, we went round and saw all the sights of interest, and generally interviewed the lions. We saw Harley's mine, the gun tower, the enemy's sangars, the hospital, and we did not forget poor Baird's grave, which was just outside the main gate. Then we went back to camp, and most of us took the opportunity to write home. I also took a photograph when everyone was assembled over the homely cup of tea. The bottles on the table look like whisky, but they only contain treacle made by melting down country goor, the extract of sugar-cane. It was our substitute for butter or jam, luxuries we had not seen for weeks. Whisky was a dream of the past, and rum a scarcity. In fact, there was no difference between what we and the sepoys ate, except in the manner of cooking.

We went to sleep that night with the blissful consciousness that the next day was a halt at any rate, and I think we needed the rest. We had put on our least ragged coats to march in and make as brave a show as possible, but our kit generally was in a pretty disreputable state, and there was a good deal of work wanted in the laundry line. Most of us, also, had misgivings about our boots. I was reduced to choosing between boots with large holes in the soles or chuplies mended with string; the boots I kept for show days, as the holes didn't show, and the chuplies for ordinary work. Most of the other officers were much in the same plight.

So ended the march of Colonel Kelly's column to Chitral. Our record, on the whole, was not bad, though, of course, judging by actual distance, we had not done much; it was more the difficult nature of the ground and the altitude at which some of it was done that lent interest to the march, and I am unfeignedly glad my luck caused me to participate in it.

The next day the Kashmir troops of the garrison came out and camped with us, and revelled in the fresh air after the poisonous atmosphere of the fort. Poor chaps! they were walking skeletons, bloodless, and as quiet as the ghosts they resembled, most of them reduced to jerseys and garments of any description, but still plucky and of good heart. They cheered up wonderfully in a few days with good fresh air and sleep, and marched from Chitral quite briskly when they left.

The next day I again went round the fort and got some photos, which follow. One of the British officers of the garrison beneath the gun tower, which was set on fire, and during the extinguishing of which Surgeon-Major Robertson, the British agent, was wounded by a Snider bullet. There is also the loophole, afterwards made, from which a sentry inside the tower could fire at anyone within a few feet. Then I got Harley to show me the site of his sortie, and pretty grisly the place looked, but unfortunately the photograph I took, showing the mine lying open like a ditch to the foot of the tower, was a "wrong un." But I succeeded in getting one showing the mouth of the mine, with the excavated earth.

Then I took one of the sangars from the interior, with the little shelters used by the Pathans when not amusing themselves with rifle practice. The water tower is just visible through the foliage.

Then I took a photo of the fort from the corner by the gun tower looking towards the musjid, which is shown in a photo at the beginning of the book, but taken in more peaceful times. It shows the bridge in the distance, which the fire of the Sikhs made too hot for the Chitralis, who had to cross over the hills in the daytime.

Then I took Harley and the two native officers of the 14th Sikhs, Subadar Gurmuskh Singh and Jemadar Atta Singh. Atta Singh put on white gloves to grace the occasion, but evidently trembled violently during the exposure.

I got a shot at Borradaile sitting in a shelter Oldham had run up for himself; the hawk and spear were looted at Sanoghar, I think. Borradaile looks very like Diogenes in his tub. I also took some Kafirs who strolled into camp. We used to buy their daggers, but they got to asking as much as twenty rupees for a good one after a time. Every Kaffir has a dagger, some of them very good ones, but roughly finished.

After we had been some days in Chitral, some of the 3rd Brigade under General Gatacre arrived, followed by General Low and the headquarter staff.

There was a parade of all the troops in Chitral, with the usual tomasha of salutes and inspection. We were then formed up in a square, and General Low made a speech, in which he said that the honour of raising the siege of Chitral belonged to Colonel Kelly's force; whereat we of that force threw out our chest and patted ourselves on the back. We also winked the other eye.

Little Suji-ul-mulk, the Mehter elect, was present at the review with his following, and personally conducted by the B.A., resplendent in political uniform, we soldiers being in khaki. The parade was dismissed, and, headed by the pipes of the general's escort and of the 4th Gurkhas, we marched back to our camp.

A few days afterwards, I was ordered back to Gilgit, to take up Baird's duties, and the Pioneers followed shortly after.

The Kashmir troops have gone back to Sudin on relief, and the Pioneers have followed. There are only one or two of us now left in Gilgit who took part in the march; but, black or white, it is a bond between us which will, I hope, last our lifetime.

<eob>

Five Children And It

By

Edith Nesbit



Chapter 1 Beautiful As The Day


The house was three miles from the station, but before the dusty hired fly had rattled along for five minutes the children began to put their heads out of the carriage window and to say, 'Aren't we nearly there?' And every time they passed a house, which was not very often, they all said, 'Oh, is THIS it?' But it never was, till they reached the very top of the hill, just past the chalk-quarry and before you come to the gravel-pit. And then there was a white house with a green garden and an orchard beyond, and mother said, 'Here we are!'

'How white the house is,' said Robert.

'And look at the roses,' said Anthea.

'And the plums,' said Jane.

'It is rather decent,' Cyril admitted.

The Baby said, 'Wanty go walky'; and the fly stopped with a last rattle and jolt.

Everyone got its legs kicked or its feet trodden on in the scramble to get out of the carriage that very minute, but no one seemed to mind. Mother, curiously enough, was in no hurry to get out; and even when she had come down slowly and by the step, and with no jump at all, she seemed to wish to see the boxes carried in, and even to pay the driver, instead of joining in that first glorious rush round the garden and the orchard and the thorny, thistly, briery, brambly wilderness beyond the broken gate and the dry fountain at the side of the house. But the children were wiser, for once. It was not really a pretty house at all; it was quite ordinary, and mother thought it was rather inconvenient, and was quite annoyed at there being no shelves, to speak of, and hardly a cupboard in the place. Father used to say that the ironwork on the roof and coping was like an architect's nightmare. But the house was deep in the country, with no other house in sight, and the children had been in London for two years, without so much as once going to the seaside even for a day by an excursion train, and so the White House seemed to them a sort of Fairy Palace set down in an Earthly Paradise. For London is like prison for children, especially if their relations are not rich.

Of course there are the shops and the theatres, and Maskelyne and Cook's, and things, but if your people are rather poor you don't get taken to the theatres, and you can't buy things out of the shops; and London has none of those nice things that children may play with without hurting the things or themselves - such as trees and sand and woods and waters. And nearly everything in London is the wrong sort of shape - all straight lines and flat streets, instead of being all sorts of odd shapes, like things are in the country. Trees are all different, as you know, and I am sure some tiresome person must have told you that there are no two blades of grass exactly alike. But in streets, where the blades of grass don't grow, everything is like everything else. This is why so many children who live in towns are so extremely naughty. They do not know what is the matter with them, and no more do their fathers and mothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, tutors, governesses, and nurses; but I know. And so do you now. Children in the country are naughty sometimes, too, but that is for quite different reasons.

The children had explored the gardens and the outhouses thoroughly before they were caught and cleaned for tea, and they saw quite well that they were certain to be happy at the White House. They thought so from the first moment, but when they found the back of the house covered with jasmine, and in white flower, and smelling like a bottle of the most expensive scent that is ever given for a birthday present; and when they had seen the lawn, all green and smooth, and quite different from the brown grass in the gardens at Camden Town; and when they had found the stable with a loft over it and some old hay still left, they were almost certain; and when Robert had found the broken swing and tumbled out of it and got a lump on his head the size of an egg, and Cyril had nipped his finger in the door of a hutch that seemed made to keep rabbits in, if you ever had any, they had no longer any doubts whatever.

The best part of it all was that there were no rules about not going to places and not doing things. In London almost everything is labelled 'You mustn't touch,' and though the label is invisible, it's just as bad, because you know it's there, or if you don't you jolly soon get told.

The White House was on the edge of a hill, with a wood behind it - and the chalk-quarry on one side and the gravel-pit on the other. Down at the bottom of the hill was a level plain, with queer-shaped white buildings where people burnt lime, and a big red brewery and other houses; and when the big chimneys were smoking and the sun was setting, the valley looked as if it was filled with golden mist, and the limekilns and oast-houses glimmered and glittered till they were like an enchanted city out of the Arabian Nights.

Now that I have begun to tell you about the place, I feel that I could go on and make this into a most interesting story about all the ordinary things that the children did - just the kind of things you do yourself, you know - and you would believe every word of it; and when I told about the children's being tiresome, as you are sometimes, your aunts would perhaps write in the margin of the story with a pencil, 'How true!' or 'How like life!'and you would see it and very likely be annoyed. So I will only tell you the really astonishing things that happened, and you may leave the book about quite safely, for no aunts and uncles either are likely to write 'How true!' on the edge of the story. Grown-up people find it very difficult to believe really wonderful things, unless they have what they call proof. But children will believe almost anything, and grown-ups know this. That is why they tell you that the earth is round like an orange, when you can see perfectly well that it is flat and lumpy; and why they say that the earth goes round the sun, when you can see for yourself any day that the sun gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night like a good sun as it is, and the earth knows its place, and lies as still as a mouse. Yet I daresay you believe all that about the earth and the sun, and if so you will find it quite easy to believe that before Anthea and Cyril and the others had been a week in the country they had found a fairy. At least they called it that, because that was what it called itself; and of course it knew best, but it was not at all like any fairy you ever saw or heard of or read about.

It was at the gravel-pits. Father had to go away suddenly on business, and mother had gone away to stay with Granny, who was not very well. They both went in a great hurry, and when they were gone the house seemed dreadfully quiet and empty, and the children wandered from one room to another and looked at the bits of paper and string on the floors left over from the packing, and not yet cleared up, and wished they had something to do. It was Cyril who said:

'I say, let's take our Margate spades and go and dig in the gravel-pits. We can pretend it's seaside.'

'Father said it was once,' Anthea said; 'he says there are shells there thousands of years old.'

So they went. Of course they had been to the edge of the gravel-pit and looked over, but they had not gone down into it for fear father should say they mustn't play there, and the same with the chalk-quarry. The gravel-pit is not really dangerous if you don't try to climb down the edges, but go the slow safe way round by the road, as if you were a cart.

Each of the children carried its own spade, and took it in turns to carry the Lamb. He was the baby, and they called him that because 'Baa' was the first thing he ever said. They called Anthea 'Panther', which seems silly when you read it, but when you say it it sounds a little like her name.

The gravel-pit is very large and wide, with grass growing round the edges at the top, and dry stringy wildflowers, purple and yellow. It is like a giant's wash-hand basin. And there are mounds of gravel, and holes in the sides of the basin where gravel has been taken out, and high up in the steep sides there are the little holes that are the little front doors of the little sand-martins' little houses.

The children built a castle, of course, but castle-building is rather poor fun when you have no hope of the swishing tide ever coming in to fill up the moat and wash away the drawbridge, and, at the happy last, to wet everybody up to the waist at least.

Cyril wanted to dig out a cave to play smugglers in, but the others thought it might bury them alive, so it ended in all spades going to work to dig a hole through the castle to Australia. These children, you see, believed that the world was round, and that on the other side the little Australian boys and girls were really walking wrong way up, like flies on the ceiling, with their heads hanging down into the air.

The children dug and they dug and they dug, and their hands got sandy and hot and red, and their faces got damp and shiny. The Lamb had tried to eat the sand, and had cried so hard when he found that it was not, as he had supposed, brown sugar, that he was now tired out, and was lying asleep in a warm fat bunch in the middle of the half-finished castle. This left his brothers and sisters free to work really hard, and the hole that was to come out in Australia soon grew so deep that Jane, who was called Pussy for short, begged the others to Stop.

'Suppose the bottom of the hole gave way suddenly,' she said, 'and you tumbled out among the little Australians, all the sand would get in their eyes.'

'Yes,' said Robert; 'and they would hate us, and throw stones at us, and not let us see the kangaroos, or opossums, or blue-gums, or Emu Brand birds, or anything.'

Cyril and Anthea knew that Australia was not quite so near as all that, but they agreed to stop using the spades and go on with their hands. This was quite easy, because the sand at the bottom of the hole was very soft and fine and dry, like sea-sand. And there were little shells in it.

'Fancy it having been wet sea here once, all sloppy and shiny,' said Jane, 'with fishes and conger-eels and coral and mermaids.'

'And masts of ships and wrecked Spanish treasure. I wish we could find a gold doubloon, or something,' Cyril said.

'How did the sea get carried away?' Robert asked.

'Not in a pail, silly,' said his brother. 'Father says the earth got too hot underneath, like you do in bed sometimes, so it just hunched up its shoulders, and the sea had to slip off, like the blankets do off us, and the shoulder was left sticking out, and turned into dry land. Let's go and look for shells; I think that little cave looks likely, and I see something sticking out there like a bit of wrecked ship's anchor, and it's beastly hot in the Australian hole.'

The others agreed, but Anthea went on digging. She always liked to finish a thing when she had once begun it. She felt it would be a disgrace to leave that hole without getting through to Australia.

The cave was disappointing, because there were no shells, and the wrecked ship's anchor turned out to be only the broken end of a pickaxe handle, and the cave party were just making up their minds that the sand makes you thirstier when it is not by the seaside, and someone had suggested going home for lemonade, when Anthea suddenly screamed:

'Cyril! Come here! Oh, come quick! It's alive! It'll get away! Quick!'

They all hurried back.

'It's a rat, I shouldn't wonder,' said Robert. 'Father says they infest old places - and this must be pretty old if the sea was here thousands of years ago.'

'Perhaps it is a snake,' said Jane, shuddering.

'Let's look,' said Cyril, jumping into the hole. 'I'm not afraid of snakes. I like them. If it is a snake I'll tame it, and it will follow me everywhere, and I'll let it sleep round my neck at night.'

'No, you won't,' said Robert firmly. He shared Cyril's bedroom. 'But you may if it's a rat.'

'Oh, don't be silly!' said Anthea; 'it's not a rat, it's MUCH bigger. And it's not a snake. It's got feet; I saw them; and fur! No - not the spade. You'll hurt it! Dig with your hands.'

'And let IT hurt ME instead! That's so likely, isn't it?' said Cyril, seizing a spade.

'Oh, don't!' said Anthea. 'Squirrel, DON'T. I - it sounds silly, but it said something. It really and truly did.'

'What?'

'It said, "You let me alone".'

But Cyril merely observed that his sister must have gone off her nut, and he and Robert dug with spades while Anthea sat on the edge of the hole, jumping up and down with hotness and anxiety. They dug carefully, and presently everyone could see that there really was something moving in the bottom of the Australian hole.

Then Anthea cried out, 'I'M not afraid. Let me dig,' and fell on her knees and began to scratch like a dog does when he has suddenly remembered where it was that he buried his bone.

'Oh, I felt fur,' she cried, half laughing and half crying. 'I did indeed! I did!' when suddenly a dry husky voice in the sand made them all jump back, and their hearts jumped nearly as fast as they did.

'Let me alone,' it said. And now everyone heard the voice and looked at the others to see if they had too.

'But we want to see you,' said Robert bravely.

'I wish you'd come out,' said Anthea, also taking courage.

'Oh, well - if that's your wish,' the voice said, and the sand stirred and spun and scattered, and something brown and furry and fat came rolling out into the hole and the sand fell off it, and it sat there yawning and rubbing the ends of its eyes with its hands.

'I believe I must have dropped asleep,' it said, stretching itself.

The children stood round the hole in a ring, looking at the creature they had found. It was worth looking at. Its eyes were on long horns like a snail's eyes, and it could move them in and out like telescopes; it had ears like a bat's ears, and its tubby body was shaped like a spider's and covered with thick soft fur; its legs and arms were furry too, and it had hands and feet like a monkey's.

'What on earth is it?' Jane said. 'Shall we take it home?'

The thing turned its long eyes to look at her, and said: 'Does she always talk nonsense, or is it only the rubbish on her head that makes her silly?'

It looked scornfully at Jane's hat as it spoke.

'She doesn't mean to be silly,' Anthea said gently; we none of us do, whatever you may think! Don't be frightened; we don't want to hurt you, you know.'

'Hurt ME!' it said. 'ME frightened? Upon my word! Why, you talk as if I were nobody in particular.' All its fur stood out like a cat's when it is going to fight.

'Well,' said Anthea, still kindly, 'perhaps if we knew who you are in particular we could think of something to say that wouldn't make you cross. Everything we've said so far seems to have. Who are you? And don't get angry! Because really we don't know.'

'You don't know?' it said. 'Well, I knew the world had changed - but - well, really - do you mean to tell me seriously you don't know a Psammead when you see one?'

'A Sammyadd? That's Greek to me.'

'So it is to everyone,' said the creature sharply. 'Well, in plain English, then, a SAND-FAIRY. Don't you know a Sand-fairy when you see one?'

It looked so grieved and hurt that Jane hastened to say, 'Of course I see you are, now. It's quite plain now one comes to look at you.'

'You came to look at me, several sentences ago,' it said crossly, beginning to curl up again in the sand.

'Oh - don't go away again! Do talk some more,' Robert cried. 'I didn't know you were a Sand-fairy, but I knew directly I saw you that you were much the wonderfullest thing I'd ever seen.'

The Sand-fairy seemed a shade less disagreeable after this.

'It isn't talking I mind,' it said, 'as long as you're reasonably civil. But I'm not going to make polite conversation for you. If you talk nicely to me, perhaps I'll answer you, and perhaps I won't. Now say something.'

Of course no one could think of anything to say, but at last Robert thought of 'How long have you lived here?' and he said it at once.

'Oh, ages - several thousand years,' replied the Psammead.

'Tell us all about it. Do.'

'It's all in books.'

'You aren't!' Jane said. 'Oh, tell us everything you can about yourself! We don't know anything about you, and you are so nice.'

The Sand-fairy smoothed his long rat-like whiskers and smiled between them.

'Do please tell!' said the children all together.

It is wonderful how quickly you get used to things, even the most astonishing. Five minutes before, the children had had no more idea than you that there was such a thing as a sand-fairy in the world, and now they were talking to it as though they had known it all their lives. It drew its eyes in and said:

'How very sunny it is - quite like old times. Where do you get your Megatheriums from now?'

'What?' said the children all at once. It is very difficult always to remember that 'what' is not polite, especially in moments of surprise or agitation.

'Are Pterodactyls plentiful now?' the Sand-fairy went on.

The children were unable to reply.

'What do you have for breakfast?' the Fairy said impatiently, 'and who gives it you?'

'Eggs and bacon, and bread-and-milk, and porridge and things. Mother gives it us. What are Mega-what's-its-names and Ptero-what-do-you-call-thems? And does anyone have them for breakfast?'

'Why, almost everyone had Pterodactyl for breakfast in my time! Pterodactyls were something like crocodiles and something like birds - I believe they were very good grilled. You see it was like this: of course there were heaps of sand-fairies then, and in the morning early you went out and hunted for them, and when you'd found one it gave you your wish. People used to send their little boys down to the seashore early in the morning before breakfast to get the day's wishes, and very often the eldest boy in the family would be told to wish for a Megatherium, ready jointed for cooking. It was as big as an elephant, you see, so there was a good deal of meat on it. And if they wanted fish, the Ichthyosaurus was asked for - he was twenty to forty feet long, so there was plenty of him. And for poultry there was the Plesiosaurus; there were nice pickings on that too. Then the other children could wish for other things. But when people had dinner-parties it was nearly always Megatheriums; and Ichthyosaurus, because his fins were a great delicacy and his tail made soup.'

'There must have been heaps and heaps of cold meat left over,' said Anthea, who meant to be a good housekeeper some day.

'Oh no,' said the Psammead, 'that would never have done. Why, of course at sunset what was left over turned into stone. You find the stone bones of the Megatherium and things all over the place even now, they tell me.'

'Who tell you?' asked Cyril; but the Sand-fairy frowned and began to dig very fast with its furry hands.

'Oh, don't go!' they all cried; 'tell us more about it when it was Megatheriums for breakfast! Was the world like this then?'

It stopped digging.

'Not a bit,' it said; 'it was nearly all sand where I lived, and coal grew on trees, and the periwinkles were as big as tea-trays - you find them now; they're turned into stone. We sand-fairies used to live on the seashore, and the children used to come with their little flint-spades and flint-pails and make castles for us to live in. That's thousands of years ago, but I hear that children still build castles on the sand. It's difficult to break yourself of a habit.'

'But why did you stop living in the castles?' asked Robert.

'It's a sad story,' said the Psammead gloomily. 'It was because they WOULD build moats to the castles, and the nasty wet bubbling sea used to come in, and of course as soon as a sand-fairy got wet it caught cold, and generally died. And so there got to be fewer and fewer, and, whenever you found a fairy and had a wish, you used to wish for a Megatherium, and eat twice as much as you wanted, because it might be weeks before you got another wish.'

'And did YOU get wet?' Robert inquired.

The Sand-fairy shuddered. 'Only once,' it said; 'the end of the twelfth hair of my top left whisker - I feel the place still in damp weather. It was only once, but it was quite enough for me. I went away as soon as the sun had dried my poor dear whisker. I scurried away to the back of the beach, and dug myself a house deep in warm dry sand, and there I've been ever since. And the sea changed its lodgings afterwards. And now I'm not going to tell you another thing.'

'Just one more, please,' said the children. 'Can you give wishes now?'

'Of course,' said it; 'didn't I give you yours a few minutes ago? You said, "I wish you'd come out," and I did.'

'Oh, please, mayn't we have another?'

'Yes, but be quick about it. I'm tired of you.'

I daresay you have often thought what you would do if you had three wishes given you, and have despised the old man and his wife in the black-pudding story, and felt certain that if you had the chance you could think of three really useful wishes without a moment's hesitation. These children had often talked this matter over, but, now the chance had suddenly come to them, they could not make up their minds.

'Quick,' said the Sand-fairy crossly. No one could think of anything, only Anthea did manage to remember a private wish of her own and jane's which they had never told the boys. She knew the boys would not care about it - but still it was better than nothing.

'I wish we were all as beautiful as the day,' she said in a great hurry.

The children looked at each other, but each could see that the others were not any better-looking than usual. The Psammead pushed out its long eyes, and seemed to be holding its breath and swelling itself out till it was twice as fat and furry as before. Suddenly it let its breath go in a long sigh.

'I'm really afraid I can't manage it,' it said apologetically; 'I must be out of practice.'

The children were horribly disappointed.

'Oh, DO try again!' they said.

'Well,' said the Sand-fairy, 'the fact is, I was keeping back a little strength to give the rest of you your wishes with. If you'll be contented with one wish a day amongst the lot of you I daresay I can screw myself up to it. Do you agree to that?'

'Yes, oh yes!' said Jane and Anthea. The boys nodded. They did not believe the Sand-fairy could do it. You can always make girls believe things much easier than you can boys.

It stretched out its eyes farther than ever, and swelled and swelled and swelled.

'I do hope it won't hurt itself,' said Anthea.

'Or crack its skin,' Robert said anxiously.

Everyone was very much relieved when the Sand-fairy, after getting so big that it almost filled up the hole in the sand, suddenly let out its breath and went back to its proper size.

'That's all right,' it said, panting heavily. 'It'll come easier to-morrow.'

'Did it hurt much?' asked Anthea.

'Only my poor whisker, thank you,' said he, 'but you're a kind and thoughtful child. Good day.'

It scratched suddenly and fiercely with its hands and feet, and disappeared in the sand. Then the children looked at each other, and each child suddenly found itself alone with three perfect strangers, all radiantly beautiful.

They stood for some moments in perfect silence. Each thought that its brothers and sisters had wandered off, and that these strange children had stolen up unnoticed while it was watching the swelling form of the Sand-fairy. Anthea spoke first -

'Excuse me,' she said very politely to Jane, who now had enormous blue eyes and a cloud of russet hair, 'but have you seen two little boys and a little girl anywhere about?'

'I was just going to ask you that,' said Jane. And then Cyril cried:

'Why, it's YOU! I know the hole in your pinafore! You ARE Jane, aren't you? And you're the Panther; I can see your dirty handkerchief that you forgot to change after you'd cut your thumb! Crikey! The wish has come off, after all. I say, am I as handsome as you are?'

'If you're Cyril, I liked you much better as you were before,' said Anthea decidedly. 'You look like the picture of the young chorister, with your golden hair; you'll die young, I shouldn't wonder. And if that's Robert, he's like an Italian organ-grinder. His hair's all black.'

'You two girls are like Christmas cards, then - that's all - silly Christmas cards,' said Robert angrily. 'And jane's hair is simply carrots.'

It was indeed of that Venetian tint so much admired by artists.

'Well, it's no use finding fault with each other,' said Anthea; 'let's get the Lamb and lug it home to dinner. The servants will admire us most awfully, you'll see.'

Baby was just waking when they got to him, and not one of the children but was relieved to find that he at least was not as beautiful as the day, but just the same as usual.

'I suppose he's too young to have wishes naturally,' said Jane. 'We shall have to mention him specially next time.'

Anthea ran forward and held out her arms.

'Come to own Panther, ducky,' she said.

The Baby looked at her disapprovingly, and put a sandy pink thumb in his mouth, Anthea was his favourite sister.

'Come then,' she said.

'G'way long!' said the Baby.

'Come to own Pussy,' said Jane.

'Wants my Panty,' said the Lamb dismally, and his lip trembled.

'Here, come on, Veteran,' said Robert, 'come and have a yidey on Yobby's back.'

'Yah, narky narky boy,' howled the Baby, giving way altogether. Then the children knew the worst. THE BABY DID NOT KNOW THEM!

They looked at each other in despair, and it was terrible to each, in this dire emergency, to meet only the beautiful eyes of perfect strangers, instead of the merry, friendly, commonplace, twinkling, jolly little eyes of its own brothers and sisters.

'This is most truly awful,' said Cyril when he had tried to lift up the Lamb, and the Lamb had scratched like a cat and bellowed like a bull. 'We've got to MAKE FRIENDS with him! I can't carry him home screaming like that. Fancy having to make friends with our own baby! - it's too silly.'

That, however, was exactly what they had to do. It took over an hour, and the task was not rendered any easier by the fact that the Lamb was by this time as hungry as a lion and as thirsty as a desert.

At last he consented to allow these strangers to carry him home by turns, but as he refused to hold on to such new acquaintances he was a dead weight and most exhausting.

'Thank goodness, we're home!' said Jane, staggering through the iron gate to where Martha, the nursemaid, stood at the front door shading her eyes with her hand and looking out anxiously. 'Here! Do take Baby!'

Martha snatched the Baby from her arms.

'Thanks be, HE'S safe back,' she said. 'Where are the others, and whoever to goodness gracious are all of you?'

'We're US, of course,' said Robert.

'And who's US, when you're at home?' asked Martha scornfully.

'I tell you it's US, only we're beautiful as the day,' said Cyril. 'I'm Cyril, and these are the others, and we're jolly hungry. Let us in, and don't be a silly idiot.'

Martha merely dratted Cyril's impudence and tried to shut the door in his face.

'I know we LOOK different, but I'm Anthea, and we're so tired, and it's long past dinner-time.'

'Then go home to your dinners, whoever you are; and if our children put you up to this playacting you can tell them from me they'll catch it, so they know what to expect!' With that she did bang the door. Cyril rang the bell violently. No answer. Presently cook put her head out of a bedroom window and said:

'If you don't take yourselves off, and that precious sharp, I'll go and fetch the police.' And she slammed down the window.

'It's no good,' said Anthea. 'Oh, do, do come away before we get sent to prison!'

The boys said it was nonsense, and the law of England couldn't put you in prison for just being as beautiful as the day, but all the same they followed the others out into the lane.

'We shall be our proper selves after sunset, I suppose,' said Jane.

'I don't know,' Cyril said sadly; 'it mayn't be like that now - things have changed a good deal since Megatherium times.'

'Oh,' cried Anthea suddenly, 'perhaps we shall turn into stone at sunset, like the Megatheriums did, so that there mayn't be any of us left over for the next day.'

She began to cry, so did Jane. Even the boys turned pale. No one had the heart to say anything.

It was a horrible afternoon. There was no house near where the children could beg a crust of bread or even a glass of water. They were afraid to go to the village, because they had seen Martha go down there with a basket, and there was a local constable. True, they were all as beautiful as the day, but that is a poor comfort when you are as hungry as a hunter and as thirsty as a sponge.

Three times they tried in vain to get the servants in the White House to let them in and listen to their tale. And then Robert went alone, hoping to be able to climb in at one of the back windows and so open the door to the others. But all the windows were out of reach, and Martha emptied a toilet-jug of cold water over him from a top window, and said:

'Go along with you, you nasty little Eyetalian monkey."

It came at last to their sitting down in a row under the hedge, with their feet in a dry ditch, waiting for sunset, and wondering whether, when the sun did set, they would turn into stone, or only into their own old natural selves; and each of them still felt lonely and among strangers, and tried not to look at the others, for, though their voices were their own, their faces were so radiantly beautiful as to be quite irritating to look at.

'I don't believe we SHALL turn to stone,' said Robert, breaking a long miserable silence, 'because the Sand-fairy said he'd give us another wish to-morrow, and he couldn't if we were stone, could he?'

The others said 'No,' but they weren't at all comforted.

Another silence, longer and more miserable, was broken by Cyril's suddenly saying, 'I don't want to frighten you girls, but I believe it's beginning with me already. My foot's quite dead. I'm turning to stone, I know I am, and so will you in a minute.'

'Never mind,' said Robert kindly, 'perhaps you'll be the only stone one, and the rest of us will be all right, and we'll cherish your statue and hang garlands on it.'

But when it turned out that Cyril's foot had only gone to sleep through his sitting too long with it under him, and when it came to life in an agony of pins and needles, the others were quite cross.

'Giving us such a fright for nothing!' said Anthea.

The third and miserablest silence of all was broken by Jane. She said: 'If we DO come out of this all right, we'll ask the Sammyadd to make it so that the servants don't notice anything different, no matter what wishes we have.'

The others only grunted. They were too wretched even to make good resolutions.

At last hunger and fright and crossness and tiredness - four very nasty things - all joined together to bring one nice thing, and that was sleep. The children lay asleep in a row, with their beautiful eyes shut and their beautiful mouths open. Anthea woke first. The sun had set, and the twilight was coming on.

Anthea pinched herself very hard, to make sure, and when she found she could still feel pinching she decided that she was not stone, and then she pinched the others. They, also, were soft.

'Wake up,' she said, almost in tears of joy; 'it's all right, we're not stone. And oh, Cyril, how nice and ugly you do look, with your old freckles and your brown hair and your little eyes. And so do you all!' she added, so that they might not feel jealous.

When they got home they were very much scolded by Martha, who told them about the strange children.

'A good-looking lot, I must say, but that impudent.'

'I know,' said Robert, who knew by experience how hopeless it would be to try to explain things to Martha.

'And where on earth have you been all this time, you naughty little things, you?'

'In the lane.'

'Why didn't you come home hours ago?'

'We couldn't because of THEM,' said Anthea.

'Who?'

'The children who were as beautiful as the day. They kept us there till after sunset. We couldn't come back till they'd gone. You don't know how we hated them! Oh, do, do give us some supper - we are so hungry.'

'Hungry! I should think so,' said Martha angrily; 'out all day like this. Well, I hope it'll be a lesson to you not to go picking up with strange children - down here after measles, as likely as not! Now mind, if you see them again, don't you speak to them - not one word nor so much as a look - but come straight away and tell me. I'll spoil their beauty for them!'

'If ever we DO see them again we'll tell you,' Anthea said; and Robert, fixing his eyes fondly on the cold beef that was being brought in on a tray by cook, added in heartfelt undertones -

'And we'll take jolly good care we never DO see them again.'

And they never have.



Chapter 2 Golden Guineas


Anthea woke in the morning from a very real sort of dream, in which she was walking in the Zoological Gardens on a pouring wet day without any umbrella. The animals seemed desperately unhappy because of the rain, and were all growling gloomily. When she awoke, both the growling and the rain went on just the same. The growling was the heavy regular breathing of her sister Jane, who had a slight cold and was still asleep. The rain fell in slow drops on to Anthea's face from the wet corner of a bath-towel which her brother Robert was gently squeezing the water out of, to wake her up, as he now explained.

'Oh, drop it!' she said rather crossly; so he did, for he was not a brutal brother, though very ingenious in apple-pie beds, booby-traps, original methods of awakening sleeping relatives, and the other little accomplishments which make home happy.

'I had such a funny dream,' Anthea began.

'So did I,' said Jane, wakening suddenly and without warning. 'I dreamed we found a Sand-fairy in the gravel-pits, and it said it was a Sammyadd, and we might have a new wish every day, and - '

'But that's what I dreamed,' said Robert. 'I was just going to tell you - and we had the first wish directly it said so. And I dreamed you girls were donkeys enough to ask for us all to be beautiful as the day, and we jolly well were, and it was perfectly beastly.'

'But CAN different people all dream the same thing?' said Anthea, sitting up in bed, 'because I dreamed all that as well as about the Zoo and the rain; and Baby didn't know us in my dream, and the servants shut us out of the house because the radiantness of our beauty was such a complete disguise, and - '

The voice of the eldest brother sounded from across the landing.

'Come on, Robert,' it said, 'you'll be late for breakfast again - unless you mean to shirk your bath like you did on Tuesday.'

'I say, come here a sec,' Robert replied. 'I didn't shirk it; I had it after brekker in father's dressing-room, because ours was emptied away.'

Cyril appeared in the doorway, partially clothed.

'Look here,' said Anthea, 'we've all had such an odd dream. We've all dreamed we found a Sand-fairy.'

Her voice died away before Cyril's contemptuous glance. 'Dream?' he said, 'you little sillies, it's TRUE. I tell you it all happened. That's why I'm so keen on being down early. We'll go up there directly after brekker, and have another wish. Only we'll make up our minds, solid, before we go, what it is we do want, and no one must ask for anything unless the others agree first. No more peerless beauties for this child, thank you. Not if I know it!'

The other three dressed, with their mouths open. If all that dream about the Sand-fairy was real, this real dressing seemed very like a dream, the girls thought. Jane felt that Cyril was right, but Anthea was not sure, till after they had seen Martha and heard her full and plain reminders about their naughty conduct the day before. Then Anthea was sure. 'Because,' said she, 'servants never dream anything but the things in the Dream-book, like snakes and oysters and going to a wedding - that means a funeral, and snakes are a false female friend, and oysters are babies.'

'Talking of babies,' said Cyril, 'where's the Lamb?' 'Martha's going to take him to Rochester to see her cousins. Mother said she might. She's dressing him now,' said Jane, 'in his very best coat and hat. Bread-and-butter, please.'

'She seems to like taking him too,' said Robert in a tone of wonder.

'Servants do like taking babies to see their relations,' Cyril said. 'I've noticed it before - especially in their best things.'

'I expect they pretend they're their own babies, and that they're not servants at all, but married to noble dukes of high degree, and they say the babies are the little dukes and duchesses,' Jane suggested dreamily, taking more marmalade. 'I expect that's what Martha'll say to her cousin. She'll enjoy herself most frightfully-'

'She won't enjoy herself most frightfully carrying our infant duke to Rochester,' said Robert, 'not if she's anything like me - she won't.'

'Fancy walking to Rochester with the Lamb on your back! Oh, crikey!' said Cyril in full agreement.

'She's going by carrier,' said Jane. 'Let's see them off, then we shall have done a polite and kindly act, and we shall be quite sure we've got rid of them for the day.'

So they did.

Martha wore her Sunday dress of two shades of purple, so tight in the chest that it made her stoop, and her blue hat with the pink cornflowers and white ribbon. She had a yellow-lace collar with a green bow. And the Lamb had indeed his very best cream-coloured silk coat and hat. It was a smart party that the carrier's cart picked up at the Cross Roads. When its white tilt and red wheels had slowly vanished in a swirl of chalk-dust -

'And now for the Sammyadd!' said Cyril, and off they went.

As they went they decided on the wish they would ask for. Although they were all in a great hurry they did not try to climb down the sides of the gravel-pit, but went round by the safe lower road, as if they had been carts. They had made a ring of stones round the place where the Sand-fairy had disappeared, so they easily found the spot. The sun was burning and bright, and the sky was deep blue - without a cloud. The sand was very hot to touch.

'Oh - suppose it was only a dream, after all,' Robert said as the boys uncovered their spades from the sand-heap where they had buried them and began to dig.

'Suppose you were a sensible chap,' said Cyril; 'one's quite as likely as the other!' 'Suppose you kept a civil tongue in your head,' Robert snapped.

'Suppose we girls take a turn,' said Jane, laughing. 'You boys seem to be getting very warm.'

'Suppose you don't come shoving your silly oar in,' said Robert, who was now warm indeed.

'We won't,' said Anthea quickly. 'Robert dear, don't be so grumpy - we won't say a word, you shall be the one to speak to the Fairy and tell him what we've decided to wish for. You'll say it much better than we shall.'

'Suppose you drop being a little humbug,' said Robert, but not crossly. 'Look out - dig with your hands, now!'

So they did, and presently uncovered the spider-shaped brown hairy body, long arms and legs, bat's ears and snail's eyes of the Sand-fairy himself. Everyone drew a deep breath of satisfaction, for now of course it couldn't have been a dream.

The Psammead sat up and shook the sand out of its fur.

'How's your left whisker this morning?' said Anthea politely.

'Nothing to boast of,' said it, 'it had rather a restless night. But thank you for asking.'

'I say,' said Robert, 'do you feel up to giving wishes to-day, because we very much want an extra besides the regular one? The extra's a very little one,' he added reassuringly.

'Humph!' said the Sand-fairy. (If you read this story aloud, please pronounce 'humph' exactly as it is spelt, for that is how he said it.) 'Humph! Do you know, until I heard you being disagreeable to each other just over my head, and so loud too, I really quite thought I had dreamed you all. I do have very odd dreams sometimes.'

'Do you?'Jane hurried to say, so as to get away from the subject of disagreeableness. 'I wish,' she added politely, 'you'd tell us about your dreams - they must be awfully interesting.'

'Is that the day's wish?' said the Sand-fairy, yawning.

Cyril muttered something about 'just like a girl,' and the rest stood silent. If they said 'Yes,' then good-bye to the other wishes they had decided to ask for. If they said 'No,' it would be very rude, and they had all been taught manners, and had learned a little too, which is not at all the same thing. A sigh of relief broke from all lips when the Sand-fairy said:

'If I do I shan't have strength to give you a second wish; not even good tempers, or common sense, or manners, or little things like that.'

'We don't want you to put yourself out at all about these things, we can manage them quite well ourselves,' said Cyril eagerly; while the others looked guiltily at each other, and wished the Fairy would not keep all on about good tempers, but give them one good rowing if it wanted to, and then have done with it.

'Well,' said the Psammead, putting out his long snail's eyes so suddenly that one of them nearly went into the round boy's eyes of Robert, 'let's have the little wish first.'

'We don't want the servants to notice the gifts you give us.'

'Are kind enough to give us,' said Anthea in a whisper.

'Are kind enough to give us, I mean,' said Robert.

The Fairy swelled himself out a bit, let his breath go, and said -

'I've done THAT for you - it was quite easy. People don't notice things much, anyway. What's the next wish?'

'We want,' said Robert slowly, 'to be rich beyond the dreams of something or other.'

'Avarice,' said Jane.

'So it is,' said the Fairy unexpectedly. 'But it won't do you much good, that's one comfort,' it muttered to itself. 'Come - I can't go beyond dreams, you know! How much do you want, and will you have it in gold or notes?'

'Gold, please - and millions of it.'

'This gravel-pit full be enough?' said the Fairy in an off-hand manner.

'Oh YES!'

'Then get out before I begin, or you'll be buried alive in it.'

It made its skinny arms so long, and waved them so frighteningly, that the children ran as hard as they could towards the road by which carts used to come to the gravel-pits. Only Anthea had presence of mind enough to shout a timid 'Good-morning, I hope your whisker will be better to-morrow,' as she ran.


On the road they turned and looked back, and they had to shut their eyes, and open them very slowly, a little bit at a time, because the sight was too dazzling for their eyes to be able to bear it. It was something like trying to look at the sun at high noon on Midsummer Day. For the whole of the sand-pit was full, right up to the very top, with new shining gold pieces, and all the little sand-martins' little front doors were covered out of sight. Where the road for the carts wound into the gravel-pit the gold lay in heaps like stones lie by the roadside, and a great bank of shining gold shelved down from where it lay flat and smooth between the tall sides of the gravel-pit. And all the gleaming heap was minted gold. And on the sides and edges of these countless coins the midday sun shone and sparkled, and glowed and gleamed till the quarry looked like the mouth of a smelting furnace, or one of the fairy halls that you see sometimes in the sky at sunset.

The children stood with their mouths open, and no one said a word.

At last Robert stopped and picked up one of the loose coins from the edge of the heap by the cart-road, and looked at it. He looked on both sides. Then he said in a low voice, quite different to his own, 'It's not sovereigns.'

'It's gold, anyway,' said Cyril. And now they all began to talk at once. They all picked up the golden treasure by handfuls, and let it run through their fingers like water, and the chink it made as it fell was wonderful music. At first they quite forgot to think of spending the money, it was so nice to play with. Jane sat down between two heaps of gold and Robert began to bury her, as you bury your father in sand when you are at the seaside and he has gone to sleep on the beach with his newspaper over his face. But Jane was not half buried before she cried out, 'Oh, stop, it's too heavy! It hurts!

Robert said 'Bosh!' and went on.

'Let me out, I tell you,' cried Jane, and was taken out, very white, and trembling a little.

'You've no idea what it's like,' said she; 'it's like stones on you - or like chains.'

'Look here,' Cyril said, 'if this is to do us any good, it's no good our staying gasping at it like this. Let's fill our pockets and go and buy things. Don't you forget, it won't last after sunset. I wish we'd asked the Sammyadd why things don't turn to stone. Perhaps this will. I'll tell you what, there's a pony and cart in the village.'

'Do you want to buy that?' asked Jane.

'No, silly - we'll HIRE it. And then we'll go to Rochester and buy heaps and heaps of things. Look here, let's each take as much as we can carry. But it's not sovereigns. They've got a man's head on one side and a thing like the ace of spades on the other. Fill your pockets with it, I tell you, and come along. You can jaw as we go - if you must jaw.'

Cyril sat down and began to fill his pockets. 'You made fun of me for getting father to have nine pockets in my Norfolks,' said he, 'but now you see!'

They did. For when Cyril had filled his nine pockets and his handkerchief and the space between himself and his shirt front with the gold coins, he had to stand up. But he staggered, and had to sit down again in a hurry-

'Throw out some of the cargo,' said Robert. 'You'll sink the ship, old chap. That comes of nine pockets.'

And Cyril had to.

Then they set off to walk to the village. It was more than a mile, and the road was very dusty indeed, and the sun seemed to get hotter and hotter, and the gold in their pockets got heavier and heavier.

It was Jane who said, 'I don't see how we're to spend it all. There must be thousands of pounds among the lot of us. I'm going to leave some of mine behind this stump in the hedge. And directly we get to the village we'll buy some biscuits; I know it's long past dinner-time.' She took out a handful or two of gold and hid it in the hollows of an old hornbeam. 'How round and yellow they are,' she said. 'Don't you wish they were gingerbread nuts and we were going to eat them?'

'Well, they're not, and we're not,' said Cyril. 'Come on!'

But they came on heavily and wearily. Before they reached the village, more than one stump in the hedge concealed its little hoard of hidden treasure. Yet they reached the village with about twelve hundred guineas in their pockets. But in spite of this inside wealth they looked quite ordinary outside, and no one would have thought they could have more than a half-crown each at the outside. The haze of heat, the blue of the wood smoke, made a sort of dim misty cloud over the red roofs of the village. The four sat down heavily on the first bench they came to - It happened to be outside the Blue Boar Inn.

It was decided that Cyril should go into the Blue Boar and ask for ginger-beer, because, as Anthea said, 'It is not wrong for men to go into public houses, only for children. And Cyril is nearer to being a man than us, because he is the eldest.' So he went. The others sat in the sun and waited.

'Oh, hats, how hot it is!' said Robert. 'Dogs put their tongues out when they're hot; I wonder if it would cool us at all to put out ours?'

'We might try,'Jane said; and they all put their tongues out as far as ever they could go, so that it quite stretched their throats, but it only seemed to make them thirstier than ever, besides annoying everyone who went by. So they took their tongues in again, just as Cyril came back with the ginger-beer.

'I had to pay for it out of my own two-and-sevenpence, though, that I was going to buy rabbits with,' he said. 'They wouldn't change the gold. And when I pulled out a handful the man just laughed and said it was card-counters. And I got some sponge-cakes too, out of a glass jar on the bar-counter. And some biscuits with caraways in.'

The sponge-cakes were both soft and dry and the biscuits were dry too, and yet soft, which biscuits ought not to be. But the ginger-beer made up for everything.

'It's my turn now to try to buy something with the money,' Anthea said, 'I'm next eldest. Where is the pony-cart kept?'

It was at The Chequers, and Anthea went in the back way to the yard, because they all knew that little girls ought not to go into the bars of public-houses. She came out, as she herself said, 'pleased but not proud'.

'He'll be ready in a brace of shakes, he says,' she remarked, 'and he's to have one sovereign - or whatever it is - to drive us in to Rochester and back, besides waiting there till we've got everything we want. I think I managed very well.'

'You think yourself jolly clever, I daresay,' said Cyril moodily. 'How did you do it?'

'I wasn't jolly clever enough to go taking handfuls of money out of my pocket, to make it seem cheap, anyway,' she retorted. 'I just found a young man doing something to a horse's leg with a sponge and a pail. And I held out one sovereign, and I said, "Do you know what this is?" He said, "No," and he'd call his father. And the old man came, and he said it was a spade guinea; and he said was it my own to do as I liked with, and I said "Yes"; and I asked about the pony-cart, and I said he could have the guinea if he'd drive us in to Rochester. And his name is S. Crispin. And he said, "Right oh".'

It was a new sensation to be driven in a smart pony-trap along pretty country roads, it was very pleasant too (which is not always the case with new sensations), quite apart from the beautiful plans of spending the money which each child made as they went along, silently of course and quite to itself, for they felt it would never have done to let the old innkeeper hear them talk in the affluent sort of way they were thinking. The old man put them down by the bridge at their request.

'If you were going to buy a carriage and horses, where would you go?' asked Cyril, as if he were only asking for the sake of something to say.

'Billy Peasemarsh, at the Saracen's Head,' said the old man promptly. 'Though all forbid I should recommend any man where it's a question of horses, no more than I'd take anybody else's recommending if I was a-buying one. But if your pa's thinking of a turnout of any sort, there ain't a straighter man in Rochester, nor a civiller spoken, than Billy, though I says it.'

'Thank you,' said Cyril. 'The Saracen's Head.'

And now the children began to see one of the laws of nature turn upside down and stand on its head like an acrobat. Any grown-up persons would tell you that money is hard to get and easy to spend. But the fairy money had been easy to get, and spending it was not only hard, it was almost impossible. The tradespeople of Rochester seemed to shrink, to a trades-person, from the glittering fairy gold ('furrin money' they called it, for the most part). To begin with, Anthea, who had had the misfortune to sit on her hat earlier in the day, wished to buy another. She chose a very beautiful one, trimmed with pink roses and the blue breasts of peacocks. It was marked in the window, 'Paris Model, three guineas'.

'I'm glad,' she said, 'because, if it says guineas, it means guineas, and not sovereigns, which we haven't got.'

But when she took three of the spade guineas in her hand, which was by this time rather dirty owing to her not having put on gloves before going to the gravel-pit, the black-silk young lady in the shop looked very hard at her, and went and whispered something to an older and uglier lady, also in black silk, and then they gave her back the money and said it was not current coin.

'It's good money,' said Anthea, 'and it's my own.'

'I daresay,' said the lady, 'but it's not the kind of money that's fashionable now, and we don't care about taking it.'

'I believe they think we've stolen it,' said Anthea, rejoining the others in the street; 'if we had gloves they wouldn't think we were so dishonest. It's my hands being so dirty fills their minds with doubts.'

So they chose a humble shop, and the girls bought cotton gloves, the kind at sixpence three-farthings, but when they offered a guinea the woman looked at it through her spectacles and said she had no change; so the gloves had to be paid for out of Cyril's two-and-sevenpence that he meant to buy rabbits with, and so had the green imitation crocodile-skin purse at ninepence-halfpenny which had been bought at the same time. They tried several more shops, the kinds where you buy toys and scent, and silk handkerchiefs and books, and fancy boxes of stationery, and photographs of objects of interest in the vicinity. But nobody cared to change a guinea that day in Rochester, and as they went from shop to shop they got dirtier and dirtier, and their hair got more and more untidy, and Jane slipped and fell down on a part of the road where a water-cart had just gone by. Also they got very hungry, but they found no one would give them anything to eat for their guineas. After trying two pastrycooks in vain, they became so hungry, perhaps from the smell of the cake in the shops, as Cyril suggested, that they formed a plan of campaign in whispers and carried it out in desperation. They marched into a third pastrycook's - Beale his name was - and before the people behind the counter could interfere each child had seized three new penny buns, clapped the three together between its dirty hands, and taken a big bite out of the triple sandwich. Then they stood at bay, with the twelve buns in their hands and their mouths very full indeed. The shocked pastrycook bounded round the corner.

'Here,' said Cyril, speaking as distinctly as he could, and holding out the guinea he got ready before entering the shop, 'pay yourself out of that.'

Mr Beale snatched the coin, bit it, and put it in his pocket.

'Off you go,' he said, brief and stern like the man in the song.

'But the change?' said Anthea, who had a saving mind.

'Change!' said the man. 'I'll change you! Hout you goes; and you may think yourselves lucky I don't send for the police to find out where you got it!'

In the Castle Gardens the millionaires finished the buns, and though the curranty softness of these were delicious, and acted like a charm in raising the spirits of the party, yet even the stoutest heart quailed at the thought of venturing to sound Mr Billy Peasemarsh at the Saracen's Head on the subject of a horse and carriage. The boys would have given up the idea, but Jane was always a hopeful child, and Anthea generally an obstinate one, and their earnestness prevailed.

The whole party, by this time indescribably dirty, therefore betook itself to the Saracen's Head. The yard-method of attack having been successful at The Chequers was tried again here. Mr Peasemarsh was in the yard, and Robert opened the business in these terms -

'They tell me you have a lot of horses and carriages to sell.' It had been agreed that Robert should be spokesman, because in books it is always the gentlemen who buy horses, and not ladies, and Cyril had had his go at the Blue Boar.

'They tell you true, young man,' said Mr Peasemarsh. He was a long lean man, with very blue eyes and a tight mouth and narrow lips.

'We should like to buy some, please,' said Robert politely.

'I daresay you would.'

'Will you show us a few, please? To choose from.' 'Who are you a-kiddin of?' inquired Mr Billy Peasemarsh. 'Was you sent here of a message?'

'I tell you,' said Robert, 'we want to buy some horses and carriages, and a man told us you were straight and civil spoken, but I shouldn't wonder if he was mistaken.'

'Upon my sacred!' said Mr Peasemarsh. 'Shall I trot the whole stable out for your Honour's worship to see? Or shall I send round to the Bishop's to see if he's a nag or two to dispose of?'

'Please do,' said Robert, 'if it's not too much trouble. It would be very kind of you.'

Mr Peasemarsh put his hands in his pockets and laughed, and they did not like the way he did it. Then he shouted 'Willum!'

A stooping ostler appeared in a stable door.

'Here, Willum, come and look at this 'ere young dook! Wants to buy the whole stud, lock, stock, and bar'l. And ain't got tuppence in his pocket to bless hisself with, I'll go bail!'

Willum's eyes followed his master's pointing thumb with contemptuous interest.

'Do 'e, for sure?' he said.

But Robert spoke, though both the girls were now pulling at his jacket and begging him to 'come along'. He spoke, and he was very angry; he said:

'I'm not a young duke, and I never pretended to be. And as for tuppence - what do you call this?' And before the others could stop him he had pulled out two fat handfuls of shining guineas, and held them out for Mr Peasemarsh to look at. He did look. He snatched one up in his finger and thumb. He bit it, and Jane expected him to say, 'The best horse in my stables is at your service.' But the others knew better. Still it was a blow, even to the most desponding, when he said shortly:

'Willum, shut the yard doors,' and Willum grinned and went to shut them.

'Good-afternoon,' said Robert hastily; 'we shan't buy any of your horses now, whatever you say, and I hope it'll be a lesson to you.' He had seen a little side gate open, and was moving towards it as he spoke. But Billy Peasemarsh put himself in the way.

'Not so fast, you young off-scouring!' he said. 'Willum, fetch the pleece.'

Willum went. The children stood huddled together like frightened sheep, and Mr Peasemarsh spoke to them till the pleece arrived. He said many things. Among other things he said:

'Nice lot you are, aren't you, coming tempting honest men with your guineas!'

'They ARE our guineas,' said Cyril boldly.

'Oh, of course we don't know all about that, no more we don't - oh no - course not! And dragging little gells into it, too. 'Ere - I'll let the gells go if you'll come along to the pleece quiet.'

'We won't be let go,' said Jane heroically; 'not without the boys. It's our money just as much as theirs, you wicked old man.'

'Where'd you get it, then?' said the man, softening slightly, which was not at all what the boys expected when Jane began to call names.

Jane cast a silent glance of agony at the others.

'Lost your tongue, eh? Got it fast enough when it's for calling names with. Come, speak up! Where'd you get it?'

'Out of the gravel-pit,' said truthful Jane.

'Next article,' said the man.

'I tell you we did,' Jane said. 'There's a fairy there - all over brown fur - with ears like a bat's and eyes like a snail's, and he gives you a wish a day, and they all come true.'

'Touched in the head, eh?' said the man in a low voice, 'all the more shame to you boys dragging the poor afflicted child into your sinful burglaries.'

'She's not mad; it's true,' said Anthea; 'there is a fairy. If I ever see him again I'll wish for something for you; at least I would if vengeance wasn't wicked - so there!'

'Lor' lumme,' said Billy Peasemarsh, 'if there ain't another on 'em!'

And now Willum came - back with a spiteful grin on his face, and at his back a policeman, with whom Mr Peasemarsh spoke long in a hoarse earnest whisper.

'I daresay you're right,' said the policeman at last. 'Anyway, I'll take 'em up on a charge of unlawful possession, pending inquiries. And the magistrate will deal with the case. Send the afflicted ones to a home, as likely as not, and the boys to a reformatory. Now then, come along, youngsters! No use making a fuss. You bring the gells along, Mr Peasemarsh, sir, and I'll shepherd the boys.'

Speechless with rage and horror, the four children were driven along the streets of Rochester. Tears of anger and shame blinded them, so that when Robert ran right into a passer-by he did not recognize her till a well -- known voice said, 'Well, if ever I did! Oh, Master Robert, whatever have you been a doing of now?' And another voice, quite as well known, said, 'Panty; want go own Panty!'

They had run into Martha and the baby!

Martha behaved admirably. She refused to believe a word of the policeman's story, or of Mr Peasemarsh's either, even when they made Robert turn out his pockets in an archway and show the guineas.

'I don't see nothing,' she said. 'You've gone out of your senses, you two! There ain't any gold there - only the poor child's hands, all over crock and dirt, and like the very chimbley. Oh, that I should ever see the day!'

And the children thought this very noble of Martha, even if rather wicked, till they remembered how the Fairy had promised that the servants should never notice any of the fairy gifts. So of course Martha couldn't see the gold, and so was only speaking the truth, and that was quite right, of course, but not extra noble.

It was getting dusk when they reached the police-station. The policeman told his tale to an inspector, who sat in a large bare room with a thing like a clumsy nursery-fender at one end to put prisoners in. Robert wondered whether it was a cell or a dock.

'Produce the coins, officer,' said the inspector.

'Turn out your pockets,' said the constable.

Cyril desperately plunged his hands in his pockets, stood still a moment, and then began to laugh - an odd sort of laugh that hurt, and that felt much more like crying. His pockets were empty. So were the pockets of the others. For of course at sunset all the fairy gold had vanished away.

'Turn out your pockets, and stop that noise,' said the inspector.

Cyril turned out his pockets, every one of the nine which enriched his Norfolk suit. And every pocket was empty.

'Well!' said the inspector.

'I don't know how they done it - artful little beggars! They walked in front of me the 'ole way, so as for me to keep my eye on them and not to attract a crowd and obstruct the traffic.'

'It's very remarkable,' said the inspector, frowning.

'If you've quite done a-browbeating of the innocent children,' said Martha, 'I'll hire a private carriage and we'll drive home to their papa's mansion. You'll hear about this again, young man! - I told you they hadn't got any gold, when you were pretending to see it in their poor helpless hands. It's early in the day for a constable on duty not to be able to trust his own eyes. As to the other one, the less said the better; he keeps the Saracen's Head, and he knows best what his liquor's like.'

'Take them away, for goodness' sake,' said the inspector crossly. But as they left the police-station he said, 'Now then!' to the policeman and Mr Pease - marsh, and he said it twenty times as crossly as he had spoken to Martha.


Martha was as good as her word. She took them home in a very grand carriage, because the carrier's cart was gone, and, though she had stood by them so nobly with the police, she was so angry with them as soon as they were alone for 'trapseing into Rochester by themselves', that none of them dared to mention the old man with the pony-cart from the village who was waiting for them in Rochester. And so, after one day of boundless wealth, the children found themselves sent to bed in deep disgrace, and only enriched by two pairs of cotton gloves, dirty inside because of the state of the hands they had been put on to cover, an imitation crocodile-skin purse, and twelve penny buns long since digested.

The thing that troubled them most was the fear that the old gentleman's guinea might have disappeared at sunset with all the rest, so they went down to the village next day to apologize for not meeting him in Rochester, and to see. They found him very friendly. The guinea had NOT disappeared, and he had bored a hole in it and hung it on his watch-chain. As for the guinea the baker took, the children felt they could not care whether it had vanished or not, which was not perhaps very honest, but on the other hand was not wholly unnatural. But afterwards this preyed on Anthea's mind, and at last she secretly sent twelve stamps by post to 'Mr Beale, Baker, Rochester'. Inside she wrote, 'To pay for the buns.' I hope the guinea did disappear, for that pastrycook was really not at all a nice man, and, besides, penny buns are seven for sixpence in all really respectable shops.



Chapter 3 Being Wanted


The morning after the children had been the possessors of boundless wealth, and had been unable to buy anything really useful or enjoyable with it, except two pairs of cotton gloves, twelve penny buns, an imitation crocodile-skin purse, and a ride in a pony-cart, they awoke without any of the enthusiastic happiness which they had felt on the previous day when they remembered how they had had the luck to find a Psammead, or Sand-fairy; and to receive its promise to grant them a new wish every day. For now they had had two wishes, Beauty and Wealth, and neither had exactly made them happy. But the happening of strange things, even if they are not completely pleasant things, is more amusing than those times when nothing happens but meals, and they are not always completely pleasant, especially on the days when it is cold mutton or hash.

There was no chance of talking things over before breakfast, because everyone overslept itself, as it happened, and it needed a vigorous and determined struggle to get dressed so as to be only ten minutes late for breakfast. During this meal some efforts were made to deal with the question of the Psammead in an impartial spirit, but it is very difficult to discuss anything thoroughly and at the same time to attend faithfully to your baby brother's breakfast needs. The Baby was particularly lively that morning. He not only wriggled his body through the bar of his high chair, and hung by his head, choking and purple, but he collared a tablespoon with desperate suddenness, hit Cyril heavily on the head with it, and then cried because it was taken away from him. He put his fat fist in his bread-and-milk, and demanded 'nam', which was only allowed for tea. He sang, he put his feet on the table - he clamoured to 'go walky'. The conversation was something like this:


'Look here - about that Sand-fairy - Look out! - he'll have the milk over.'

Milk removed to a safe distance.

'Yes - about that Fairy - No, Lamb dear, give Panther the narky poon.'

Then Cyril tried. 'Nothing we've had yet has turned out - He nearly had the mustard that time!'

'I wonder whether we'd better wish - Hullo! you've done it now, my boy!' And, in a flash of glass and pink baby-paws, the bowl of golden carp in the middle of the table rolled on its side, and poured a flood of mixed water and goldfish into the Baby's lap and into the laps of the others.

Everyone was almost as much upset as the goldfish: the Lamb only remaining calm. When the pool on the floor had been mopped up, and the leaping, gasping goldfish had been collected and put back in the water, the Baby was taken away to be entirely redressed by Martha, and most of the others had to change completely. The pinafores and jackets that had been bathed in goldfish-and-water were hung out to dry, and then it turned out that Jane must either mend the dress she had torn the day before or appear all day in her best petticoat. It was white and soft and frilly, and trimmed with lace, and very, very pretty, quite as pretty as a frock, if not more so. Only it was NOT a frock, and Martha's word was law. She wouldn't let Jane wear her best frock, and she refused to listen for a moment to Robert's suggestion that Jane should wear her best petticoat and call it a dress.

'It's not respectable,' she said. And when people say that, it's no use anyone's saying anything. You will find this out for yourselves some day.

So there was nothing for it but for Jane to mend her frock. The hole had been torn the day before when she happened to tumble down in the High Street of Rochester, just where a water-cart had passed on its silvery way. She had grazed her knee, and her stocking was much more than grazed, and her dress was cut by the same stone which had attended to the knee and the stocking. Of course the others were not such sneaks as to abandon a comrade in misfortune, so they all sat on the grass-plot round the sundial, and Jane darned away for dear life. The Lamb was still in the hands of Martha having its clothes changed, so conversation was possible.

Anthea and Robert timidly tried to conceal their inmost thought, which was that the Psammead was not to be trusted; but Cyril said:

'Speak out - say what you've got to say - I hate hinting, and "don't know", and sneakish ways like that.'

So then Robert said, as in honour bound: 'Sneak yourself - Anthea and me weren't so goldfishy as you two were, so we got changed quicker, and we've had time to think it over, and if you ask me - '

'I didn't ask you,' said Jane, biting off a needleful of thread as she had always been strictly forbidden to do.

'I don't care who asks or who doesn't,' said Robert, but Anthea and I think the Sammyadd is a spiteful brute. If it can give us our wishes I suppose it can give itself its own, and I feel almost sure it wishes every time that our wishes shan't do us any good. Let's let the tiresome beast alone, and just go and have a jolly good game of forts, on our own, in the chalk-pit.'

(You will remember that the happily situated house where these children were spending their holidays lay between a chalk-quarry and a gravel-pit.)

Cyril and Jane were more hopeful - they generally were.

'I don't think the Sammyadd does it on purpose,' Cyril said; 'and, after all, it WAS silly to wish for boundless wealth. Fifty pounds in two-shilling pieces would have been much more sensible. And wishing to be beautiful as the day was simply donkeyish. I don't want to be disagreeable, but it was. We must try to find a really useful wish, and wish it.'

Jane dropped her work and said:

'I think so too, it's too silly to have a chance like this and not use it. I never heard of anyone else outside a book who had such a chance; there must be simply heaps of things we could wish for that wouldn't turn out Dead Sea fish, like these two things have. Do let's think hard, and wish something nice, so that we can have a real jolly day - what there is left of it.'

Jane darned away again like mad, for time was indeed getting on, and everyone began to talk at once. If you had been there you could not possibly have made head or tail of the talk, but these children were used to talking 'by fours', as soldiers march, and each of them could say what it had to say quite comfortably, and listen to the agreeable sound of its own voice, and at the same time have three-quarters of two sharp ears to spare for listening to what the others said. That is an easy example in multiplication of vulgar fractions, but, as I daresay you can't do even that, I won't ask you to tell me whether 3/4 X 2 = 1 1/2, but I will ask you to believe me that this was the amount of ear each child was able to lend to the others. Lending ears was common in Roman times, as we learn from Shakespeare; but I fear I am getting too instructive.

When the frock was darned, the start for the gravel-pit was delayed by Martha's insisting on everybody's washing its hands - which was nonsense, because nobody had been doing anything at all, except Jane, and how can you get dirty doing nothing? That is a difficult question, and I cannot answer it on paper. In real life I could very soon show you - or you me, which is much more likely.

During the conversation in which the six ears were lent (there were four children, so THAT sum comes right), it had been decided that fifty pounds in two-shilling pieces was the right wish to have. And the lucky children, who could have anything in the wide world by just wishing for it, hurriedly started for the gravel-pit to express their wishes to the Psammead. Martha caught them at the gate, and insisted on their taking the Baby with them.

'Not want him indeed! Why, everybody 'ud want him, a duck! with all their hearts they would; and you know you promised your ma to take him out every blessed day,' said Martha.

'I know we did,' said Robert in gloom, 'but I wish the Lamb wasn't quite so young and small. It would be much better fun taking him out.'

'He'll mend of his youngness with time,' said Martha; 'and as for his smallness, I don't think you'd fancy carrying of him any more, however big he was. Besides he can walk a bit, bless his precious fat legs, a ducky! He feels the benefit of the new-laid air, so he does, a pet!' With this and a kiss, she plumped the Lamb into Anthea's arms, and went back to make new pinafores on the sewing-machine. She was a rapid performer on this instrument.

The Lamb laughed with pleasure, and said, 'Walky wif Panty,' and rode on Robert's back with yells of joy, and tried to feed Jane with stones, and altogether made himself so agreeable that nobody could long be sorry that he was of the party.

The enthusiastic Jane even suggested that they should devote a week's wishes to assuring the Baby's future, by asking such gifts for him as the good fairies give to Infant Princes in proper fairy-tales, but Anthea soberly reminded her that as the Sand-fairy's wishes only lasted till sunset they could not ensure any benefit to the Baby's later years; and Jane owned that it would be better to wish for fifty pounds in two-shilling pieces, and buy the Lamb a three-pound-fifteen rocking-horse, like those in the Army and Navy Stores list, with part of the money.

It was settled that, as soon as they had wished for the money and got it, they would get Mr Crispin to drive them into Rochester again, taking Martha with them, if they could not get out of taking her. And they would make a list of the things they really wanted before they started. Full of high hopes and excellent resolutions, they went round the safe slow cart-road to the gravel-pits, and as they went in between the mounds of gravel a sudden thought came to them, and would have turned their ruddy cheeks pale if they had been children in a book. Being real live children, it only made them stop and look at each other with rather blank and silly expressions. For now they remembered that yesterday, when they had asked the Psammead for boundless wealth, and it was getting ready to fill the quarry with the minted gold of bright guineas - millions of them - it had told the children to run along outside the quarry for fear they should be buried alive in the heavy splendid treasure. And they had run. And so it happened that they had not had time to mark the spot where the Psammead was, with a ring of stones, as before. And it was this thought that put such silly expressions on their faces.

'Never mind,' said the hopeful Jane, 'we'll soon find him.'

But this, though easily said, was hard in the doing. They looked and they looked, and though they found their seaside spades, nowhere could they find the Sand-fairy.

At last they had to sit down and rest - not at all because they were weary or disheartened, of course, but because the Lamb insisted on being put down, and you cannot look very carefully after anything you may have happened to lose in the sand if you have an active baby to look after at the same time. Get someone to drop your best knife in the sand next time you go to the seaside, and then take your baby brother with you when you go to look for it, and you will see that I am right.

The Lamb, as Martha had said, was feeling the benefit of the country air, and he was as frisky as a sandhopper. The elder ones longed to go on talking about the new wishes they would have when (or if) they found the Psammead again. But the Lamb wished to enjoy himself.

He watched his opportunity and threw a handful of sand into Anthea's face, and then suddenly burrowed his own head in the sand and waved his fat legs in the air. Then of course the sand got into his eyes, as it had into Anthea's, and he howled.

The thoughtful Robert had brought one solid brown bottle of ginger-beer with him, relying on a thirst that had never yet failed him. This had to be uncorked hurriedly - it was the only wet thing within reach, and it was necessary to wash the sand out of the Lamb's eyes somehow. Of course the ginger hurt horribly, and he howled more than ever. And, amid his anguish of kicking, the bottle was upset and the beautiful ginger-beer frothed out into the sand and was lost for ever.

It was then that Robert, usually a very patient brother, so far forgot himself as to say:

'Anybody would want him, indeed! Only they don't; Martha doesn't, not really, or she'd jolly well keep him with her. He's a little nuisance, that's what he is. It's too bad. I only wish everybody DID want him with all their hearts; we might get some peace in our lives.'

The Lamb stopped howling now, because Jane had suddenly remembered that there is only one safe way of taking things out of little children's eyes, and that is with your own soft wet tongue. It is quite easy if you love the Baby as much as you ought to.

Then there was a little silence. Robert was not proud of himself for having been so cross, and the others were not proud of him either. You often notice that sort of silence when someone has said something it ought not to - and everyone else holds its tongue and waits for the one who oughtn't to have said it is sorry.

The silence was broken by a sigh - a breath suddenly let out. The children's heads turned as if there had been a string tied to each nose, and someone had pulled all the strings at once.

And everyone saw the Sand-fairy sitting quite close to them, with the expression which it used as a smile on its hairy face.

'Good-morning,' it said; 'I did that quite easily! Everyone wants him now.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Robert sulkily, because he knew he had been behaving rather like a pig. 'No matter who wants him - there's no one here to - anyhow.'

'Ingratitude,' said the Psammead, 'is a dreadful vice.'

'We're not ungrateful,'Jane made haste to say, 'but we didn't REALLY want that wish. Robert only just said it. Can't you take it back and give us a new one?'

'No - I can't,' the Sand-fairy said shortly; 'chopping and changing - it's not business. You ought to be careful what you do wish. There was a little boy once, he'd wished for a Plesiosaurus instead of an Ichthyosaurus, because he was too lazy to remember the easy names of everyday things, and his father had been very vexed with him, and had made him go to bed before tea-time, and wouldn't let him go out in the nice flint boat along with the other children - it was the annual school-treat next day - and he came and flung himself down near me on the morning of the treat, and he kicked his little prehistoric legs about and said he wished he was dead. And of course then he was.'

'How awful!' said the children all together.

'Only till sunset, of course,' the Psammead said; 'still it was quite enough for his father and mother. And he caught it when he woke up - I can tell you. He didn't turn to stone - I forget why - but there must have been some reason. They didn't know being dead is only being asleep, and you're bound to wake up somewhere or other, either where you go to sleep or in some better place. You may be sure he caught it, giving them such a turn. Why, he wasn't allowed to taste Megatherium for a month after that. Nothing but oysters and periwinkles, and common things like that.'

All the children were quite crushed by this terrible tale. They looked at the Psammead in horror. Suddenly the Lamb perceived that something brown and furry was near him.

'Poof, poof, poofy,' he said, and made a grab.

'It's not a pussy,' Anthea was beginning, when the Sand-fairy leaped back.

'Oh, my left whisker!' it said; 'don't let him touch me. He's wet.'

Its fur stood on end with horror - and indeed a good deal of the ginger-beer had been spilt on the blue smock of the Lamb.

The Psammead dug with its hands and feet, and vanished in an instant and a whirl of sand.

The children marked the spot with a ring of stones.

'We may as well get along home,' said Robert. 'I'll say I'm sorry; but anyway if it's no good it's no harm, and we know where the sandy thing is for to-morrow.'

The others were noble. No one reproached Robert at all. Cyril picked up the Lamb, who was now quite himself again, and off they went by the safe cart-road.

The cart-road from the gravel-pits joins the road almost directly.

At the gate into the road the party stopped to shift the Lamb from Cyril's back to Robert's. And as they paused a very smart open carriage came in sight, with a coachman and a groom on the box, and inside the carriage a lady - very grand indeed, with a dress all white lace and red ribbons and a parasol all red and white - and a white fluffy dog on her lap with a red ribbon round its neck. She looked at the children, and particularly at the Baby, and she smiled at him. The children were used to this, for the Lamb was, as all the servants said, a 'very taking child'. So they waved their hands politely to the lady and expected her to drive on. But she did not. Instead she made the coachman stop. And she beckoned to Cyril, and when he went up to the carriage she said:

'What a dear darling duck of a baby! Oh, I SHOULD so like to adopt it! Do you think its mother would mind?'

'She'd mind very much indeed,' said Anthea shortly.

'Oh, but I should bring it up in luxury, you know. I am Lady Chittenden. You must have seen my photograph in the illustrated papers. They call me a beauty, you know, but of course that's all nonsense. Anyway - '

She opened the carriage door and jumped out. She had the wonderfullest red high-heeled shoes with silver buckles. 'Let me hold him a minute,' she said. And she took the Lamb and held him very awkwardly, as if she was not used to babies.

Then suddenly she jumped into the carriage with the Lamb in her arms and slammed the door and said, 'Drive on!'

The Lamb roared, the little white dog barked, and the coachman hesitated.

'Drive on, I tell you!' cried the lady; and the coachman did, for, as he said afterwards, it was as much as his place was worth not to.

The four children looked at each other, and then with one accord they rushed after the carriage and held on behind. Down the dusty road went the smart carriage, and after it, at double-quick time, ran the twinkling legs of the Lamb's brothers and sisters.

The Lamb howled louder and louder, but presently his howls changed by slow degree to hiccupy gurgles, and then all was still and they knew he had gone to sleep.

The carriage went on, and the eight feet that twinkled through the dust were growing quite stiff and tired before the carriage stopped at the lodge of a grand park. The children crouched down behind the carriage, and the lady got out. She looked at the Baby as it lay on the carriage seat, and hesitated.

'The darling - I won't disturb it,' she said, and went into the lodge to talk to the woman there about a setting of Buff Orpington eggs that had not turned out well.

The coachman and footman sprang from the box and bent over the sleeping Lamb.

'Fine boy - wish he was mine,' said the coachman.

'He wouldn't favour YOU much,' said the groom sourly; 'too 'andsome.'

The coachman pretended not to hear. He said:

'Wonder at her now - I do really! Hates kids. Got none of her own, and can't abide other folkses'.'

The children, crouching in the white dust under the carriage, exchanged uncomfortable glances.

'Tell you what,' the coachman went on firmly, 'blowed if I don't hide the little nipper in the hedge and tell her his brothers took 'im! Then I'll come back for him afterwards.'

'No, you don't,' said the footman. 'I've took to that kid so as never was. If anyone's to have him, it's me - so there!'

'Stow your gab!' the coachman rejoined. 'You don't want no kids, and, if you did, one kid's the same as another to you. But I'm a married man and a judge of breed. I knows a first-rate yearling when I sees him. I'm a-goin' to 'ave him, an' least said soonest mended.'

'I should 'a' thought,' said the footman sneeringly, you'd a'most enough. What with Alfred, an' Albert, an' Louise, an' Victor Stanley, and Helena Beatrice, and another - '

The coachman hit the footman in the chin - the foot - man hit the coachman in the waistcoat - the next minute the two were fighting here and there, in and out, up and down, and all over everywhere, and the little dog jumped on the box of the carriage and began barking like mad.

Cyril, still crouching in the dust, waddled on bent legs to the side of the carriage farthest from the battlefield. He unfastened the door of the carriage - the two men were far too much occupied with their quarrel to notice anything - took the Lamb in his arms, and, still stooping, carried the sleeping baby a dozen yards along the road to where a stile led into a wood. The others followed, and there among the hazels and young oaks and sweet chestnuts, covered by high strong-scented bracken, they all lay hidden till the angry voices of the men were hushed at the angry voice of the red-and-white lady, and, after a long and anxious search, the carriage at last drove away.

'My only hat!' said Cyril, drawing a deep breath as the sound of wheels at last died away. 'Everyone DOES want him now - and no mistake! That Sammyadd has done us again! Tricky brute! For any sake, let's get the kid safe home.'

So they peeped out, and finding on the right hand only lonely white road, and nothing but lonely white road on the left, they took courage, and the road, Anthea carrying the sleeping Lamb.

Adventures dogged their footsteps. A boy with a bundle of faggots on his back dropped his bundle by the roadside and asked to look at the Baby, and then offered to carry him; but Anthea was not to be caught that way twice. They all walked on, but the boy followed, and Cyril and Robert couldn't make him go away till they had more than once invited him to smell their fists. Afterwards a little girl in a blue-and-white checked pinafore actually followed them for a quarter of a mile crying for 'the precious Baby', and then she was only got rid of by threats of tying her to a tree in the wood with all their pocket-handkerchiefs. 'So that the bears can come and eat you as soon as it gets dark,' said Cyril severely. Then she went off crying. It presently seemed wise, to the brothers and sisters of the Baby, who was wanted by everyone, to hide in the hedge whenever they saw anyone coming, and thus they managed to prevent the Lamb from arousing the inconvenient affection of a milkman, a stone-breaker, and a man who drove a cart with a paraffin barrel at the back of it. They were nearly home when the worst thing of all happened. Turning a corner suddenly they came upon two vans, a tent, and a company of gipsies encamped by the side of the road. The vans were hung all round with wicker chairs and cradles, and flower-stands and feather brushes. A lot of ragged children were industriously making dust-pies in the road, two men lay on the grass smoking, and three women were doing the family washing in an old red watering-can with the top broken off.

In a moment all the gipsies, men, women, and children, surrounded Anthea and the Baby.

'Let me hold him, little lady,' said one of the gipsy women, who had a mahogany-coloured face and dust-coloured hair; 'I won't hurt a hair of his head, the little picture!'

'I'd rather not,' said Anthea.

'Let me have him,' said the other woman, whose face was also of the hue of mahogany, and her hair jet-black, in greasy curls. 'I've nineteen of my own, so I have.'

'No,' said Anthea bravely, but her heart beat so that it nearly choked her.

Then one of the men pushed forward.

'Swelp me if it ain't!' he cried, 'my own long-lost cheild! Have he a strawberry mark on his left ear? No? Then he's my own babby, stolen from me in hinnocent hinfancy. 'And 'im over - and we'll not 'ave the law on yer this time.'

He snatched the Baby from Anthea, who turned scarlet and burst into tears of pure rage.

The others were standing quite still; this was much the most terrible thing that had ever happened to them. Even being taken up by the police in Rochester was nothing to this. Cyril was quite white, and his hands trembled a little, but he made a sign to the others to shut up. He was silent a minute, thinking hard. Then he said:

'We don't want to keep him if he's yours. But you see he's used to us. You shall have him if you want him.'

'No, no!' cried Anthea - and Cyril glared at her.

'Of course we want him,' said the women, trying to get the Baby out of the man's arms. The Lamb howled loudly.

'Oh, he's hurt!' shrieked Anthea; and Cyril, in a savage undertone, bade her 'Stow it!'

'You trust to me,' he whispered. 'Look here,' he went on, 'he's awfully tiresome with people he doesn't know very well. Suppose we stay here a bit till he gets used to you, and then when it's bedtime I give you my word of honour we'll go away and let you keep him if you want to. And then when we're gone you can decide which of you is to have him, as you all want him so much.'

'That's fair enough,' said the man who was holding the Baby, trying to loosen the red neckerchief which the Lamb had caught hold of and drawn round his mahogany throat so tight that he could hardly breathe. The gipsies whispered together, and Cyril took the chance to whisper too. He said, 'Sunset! we'll get away then.'

And then his brothers and sisters were filled with wonder and admiration at his having been so clever as to remember this.

'Oh, do let him come to us!' said Jane. 'See we'll sit down here and take care of him for you till he gets used to you.'

'What about dinner?' said Robert suddenly. The others looked at him with scorn. 'Fancy bothering about your beastly dinner when your br - I mean when the Baby' - Jane whispered hotly. Robert carefully winked at her and went on:

'You won't mind my just running home to get our dinner?' he said to the gipsy; 'I can bring it out here in a basket.'

His brother and sisters felt themselves very noble, and despised him. They did not know his thoughtful secret intention. But the gipsies did in a minute. 'Oh yes!' they said; 'and then fetch the police with a pack of lies about it being your baby instead of ours! D'jever catch a weasel asleep?' they asked.

'If you're hungry you can pick a bit along of us,' said the light-haired gipsy woman, not unkindly. 'Here, Levi, that blessed kid'll howl all his buttons off. Give him to the little lady, and let's see if they can't get him used to us a bit.'

So the Lamb was handed back; but the gipsies crowded so closely that he could not possibly stop howling. Then the man with the red handkerchief said:

'Here, Pharaoh, make up the fire; and you girls see to the pot. Give the kid a chanst.' So the gipsies, very much against their will, went off to their work, and the children and the Lamb were left sitting on the grass.

'He'll be all right at sunset,'Jane whispered. 'But, oh, it is awful! Suppose they are frightfully angry when they come to their senses! They might beat us, or leave us tied to trees, or something.'

'No, they won't,' Anthea said. ('Oh, my Lamb, don't cry any more, it's all right, Panty's got oo, duckie!) They aren't unkind people, or they wouldn't be going to give us any dinner.'

'Dinner?' said Robert. 'I won't touch their nasty dinner. It would choke me!'

The others thought so too then. But when the dinner was ready - it turned out to be supper, and happened between four and five - they were all glad enough to take what they could get. It was boiled rabbit, with onions, and some bird rather like a chicken, but stringier about its legs and with a stronger taste. The Lamb had bread soaked in hot water and brown sugar sprinkled on the top. He liked this very much, and consented to let the two gipsy women feed him with it, as he sat on Anthea's lap. All that long hot afternoon Robert and Cyril and Anthea and Jane had to keep the Lamb amused and happy, while the gipsies looked eagerly on. By the time the shadows grew long and black across the meadows he had really 'taken to' the woman with the light hair, and even consented to kiss his hand to the children, and to stand up and bow, with his hand on his chest - 'like a gentleman' - to the two men. The whole gipsy camp was in raptures with him, and his brothers and sisters could not help taking some pleasure in showing off his accomplishments to an audience so interested and enthusiastic. But they longed for sunset.

'We're getting into the habit of longing for sunset,' Cyril whispered. 'How I do wish we could wish something really sensible, that would be of some use, so that we should be quite sorry when sunset came.'

The shadows got longer and longer, and at last there were no separate shadows any more, but one soft glowing shadow over everything; for the sun was out of sight - behind the hill - but he had not really set yet. The people who make the laws about lighting bicycle lamps are the people who decide when the sun sets; he has to do it, too, to the minute, or they would know the reason why!

But the gipsies were getting impatient.

'Now, young uns,' the red-handkerchief man said,'it's time you were laying of your heads on your pillowses - so it is! The kid's all right and friendly with us now - so you just hand him over and sling that hook o' yours like you said.'

The women and children came crowding round the Lamb, arms were held out, fingers snapped invitingly, friendly faces beaming with admiring smiles; but all failed to tempt the loyal Lamb. He clung with arms and legs to Jane, who happened to be holding him, and uttered the gloomiest roar of the whole day.

'It's no good,' the woman said, 'hand the little poppet over, miss. We'll soon quiet him.'

And still the sun would not set.

'Tell her about how to put him to bed,' whispered Cyril; 'anything to gain time - and be ready to bolt when the sun really does make up its silly old mind to set.'

'Yes, I'll hand him over in just one minute,' Anthea began, talking very fast - 'but do let me just tell you he has a warm bath every night and cold in the morning, and he has a crockery rabbit to go into the warm bath with him, and little Samuel saying his prayers in white china on a red cushion for the cold bath; and if you let the soap get into his eyes, the Lamb - '

'Lamb kyes,' said he - he had stopped roaring to listen.

The woman laughed. 'As if I hadn't never bath'd a babby!' she said. 'Come - give us a hold of him. Come to 'Melia, my precious.'

'G'way, ugsie!' replied the Lamb at once.

'Yes, but,' Anthea went on, 'about his meals; you really MUST let me tell you he has an apple or a banana every morning, and bread-and-milk for breakfast, and an egg for his tea sometimes, and - '

'I've brought up ten,' said the black-ringleted woman, 'besides the others. Come, miss, 'and 'im over - I can't bear it no longer. I just must give him a hug.'

'We ain't settled yet whose he's to be, Esther,' said one of the men.

'It won't be you, Esther, with seven of 'em at your tail a'ready.'

'I ain't so sure of that,' said Esther's husband.

'And ain't I nobody, to have a say neither?' said the husband of 'Melia.

Zillah, the girl, said, 'An' me? I'm a single girl - and no one but 'im to look after - I ought to have him.'

'Hold yer tongue!'

'Shut your mouth!'

'Don't you show me no more of your imperence!'

Everyone was getting very angry. The dark gipsy faces were frowning and anxious-looking. Suddenly a change swept over them, as if some invisible sponge had wiped away these cross and anxious expressions, and left only a blank.

The children saw that the sun really HAD set. But they were afraid to move. And the gipsies were feeling so muddled, because of the invisible sponge that had washed all the feelings of the last few hours out of their hearts, that they could not say a word.

The children hardly dared to breathe. Suppose the gipsies, when they recovered speech, should be furious to think how silly they had been all day.

It was an awkward moment. Suddenly Anthea, greatly daring, held out the Lamb to the red-handkerchief man.

'Here he is!' she said.

The man drew back. 'I shouldn't like to deprive you, miss,' he said hoarsely.

'Anyone who likes can have my share of him,' said the other man.

'After all, I've got enough of my own,' said Esther.

'He's a nice little chap, though,' said Amelia. She was the only one who now looked affectionately at the whimpering Lamb.

Zillah said, 'If I don't think I must have had a touch of the sun. I don't want him.'

'Then shall we take him away?' said Anthea.

'Well, suppose you do,' said Pharaoh heartily, 'and we'll say no more about it!'

And with great haste all the gipsies began to be busy about their tents for the night. All but Amelia. She went with the children as far as the bend in the road - and there she said:

'Let me give him a kiss, miss - I don't know what made us go for to behave so silly. Us gipsies don't steal babies, whatever they may tell you when you're naughty. We've enough of our own, mostly. But I've lost all mine.'

She leaned towards the Lamb; and he, looking in her eyes, unexpectedly put up a grubby soft paw and stroked her face.

'Poor, poor!' said the Lamb. And he let the gipsy woman kiss him, and, what is more, he kissed her brown cheek in return - a very nice kiss, as all his kisses are, and not a wet one like some babies give. The gipsy woman moved her finger about on his forehead, as if she had been writing something there, and the same with his chest and his hands and his feet; then she said:

'May he be brave, and have the strong head to think with, and the strong heart to love with, and the strong hands to work with, and the strong feet to travel with, and always come safe home to his own.' Then she said something in a strange language no one could understand, and suddenly added:

'Well, I must be saying "so long" - and glad to have made your acquaintance.' And she turned and went back to her home - the tent by the grassy roadside.

The children looked after her till she was out of sight. Then Robert said, 'How silly of her! Even sunset didn't put her right. What rot she talked!'

'Well,' said Cyril, 'if you ask me, I think it was rather decent of her - '

'Decent?' said Anthea; 'it was very nice indeed of her. I think she's a dear.'

'She's just too frightfully nice for anything,' said Jane.

And they went home - very late for tea and unspeakably late for dinner. Martha scolded, of course. But the Lamb was safe.

'I say - it turned out we wanted the Lamb as much as anyone,' said Robert, later.

'Of course.'

'But do you feel different about it now the sun's set?'

'No,' said all the others together. 'Then it's lasted over sunset with us.'

'No, it hasn't,' Cyril explained. 'The wish didn't do anything to US. We always wanted him with all our hearts when we were our proper selves, only we were all pigs this morning; especially you, Robert.' Robert bore this much with a strange calm.

'I certainly THOUGHT I didn't want him this morning,' said he. 'Perhaps I was a pig. But everything looked so different when we thought we were going to lose him.'



Chapter 4 Wings


The next day was very wet - too wet to go out, and far too wet to think of disturbing a Sand-fairy so sensitive to water that he still, after thousands of years, felt the pain of once having had his left whisker wetted. It was a long day, and it was not till the afternoon that all the children suddenly decided to write letters to their mother. It was Robert who had the misfortune to upset the ink-pot - an unusually deep and full one - straight into that part of Anthea's desk where she had long pretended that an arrangement of gum and cardboard painted with Indian ink was a secret drawer. It was not exactly Robert's fault; it was only his misfortune that he chanced to be lifting the ink across the desk just at the moment when Anthea had got it open, and that that same moment should have been the one chosen by the Lamb to get under the table and break his squeaking bird. There was a sharp convenient wire inside the bird, and of course the Lamb ran the wire into Robert's leg at once; and so, without anyone's meaning to, the secret drawer was flooded with ink. At the same time a stream was poured over Anthea's half-finished letter. So that her letter was something like this:


DARLING MOTHER, I hope you are quite well, and I hope Granny is better. The other day we ...


Then came a flood of ink, and at the bottom these words in pencil -


It was not me upset the ink, but it took such a time clearing up, so no more as it is post-time.  - From your loving daughter, ANTHEA.


Robert's letter had not even been begun. He had been drawing a ship on the blotting-paper while he was trying to think of what to say. And of course after the ink was upset he had to help Anthea to clean out her desk, and he promised to make her another secret drawer, better than the other. And she said, 'Well, make it now.' So it was post-time and his letter wasn't done. And the secret drawer wasn't done either.

Cyril wrote a long letter, very fast, and then went to set a trap for slugs that he had read about in the Home-made Gardener, and when it was post-time the letter could not be found, and it never was found. Perhaps the slugs ate it.

jane's letter was the only one that went. She meant to tell her mother all about the Psammead - in fact - they had all meant to do this - but she spent so long thinking how to spell the word that there was no time to tell the story properly, and it is useless to tell a story unless you do tell it properly, so she had to be contented with this -


My Dear Mother Dear,

We are all as as good as we can, like you told us to, and the Lamb has a little cold, but Martha says it is nothing, only he upset the goldfish into himself yesterday morning. When we were up at the sand-pit the other day we went round by the safe way where carts go, and we found a  -- 


Half an hour went by before Jane felt quite sure that they could none of them spell Psammead. And they could not find it in the dictionary either, though they looked. Then Jane hastily finished her letter.



We found a strange thing, but it is nearly post-time, so no more at present from your little girl, JANE.

Ps.  - If you could have a wish come true, what would you have?


Then the postman was heard blowing his horn, and Robert rushed out in the rain to stop his cart and give him the letter. And that was how it happened that, though all the children meant to tell their mother about the Sand-fairy, somehow or other she never got to know. There were other reasons why she never got to know, but these come later.

The next day Uncle Richard came and took them all to Maidstone in a wagonette - all except the Lamb. Uncle Richard was the very best kind of uncle. He bought them toys at Maidstone. He took them into a shop and let them choose exactly what they wanted, without any restrictions about price, and no nonsense about things being instructive. It is very wise to let children choose exactly what they like, because they are very foolish and inexperienced, and sometimes they will choose a really instructive thing without meaning to. This happened to Robert, who chose, at the last moment, and in a great hurry, a box with pictures on it of winged bulls with men's heads and winged men with eagles' heads. He thought there would be animals inside, the same as on the box. When he got it home it was a Sunday puzzle about ancient Nineveh! The others chose in haste, and were happy at leisure. Cyril had a model engine, and the girls had two dolls, as well as a china tea-set with forget-me-nots on it, to be 'between them'. The boys' 'between them' was bow and arrows.

Then Uncle Richard took them on the beautiful Medway in a boat, and then they all had tea at a beautiful pastrycook's, and when they reached home it was far too late to have any wishes that day.

They did not tell Uncle Richard anything about the Psammead. I do not know why. And they do not know why. But I daresay you can guess.

The day after Uncle Richard had behaved so handsomely was a very hot day indeed. The people who decide what the weather is to be, and put its orders down for it in the newspapers every morning, said afterwards that it was the hottest day there had been for years. They had ordered it to be 'warmer - some showers', and warmer it certainly was. In fact it was so busy being warmer that it had no time to attend to the order about showers, so there weren't any.

Have you ever been up at five o'clock on a fine summer morning? It is very beautiful. The sunlight is pinky and yellowy, and all the grass and trees are covered with dew-diamonds. And all the shadows go the opposite way to the way they do in the evening, which is very interesting and makes you feel as though you were in a new other world.

Anthea awoke at five. She had made herself wake, and I must tell you how it is done, even if it keeps you waiting for the story to go on.

You get into bed at night, and lie down quite flat on your little back with your hands straight down by your sides. Then you say 'I must wake up at five' (or six, or seven, or eight, or nine, or whatever the time is that you want), and as you say it you push your chin down on to your chest and then bang your head back on the pillow. And you do this as many times as there are ones in the time you want to wake up at. (It is quite an easy sum.) Of course everything depends on your really wanting to get up at five (or six, or seven, or eight, or nine); if you don't really want to, it's all of no use. But if you do - well, try it and see. Of course in this, as in doing Latin proses or getting into mischief, practice makes perfect. Anthea was quite perfect.

At the very moment when she opened her eyes she heard the black-and-gold clock down in the dining-room strike eleven. So she knew it was three minutes to five. The black-and-gold clock always struck wrong, but it was all right when you knew what it meant. It was like a person talking a foreign language. If you know the language it is just as easy to understand as English. And Anthea knew the clock language. She was very sleepy, but she jumped out of bed and put her face and hands into a basin of cold water. This is a fairy charm that prevents your wanting to get back into bed again. Then she dressed, and folded up her nightgown. She did not tumble it together by the sleeves, but folded it by the seams from the hem, and that will show you the kind of well-brought-up little girl she was.

Then she took her shoes in her hand and crept softly down the stairs. She opened the dining-room window and climbed out. It would have been just as easy to go out by the door, but the window was more romantic, and less likely to be noticed by Martha.

'I will always get up at five,' she said to herself. 'It was quite too awfully pretty for anything.'

Her heart was beating very fast, for she was carrying out a plan quite her own. She could not be sure that it was a good plan, but she was quite sure that it would not be any better if she were to tell the others about it. And she had a feeling that, right or wrong, she would rather go through with it alone. She put on her shoes under the iron veranda, on the red-and-yellow shining tiles, and then she ran straight to the sand-pit, and found the Psammead's place, and dug it out; it was very cross indeed.

'It's too bad,' it said, fluffing up its fur like pigeons do their feathers at Christmas time. 'The weather's arctic, and it's the middle of the night.'

'I'm so sorry,' said Anthea gently, and she took off her white pinafore and covered the Sand-fairy up with it, all but its head, its bat's ears, and its eyes that were like a snail's eyes.

'Thank you,' it said, 'that's better. What's the wish this morning?'

'I don't know,' said she; 'that's just it. You see we've been very unlucky, so far. I wanted to talk to you about it. But - would you mind not giving me any wishes till after breakfast? It's so hard to talk to anyone if they jump out at you with wishes you don't really want!'

'You shouldn't say you wish for things if you don't wish for them. In the old days people almost always knew whether it was Megatherium or Ichthyosaurus they really wanted for dinner.'

'I'll try not,' said Anthea, 'but I do wish - '

'Look out!' said the Psammead in a warning voice, and it began to blow itself out.

'Oh, this isn't a magic wish - it's just - I should be so glad if you'd not swell yourself out and nearly burst to give me anything just now. Wait till the others are here.'

'Well, well,' it said indulgently, but it shivered.

'Would you,' asked Anthea kindly - 'would you like to come and sit on my lap? You'd be warmer, and I could turn the skirt of my frock up round you. I'd be very careful.'

Anthea had never expected that it would, but it did.

'Thank you,' it said; 'you really are rather thoughtful.' It crept on to her lap and snuggled down, and she put her arms round it with a rather frightened gentleness. 'Now then!' it said.

'Well then,' said Anthea, 'everything we have wished has turned out rather horrid. I wish you would advise us. You are so old, you must be very wise.'

'I was always generous from a child,' said the Sand-fairy. 'I've spent the whole of my waking hours in giving. But one thing I won't give - that's advice.'

'You see,' Anthea went on, it's such a wonderful thing - such a splendid, glorious chance. It's so good and kind and dear of you to give us our wishes, and it seems such a pity it should all be wasted just because we are too silly to know what to wish for.'

Anthea had meant to say that - and she had not wanted to say it before the others. It's one thing to say you're silly, and quite another to say that other people are.

'Child,' said the Sand-fairy sleepily, 'I can only advise you to think before you speak - '

'But I thought you never gave advice.'

'That piece doesn't count,' it said. 'You'll never take it! Besides, it's not original. It's in all the copy-books.'

'But won't you just say if you think wings would be a silly wish?'

'Wings?' it said. 'I should think you might do worse. Only, take care you aren't flying high at sunset. There was a little Ninevite boy I heard of once. He was one of King Sennacherib's sons, and a traveller brought him a Psammead. He used to keep it in a box of sand on the palace terrace. It was a dreadful degradation for one of us, of course; still the boy was the Assyrian King's son. And one day he wished for wings and got them. But he forgot that they would turn into stone at sunset, and when they did he fell slap on to one of the winged lions at the top of his father's great staircase; and what with HIS stone wings and the lions' stone wings - well, it's not a pretty story! But I believe the boy enjoyed himself very much till then.'

'Tell me,' said Anthea, 'why don't our wishes turn into stone now? Why do they just vanish?'

'Autres temps, autres moeurs,' said the creature.

'Is that the Ninevite language?' asked Anthea, who had learned no foreign language at school except French.

'What I mean is,' the Psammead went on, 'that in the old days people wished for good solid everyday gifts - Mammoths and Pterodactyls and things - and those could be turned into stone as easy as not. But people wish such high-flying fanciful things nowadays. How are you going to turn being beautiful as the day, or being wanted by everybody, into stone? You see it can't be done. And it would never do to have two rules, so they simply vanish. If being beautiful as the day COULD be turned into stone it would last an awfully long time, you know - much longer than you would. just look at the Greek statues. It's just as well as it is. Good-bye. I AM so sleepy.'

It jumped off her lap - dug frantically, and vanished.

Anthea was late for breakfast. It was Robert who quietly poured a spoonful of treacle down the Lamb's frock, so that he had to be taken away and washed thoroughly directly after breakfast. And it was of course a very naughty thing to do; yet it served two purposes - it delighted the Lamb, who loved above all things to be completely sticky, and it engaged Martha's attention so that the others could slip away to the sand-pit without the Lamb.

They did it, and in the lane Anthea, breathless from the scurry of that slipping, panted out -

'I want to propose we take turns to wish. Only, nobody's to have a wish if the others don't think it's a nice wish. Do you agree?'

'Who's to have first wish?' asked Robert cautiously.

'Me, if you don't mind,' said Anthea apologetically. 'And I've thought about it - and it's wings.'

There was a silence. The others rather wanted to find fault, but it was hard, because the word 'wings' raised a flutter of joyous excitement in every breast.

'Not so dusty,' said Cyril generously; and Robert added, 'Really, Panther, you're not quite such a fool as you look.'

Jane said, 'I think it would be perfectly lovely. It's like a bright dream of delirium.' They found the Sand-fairy easily. Anthea said:

'I wish we all had beautiful wings to fly with.'

The Sand-fairy blew himself out, and next moment each child felt a funny feeling, half heaviness and half lightness, on its shoulders. The Psammead put its head on one side and turned its snail's eyes from one to the other.

'Not so dusty,' it said dreamily. 'But really, Robert, you're not quite such an angel as you look.' Robert almost blushed.

The wings were very big, and more beautiful than you can possibly imagine - for they were soft and smooth, and every feather lay neatly in its place. And the feathers were of the most lovely mixed changing colours, like the rainbow, or iridescent glass, or the beautiful scum that sometimes floats on water that is not at all nice to drink.

'Oh - but can we fly?'Jane said, standing anxiously first on one foot and then on the other.

'Look out!' said Cyril; 'you're treading on my wing.'

'Does it hurt?' asked Anthea with interest; but no one answered, for Robert had spread his wings and jumped up, and now he was slowly rising in the air. He looked very awkward in his knickerbocker suit - his boots in particular hung helplessly, and seemed much larger than when he was standing in them. But the others cared but little how he looked - or how they looked, for that matter. For now they all spread out their wings and rose in the air. Of course you all know what flying feels like, because everyone has dreamed about flying, and it seems so beautifully easy - only, you can never remember how you did it; and as a rule you have to do it without wings, in your dreams, which is more clever and uncommon, but not so easy to remember the rule for. Now the four children rose flapping from the ground, and you can't think how good the air felt running against their faces. Their wings were tremendously wide when they were spread out, and they had to fly quite a long way apart so as not to get in each other's way. But little things like this are easily learned.

All the words in the English Dictionary, and in the Greek Lexicon as well, are, I find, of no use at all to tell you exactly what it feels like to be flying, so I Will not try. But I will say that to look DOWN on the fields and woods, instead of along at them, is something like looking at a beautiful live map, where, instead of silly colours on paper, you have real moving sunny woods and green fields laid out one after the other. As Cyril said, and I can't think where he got hold of such a strange expression, 'It does you a fair treat!' It was most wonderful and more like real magic than any wish the children had had yet. They flapped and flew and sailed on their great rainbow wings, between green earth and blue sky; and they flew right over Rochester and then swerved round towards Maidstone, and presently they all began to feel extremely hungry. Curiously enough, this happened when they were flying rather low, and just as they were crossing an orchard where some early plums shone red and ripe.

They paused on their wings. I cannot explain to you how this is done, but it is something like treading water when you are swimming, and hawks do it extremely well.

'Yes, I daresay,' said Cyril, though no one had spoken. 'But stealing is stealing even if you've got wings.'

'Do you really think so?' said Jane briskly. 'If you've got wings you're a bird, and no one minds birds breaking the commandments. At least, they MAY mind, but the birds always do it, and no one scolds them or sends them to prison.'

It was not so easy to perch on a plum-tree as you might think, because the rainbow wings were so very large; but somehow they all managed to do it, and the plums were certainly very sweet and juicy.

Fortunately, it was not till they had all had quite as many plums as were good for them that they saw a stout man, who looked exactly as though he owned the plum-trees, come hurrying through the orchard gate with a thick stick, and with one accord they disentangled their wings from the plum-laden branches and began to fly.

The man stopped short, with his mouth open. For he had seen the boughs of his trees moving and twitching, and he had said to himself, 'The young varmints - at it again!' And he had come out at once, for the lads of the village had taught him in past seasons that plums want looking after. But when he saw the rainbow wings flutter up out of the plum-tree he felt that he must have gone quite mad, and he did not like the feeling at all. And when Anthea looked down and saw his mouth go slowly open, and stay so, and his face become green and mauve in patches, she called out:

'Don't be frightened,' and felt hastily in her pocket for a threepenny-bit with a hole in it, which she had meant to hang on a ribbon round her neck, for luck. She hovered round the unfortunate plum-owner, and said, 'We have had some of your plums; we thought it wasn't stealing, but now I am not so sure. So here's some money to pay for them.'

She swooped down towards the terror-stricken grower of plums, and slipped the coin into the pocket of his jacket, and in a few flaps she had rejoined the others.

The farmer sat down on the grass, suddenly and heavily.

'Well - I'm blessed!' he said. 'This here is what they call delusions, I suppose. But this here threepenny' - he had pulled it out and bitten it - 'THAT'S real enough. Well, from this day forth I'll be a better man. It's the kind of thing to sober a chap for life, this is. I'm glad it was only wings, though. I'd rather see birds as aren't there, and couldn't be, even if they pretend to talk, than some things as I could name.'

He got up slowly and heavily, and went indoors, and he was so nice to his wife that day that she felt quite happy, and said to herself, 'Law, whatever have a-come to the man!' and smartened herself up and put a blue ribbon bow at the place where her collar fastened on, and looked so pretty that he was kinder than ever. So perhaps the winged children really did do one good thing that day. If so, it was the only one; for really there is nothing like wings for getting you into trouble. But, on the other hand, if you arc in trouble, there is nothing like wings for getting you out of it.

This was the case in the matter of the fierce dog who sprang out at them when they had folded up their wings as small as possible and were going up to a farm door to ask for a crust of bread and cheese, for in spite of the plums they were soon just as hungry as ever again.

Now there is no doubt whatever that, if the four had been ordinary wingless children, that black and fierce dog would have had a good bite out of the brown-stockinged leg of Robert, who was the nearest. But at first growl there was a flutter of wings, and the dog was left to strain at his chain and stand on his hind-legs as if he were trying to fly too.

They tried several other farms, but at those where there were no dogs the people were far too frightened to do anything but scream; and at last when it was nearly four o'clock, and their wings were getting miserably stiff and tired, they alighted on a church-tower and held a council of war.

'We can't possibly fly all the way home without dinner or tea,' said Robert with desperate decision.

'And nobody will give us any dinner, or even lunch, let alone tea,' said Cyril.

'Perhaps the clergyman here might,' suggested Anthea. 'He must know all about angels - '

'Anybody could see we're not that,' said Jane. 'Look at Robert's boots and Squirrel's plaid necktie.'

'Well,' said Cyril firmly, 'if the country you're in won't SELL provisions, you TAKE them. In wars I mean. I'm quite certain you do. And even in other stories no good brother would allow his little sisters to starve in the midst of plenty.'

'Plenty?' repeated Robert hungrily; and the others looked vaguely round the bare leads of the church - tower, and murmured, 'In the midst of?'

'Yes,' said Cyril impressively. 'There is a larder window at the side of the clergyman's house, and I saw things to eat inside - custard pudding and cold chicken and tongue - and pies - and jam. It's rather a high window - but with wings - '

'How clever of you!' said Jane.

'Not at all,' said Cyril modestly; 'any born general - Napoleon or the Duke of Marlborough - would have seen it just the same as I did.'

'It seems very wrong,' said Anthea.

'Nonsense,' said Cyril. 'What was it Sir Philip Sidney said when the soldier wouldn't stand him a drink? - "My necessity is greater than his".'

'We'll club our money, though, and leave it to pay for the things, won't we?' Anthea was persuasive, and very nearly in tears, because it is most trying to feel enormously hungry and unspeakably sinful at one and the same time.

'Some of it,' was the cautious reply.

Everyone now turned out its pockets on the lead roof of the tower, where visitors for the last hundred and fifty years had cut their own and their sweethearts' initials with penknives in the soft lead. There was five-and-sevenpence-halfpenny altogether, and even the upright Anthea admitted that that was too much to pay for four peoples dinners. Robert said he thought eighteen pence.

And half-a-crown was finally agreed to be 'hand - some'.

So Anthea wrote on the back of her last term's report, which happened to be in her pocket, and from which she first tore her own name and that of the school, the following letter:


Dear Reverend Clergyman,

We are very hungry indeed because of having to fly all day, and we think it is not stealing when you are starving to death. We are afraid to ask you for fear you should say 'No', because of course you know about angels, but you would not think we were angels. We will only take the nessessities of life, and no pudding or pie, to show you it is not grediness but true starvation that makes us make your larder stand and deliver. But we are not highwaymen by trade.


'Cut it short,' said the others with one accord. And Anthea hastily added:

Our intentions are quite honourable if you only knew. And here is half-a-crown to show we are sinseer and grateful. Thank you for your kind hospitality. FROM Us FOUR.


The half-crown was wrapped in this letter, and all the children felt that when the clergyman had read it he would understand everything, as well as anyone could who had not seen the wings.

'Now,' said Cyril,"of course there's some risk; we'd better fly straight down the other side of the tower and then flutter low across the churchyard and in through the shrubbery. There doesn't seem to be anyone about. But you never know. The window looks out into the shrubbery. It is embowered in foliage, like a window in a story. I'll go in and get the things. Robert and Anthea can take them as I hand them out through the window; and Jane can keep watch - her eyes are sharp - and whistle if she sees anyone about. Shut up, Robert! she can whistle quite well enough for that, anyway. It ought not to be a very good whistle - it'll sound more natural and birdlike. Now then - off we go!'

I cannot pretend that stealing is right. I can only say that on this occasion it did not look like stealing to the hungry four, but appeared in the light of a fair and reasonable business transaction. They had never happened to learn that a tongue - hardly cut into - a chicken and a half, a loaf of bread, and a syphon of soda-water cannot be bought in shops for half-a-crown. These were the necessaries of life, which Cyril handed out of the larder window when, quite unobserved and without hindrance or adventure, he had led the others to that happy spot. He felt that to refrain from jam, apple turnovers, cake, and mixed candied peel was a really heroic act - and I agree with him. He was also proud of not taking the custard pudding - and there I think he was wrong - because if he had taken it there would have been a difficulty about returning the dish; no one, however starving, has a right to steal china pie-dishes with little pink flowers on them. The soda-water syphon was different. They could not do without something to drink, and as the maker's name was on it they felt sure it would be returned to him wherever they might leave it. If they had time they would take it back themselves. The man appeared to live in Rochester, which would not be much out of their way home.

Everything was carried up to the top of the tower, and laid down on a sheet of kitchen paper which Cyril had found on the top shelf of the larder. As he unfolded it, Anthea said, 'I don't think THAT'S a necessity of life.'

'Yes, it is,' said he. 'We must put the things down somewhere to cut them up; and I heard father say the other day people got diseases from germans in rain-water. Now there must be lots of rain-water here - and when it dries up the germans are left, and they'd get into the things, and we should all die of scarlet fever.'

'What are germans?'

'Little waggly things you see with microscopes,' said Cyril, with a scientific air. 'They give you every illness you can think of! I'm sure the paper was a necessary, just as much as the bread and meat and water. Now then! Oh, my eyes, I am hungry!'

I do not wish to describe the picnic party on the top of the tower. You can imagine well enough what it is like to carve a chicken and a tongue with a knife that has only one blade - and that snapped off short about half-way down. But it was done. Eating with your fingers is greasy and difficult - and paper dishes soon get to look very spotty and horrid. But one thing you CAN'T imagine, and that is how soda-water behaves when you try to drink it straight out of a syphon - especially a quite full one. But if imagination will not help you, experience will, and you can easily try it for yourself if you can get a grown-up to give you the syphon. If you want to have a really thorough experience, put the tube in your mouth and press the handle very suddenly and very hard. You had better do it when you are alone - and out of doors is best for this experiment.

However you eat them, tongue and chicken and new bread are very good things, and no one minds being sprinkled a little with soda-water on a really fine hot day. So that everyone enjoyed the dinner very much indeed, and everyone ate as much as it possibly could: first, because it was extremely hungry; and secondly, because, as I said, tongue and chicken and new bread are very nice.

Now, I daresay you will have noticed that if you have to wait for your dinner till long after the proper time, and then eat a great deal more dinner than usual, and sit in the hot sun on the top of a church-tower - or even anywhere else - you become soon and strangely sleepy. Now Anthea and Jane and Cyril and Robert were very like you in many ways, and when they had eaten all they could, and drunk all there was, they became sleepy, strangely and soon - especially Anthea, because she had got up so early.

One by one they left off talking and leaned back, and before it was a quarter of an hour after dinner they had all curled round and tucked themselves up under their large soft warm wings and were fast asleep. And the sun was sinking slowly in the west. (I must say it was in the west, because it is usual in books to say so, for fear careless people should think it was setting in the east. In point of fact, it was not exactly in the west either - but that's near enough.) The sun, I repeat, was sinking slowly in the west, and the children slept warmly and happily on - for wings are cosier than eiderdown quilts to sleep under. The shadow of the church-tower fell across the churchyard, and across the Vicarage, and across the field beyond; and presently there were no more shadows, and the sun had set, and the wings were gone. And still the children slept. But not for long. Twilight is very beautiful, but it is chilly; and you know, however sleepy you are, you wake up soon enough if your brother or sister happens to be up first and pulls your blankets off you. The four wingless children shivered and woke. And there they were - on the top of a church-tower in the dusky twilight, with blue stars coming out by ones and twos and tens and twenties over their heads - miles away from home, with three-and-three-halfpence in their pockets, and a doubtful act about the necessities of life to be accounted for if anyone found them with the soda-water syphon.

They looked at each other. Cyril spoke first, picking up the syphon:

'We'd better get along down and get rid of this beastly thing. It's dark enough to leave it on the clergyman's doorstep, I should think. Come on.'

There was a little turret at the corner of the tower, and the little turret had a door in it. They had noticed this when they were eating, but had not explored it, as you would have done in their place. Because, of course, when you have wings, and can explore the whole sky, doors seem hardly worth exploring.

Now they turned towards it.

'Of course,' said Cyril, 'this is the way down.'

It was. But the door was locked on the inside!

And the world was growing darker and darker. And they were miles from home. And there was the soda-water syphon.

I shall not tell you whether anyone cried, nor if so, how many cried, nor who cried. You will be better employed in making up your minds what you would have done if you had been in their place.



Chapter 5 No Wings


Whether anyone cried or not, there was certainly an interval during which none of the party was quite itself. When they grew calmer, Anthea put her handkerchief in her pocket and her arm round Jane, and said:

'It can't be for more than one night. We can signal with our handkerchiefs in the morning. They'll be dry then. And someone will come up and let us out - '

'And find the syphon,' said Cyril gloomily; 'and we shall be sent to prison for stealing - '

'You said it wasn't stealing. You said you were sure it wasn't.'

'I'm not sure NOW,' said Cyril shortly.

'Let's throw the beastly thing slap away among the trees,' said Robert, 'then no one can do anything to us.'

'Oh yes' - Cyril's laugh was not a lighthearted one - 'and hit some chap on the head, and be murderers as well as - as the other thing.'

'But we can't stay up here all night,' said Jane; 'and I want my tea.'

'You CAN'T want your tea,' said Robert; 'you've only just had your dinner.'

'But I do want it,' she said; 'especially when you begin talking about stopping up here all night. Oh, Panther - I want to go home! I want to go home!'

'Hush, hush,' Anthea said. 'Don't, dear. It'll be all right, somehow. Don't, don't - '

'Let her cry,' said Robert desperately; 'if she howls loud enough, someone may hear and come and let us out.'

'And see the soda-water thing,' said Anthea swiftly. 'Robert, don't be a brute. Oh, Jane, do try to be a man! It's just the same for all of us.'

Jane did try to 'be a man' - and reduced her howls to sniffs.

There was a pause. Then Cyril said slowly, 'Look here. We must risk that syphon. I'll button it up inside my jacket - perhaps no one will notice it. You others keep well in front of me. There are lights in the clergyman's house. They've not gone to bed yet. We must just yell as loud as ever we can. Now all scream when I say three. Robert, you do the yell like the railway engine, and I'll do the coo-ee like father's. The girls can do as they please. One, two, three!'

A fourfold yell rent the silent peace of the evening, and a maid at one of the Vicarage windows paused with her hand on the blind-cord.

'One, two, three!' Another yell, piercing and complex, startled the owls and starlings to a flutter of feathers in the belfry below. The maid fled from the Vicarage window and ran down the Vicarage stairs and into the Vicarage kitchen, and fainted as soon as she had explained to the man-servant and the cook and the cook's cousin that she had seen a ghost. It was quite untrue, of course, but I suppose the girl's nerves were a little upset by the yelling.

'One, two, three!' The Vicar was on his doorstep by this time, and there was no mistaking the yell that greeted him.

'Goodness me,' he said to his wife, 'my dear, someone's being murdered in the church! Give me my hat and a thick stick, and tell Andrew to come after me. I expect it's the lunatic who stole the tongue.'

The children had seen the flash of light when the Vicar opened his front door. They had seen his dark form on the doorstep, and they had paused for breath, and also to see what he would do.

When he turned back for his hat, Cyril said hastily:

'He thinks he only fancied he heard something. You don't half yell! Now! One, two, three!'

It was certainly a whole yell this time, and the Vicar's wife flung her arms round her husband and screamed a feeble echo of it.

'You shan't go!' she said, 'not alone. Jessie!' - the maid unfainted and came out of the kitchen - 'send Andrew at once. There's a dangerous lunatic in the church, and he must go immediately and catch it.'

'I expect he WILL catch it too,' said Jessie to herself as she went through the kitchen door. 'Here, Andrew,' she said, there's someone screaming like mad in the church, and the missus says you're to go along and catch it.'

'Not alone, I don't,' said Andrew in low firm tones. To his master he merely said, 'Yes, sir.'

'You heard those screams?'

'I did think I noticed a sort of something,' said Andrew.

'Well, come on, then,' said the Vicar. 'My dear, I MUST go!' He pushed her gently into the sitting-room, banged the door, and rushed out, dragging Andrew by the arm.

A volley of yells greeted them. As it died into silence Andrew shouted, 'Hullo, you there! Did you call?'

'Yes,' shouted four far-away voices.

'They seem to be in the air,' said the Vicar. 'Very remarkable.'

'Where are you?' shouted Andrew: and Cyril replied in his deepest voice, very slow and loud:

'Church! Tower! Top!'

'Come down, then!' said Andrew; and the same voice replied:

'Can't! Door Locked!'

'My goodness!' said the Vicar. 'Andrew, fetch the stable lantern. Perhaps it would be as well to fetch another man from the village.'

'With the rest of the gang about, very likely. No, sir; if this 'ere ain't a trap - well, may I never! There's cook's cousin at the back door now. He's a keeper, sir, and used to dealing with vicious characters. And he's got his gun, sir.'

'Hullo there!' shouted Cyril from the church-tower; 'come up and let us out.'

'We're a-coming,' said Andrew. 'I'm a-going to get a policeman and a gun.'

'Andrew, Andrew,' said the Vicar, 'that's not the truth.'

'It's near enough, sir, for the likes of them.'

So Andrew fetched the lantern and the cook's cousin; and the Vicar's wife begged them all to be very careful.

They went across the churchyard - it was quite dark now - and as they went they talked. The Vicar was certain a lunatic was on the church-tower - the one who had written the mad letter, and taken the cold tongue and things. Andrew thought it was a 'trap'; the cook's cousin alone was calm. 'Great cry, little wool,' said he; 'dangerous chaps is quieter.' He was not at all afraid. But then he had a gun. That was why he was asked to lead the way up the worn steep dark steps of the church-tower. He did lead the way, with the lantern in one hand and the gun in the other. Andrew went next. He pretended afterwards that this was because he was braver than his master, but really it was because he thought of traps, and he did not like the idea of being behind the others for fear someone should come soffly up behind him and catch hold of his legs in the dark. They went on and on, and round and round the little corkscrew staircase - then through the bell-ringers' loft, where the bell-ropes hung with soft furry ends like giant caterpillars - then up another stair into the belfry, where the big quiet bells are - and then on, up a ladder with broad steps - and then up a little stone stair. And at the top of that there was a little door. And the door was bolted on the stair side.

The cook's cousin, who was a gamekeeper, kicked at the door, and said:

'Hullo, you there!'

The children were holding on to each other on the other side of the door, and trembling with anxiousness - and very hoarse with their howls. They could hardly speak, but Cyril managed to reply huskily:

'Hullo, you there!'

'How did you get up there?'

It was no use saying 'We flew up', so Cyril said:

'We got up - and then we found the door was locked and we couldn't get down. Let us out - do.'

'How many of you are there?' asked the keeper.

'Only four,' said Cyril.

'Are you armed?'

'Are we what?'

'I've got my gun handy - so you'd best not try any tricks,' said the keeper. 'If we open the door, will you promise to come quietly down, and no nonsense?'

'Yes - oh YES!' said all the children together.

'Bless me,' said the Vicar, 'surely that was a female voice?'

'Shall I open the door, Sir?' said the keeper. Andrew went down a few steps, 'to leave room for the others' he said afterwards.

'Yes,' said the Vicar, 'open the door. Remember,' he said through the keyhole, 'we have come to release you. You will keep your promise to refrain from violence?'

'How this bolt do stick,' said the keeper; 'anyone 'ud think it hadn't been drawed for half a year.' As a matter of fact it hadn't.

When all the bolts were drawn, the keeper spoke deep-chested words through the keyhole.

'I don't open,' said he, 'till you've gone over to the other side of the tower. And if one of you comes at me I fire. Now!'

'We're all over on the other side,' said the voices.

The keeper felt pleased with himself, and owned himself a bold man when he threw open that door, and, stepping out into the leads, flashed the full light of the stable lantern on to the group of desperadoes standing against the parapet on the other side of the tower.

He lowered his gun, and he nearly dropped the lantern.

'So help me,' he cried, 'if they ain't a pack of kiddies!'

The Vicar now advanced.

'How did you come here?' he asked severely. 'Tell me at once. '

'Oh, take us down,' said Jane, catching at his coat, 'and we'll tell you anything you like. You won't believe us, but it doesn't matter. Oh, take us down!'

The others crowded round him, with the same entreaty. All but Cyril. He had enough to do with the soda-water syphon, which would keep slipping down under his jacket. It needed both hands to keep it steady in its place.

But he said, standing as far out of the lantern light as possible:

'Please do take us down.'

So they were taken down. It is no joke to go down a strange church-tower in the dark, but the keeper helped them - only, Cyril had to be independent because of the soda-water syphon. It would keep trying to get away. Half-way down the ladder it all but escaped. Cyril just caught it by its spout, and as nearly as possible lost his footing. He was trembling and pale when at last they reached the bottom of the winding stair and stepped out on to the flags of the church-porch.

Then suddenly the keeper caught Cyril and Robert each by an arm.

'You bring along the gells, sir,' said he; 'you and Andrew can manage them.'

'Let go!' said Cyril; 'we aren't running away. We haven't hurt your old church. Leave go!'

'You just come along,' said the keeper; and Cyril dared not oppose him with violence, because just then the syphon began to slip again.

So they were all marched into the Vicarage study, and the Vicar's wife came rushing in.

'Oh, William, are you safe?' she cried.

Robert hastened to allay her anxiety.

'Yes,' he said, 'he's quite safe. We haven't hurt him at all. And please, we're very late, and they'll be anxious at home. Could you send us home in your carriage?'

'Or perhaps there's a hotel near where we could get a carriage from,' said Anthea. 'Martha will be very anxious as it is.'

The Vicar had sunk into a chair, overcome by emotion and amazement.

Cyril had also sat down, and was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees because of that soda-water syphon.

'But how did you come to be locked up in the church-tower?' asked the Vicar.

'We went up,' said Robert slowly, 'and we were tired, and we all went to sleep, and when we woke up we found the door was locked, so we yelled.'

'I should think you did!' said the Vicar's wife. 'Frightening everybody out of their wits like this! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.'

'We are,' said Jane gently.

'But who locked the door?' asked the Vicar.

'I don't know at all,' said Robert, with perfect truth. 'Do please send us home.'

'Well, really,' said the Vicar, 'I suppose we'd better. Andrew, put the horse to, and you can take them home.'

'Not alone, I don't,' said Andrew to himself.

'And,' the Vicar went on, 'let this be a lesson to you ...' He went on talking, and the children listened miserably. But the keeper was not listening. He was looking at the unfortunate Cyril. He knew all about poachers of course, so he knew how people look when they're hiding something. The Vicar had just got to the part about trying to grow up to be a blessing to your parents, and not a trouble and a disgrace, when the keeper suddenly said:

'Arst him what he's got there under his jacket'; and Cyril knew that concealment was at an end. So he stood up, and squared his shoulders and tried to look noble, like the boys in books that no one can look in the face of and doubt that they come of brave and noble families and will be faithful to the death, and he pulled out the soda-water syphon and said:

'Well, there you are, then.'

There was a silence. Cyril went on - there was nothing else for it:

'Yes, we took this out of your larder, and some chicken and tongue and bread. We were very hungry, and we didn't take the custard or jam. We only took bread and meat and water - and we couldn't help its being the soda kind - just the necessaries of life; and we left half-a-crown to pay for it, and we left a letter. And we're very sorry. And my father will pay a fine or anything you like, but don't send us to prison. Mother would be so vexed. You know what you said about not being a disgrace. Well, don't you go and do it to us - that's all! We're as sorry as we can be. There!'

'However did you get up to the larder window?' said Mrs Vicar.

'I can't tell you that,' said Cyril firmly.

'Is this the whole truth you've been telling me?' asked the clergyman.

'No,' answered Jane suddenly; 'it's all true, but it's not the whole truth. We can't tell you that. It's no good asking. Oh, do forgive us and take us home!' She ran to the Vicar's wife and threw her arms round her. The Vicar's wife put her arms round Jane, and the keeper whispered behind his hand to the Vicar:

'They're all right, sir - I expect it's a pal they're standing by. Someone put 'em up to it, and they won't peach. Game little kids.'

'Tell me,' said the Vicar kindly, 'are you screening someone else? Had anyone else anything to do with this?'

'Yes,' said Anthea, thinking of the Psammead; 'but it wasn't their fault.'

'Very well, my dears,' said the Vicar, 'then let's say no more about it. Only just tell us why you wrote such an odd letter.'

'I don't know,' said Cyril. 'You see, Anthea wrote it in such a hurry, and it really didn't seem like stealing then. But afterwards, when we found we couldn't get down off the church-tower, it seemed just exactly like it. We are all very sorry - '

'Say no more about it,' said the Vicar's wife; 'but another time just think before you take other people's tongues. Now - some cake and milk before you go home?'

When Andrew came to say that the horse was put to, and was he expected to be led alone into the trap that he had plainly seen from the first, he found the children eating cake and drinking milk and laughing at the Vicar's jokes. Jane was sitting on the Vicar's wife's lap.

So you see they got off better than they deserved.

The gamekeeper, who was the cook's cousin, asked leave to drive home with them, and Andrew was only too glad to have someone to protect him from the trap he was so certain of.

When the wagonette reached their own house, between the chalk-quarry and the gravel-pit, the children were very sleepy, but they felt that they and the keeper were friends for life.

Andrew dumped the children down at the iron gate without a word. 'You get along home,' said the Vicarage cook's cousin, who was a gamekeeper. 'I'll get me home on Shanks' mare.'

So Andrew had to drive off alone, which he did not like at all, and it was the keeper that was cousin to the Vicarage cook who went with the children to the door, and, when they had been swept to bed in a whirlwind of reproaches, remained to explain to Martha and the cook and the housemaid exactly what had happened. He explained so well that Martha was quite amiable the next morning.

After that he often used to come over and see Martha; and in the end - but that is another story, as dear Mr Kipling says.

Martha was obliged to stick to what she had said the night before about keeping the children indoors the next day for a punishment. But she wasn't at all snarky about it, and agreed to let Robert go out for half an hour to get something he particularly wanted. This, of course, was the day's wish.

Robert rushed to the gravel-pit, found the Psammead, and presently wished for - But that, too, is another story.



Chapter 6 A Castle And No Dinner


The others were to be kept in as a punishment for the misfortunes of the day before. Of course Martha thought it was naughtiness, and not misfortune - so you must not blame her. She only thought she was doing her duty. You know grown-up people often say they do not like to punish you, and that they only do it for your own good, and that it hurts them as much as it hurts you - and this is really very often the truth.

Martha certainly hated having to punish the children quite as much as they hated to be punished. For one thing, she knew what a noise there would be in the house all day. And she had other reasons.

'I declare,' she said to the cook, 'it seems almost a shame keeping of them indoors this lovely day; but they are that audacious, they'll be walking in with their heads knocked off some of these days, if I don't put my foot down. You make them a cake for tea to-morrow, dear. And we'll have Baby along of us soon as we've got a bit forrard with our work. Then they can have a good romp with him out of the way. Now, Eliza, come, get on with them beds. Here's ten o'clock nearly, and no rabbits caught!'

People say that in Kent when they mean 'and no work done'.

So all the others were kept in, but Robert, as I have said, was allowed to go out for half an hour to get something they all wanted. And that, of course, was the day's wish. He had no difficulty in finding the Sand-fairy, for the day was already so hot that it had actually, for the first time, come out of its own accord, and it was sitting in a sort of pool of soft sand, stretching itself, and trimming its whiskers, and turning its snail's eyes round and round.

'Ha!' it said when its left eye saw Robert; 'I've been looking out for you. Where are the rest of you? Not smashed themselves up with those wings, I hope?'

'No,' said Robert; 'but the wings got us into a row, just like all the wishes always do. So the others are kept indoors, and I was only let out for half-an-hour - to get the wish. So please let me wish as quickly as I can.'

'Wish away,' said the Psammead, twisting itself round in the sand. But Robert couldn't wish away. He forgot all the things he had been thinking about, and nothing would come into his head but little things for himself, like toffee, a foreign stamp album, or a clasp - knife with three blades and a corkscrew. He sat down to think better, but it was no use. He could only think of things the others would not have cared for - such as a football, or a pair of leg-guards, or to be able to lick Simpkins minor thoroughly when he went back to school.

'Well,' said the Psammead at last, 'you'd better hurry up with that wish of yours. Time flies.'

'I know it does,' said Robert. 'I can't think what to wish for. I wish you could give one of the others their wish without their having to come here to ask for it. Oh, DON'T!'

But it was too late. The Psammead had blown itself out to about three times its proper size, and now it collapsed like a pricked bubble, and with a deep sigh leaned back against the edge of its sand-pool, quite faint with the effort.

'There!' it said in a weak voice; 'it was tremendously hard - but I did it. Run along home, or they're sure to wish for something silly before you get there.'

They were - quite sure; Robert felt this, and as he ran home his mind was deeply occupied with the sort of wishes he might find they had wished in his absence. They might wish for rabbits, or white mice, or chocolate, or a fine day to-morrow, or even - and that was most likely - someone might have said, 'I do wish to goodness Robert would hurry up.' Well, he WAS hurrying up, and so they would have their wish, and the day would be wasted. Then he tried to think what they could wish for - something that would be amusing indoors. That had been his own difficulty from the beginning. So few things are amusing indoors when the sun is shining outside and you mayn't go out, however much you want to. Robert was running as fast as he could, but when he turned the corner that ought to have brought him within sight of the architect's nightmare - the ornamental iron-work on the top of the house - he opened his eyes so wide that he had to drop into a walk; for you cannot run with your eyes wide open. Then suddenly he stopped short, for there was no house to be seen. The front-garden railings were gone too, and where the house had stood - Robert rubbed his eyes and looked again. Yes, the others HAD wished - there was no doubt about that - and they must have wished that they lived in a castle; for there the castle stood black and stately, and very tall and broad, with battlements and lancet windows, and eight great towers; and, where the garden and the orchard had been, there were white things dotted like mushrooms. Robert walked slowly on, and as he got nearer he saw that these were tents) and men in armour were walking about among the tents - crowds and crowds of them.

'Oh, crikey!' said Robert fervently. 'They HAVE! They've wished for a castle, and it's being besieged! It's just like that Sand-fairy! I wish we'd never seen the beastly thing!'

At the little window above the great gateway, across the moat that now lay where the garden had been but half an hour ago, someone was waving something pale dust-coloured. Robert thought it was one of Cyril's handkerchiefs. They had never been white since the day when he had upset the bottle of 'Combined Toning and Fixing Solution' into the drawer where they were. Robert waved back, and immediately felt that he had been unwise. For his signal had been seen by the besieging force, and two men in steel-caps were coming towards him. They had high brown boots on their long legs, and they came towards him with such great strides that Robert remembered the shortness of his own legs and did not run away. He knew it would be useless to himself, and he feared it might be irritating to the foe. So he stood still, and the two men seemed quite pleased with him.

'By my halidom,' said one, 'a brave varlet this!'

Robert felt pleased at being CALLED brave, and somehow it made him FEEL brave. He passed over the 'varlet'. It was the way people talked in historical romances for the young, he knew, and it was evidently not meant for rudeness. He only hoped he would be able to understand what they said to him. He had not always been able quite to follow the conversations in the historical romances for the young.

'His garb is strange,' said the other. 'Some outlandish treachery, belike.'

'Say, lad, what brings thee hither?'

Robert knew this meant, 'Now then, youngster, what are you up to here, eh?' - so he said:

'If you please, I want to go home.'

'Go, then!' said the man in the longest boots; 'none hindereth, and nought lets us to follow. Zooks!' he added in a cautious undertone, 'I misdoubt me but he beareth tidings to the besieged.'

'Where dwellest thou, young knave?' inquired the man with the largest steel-cap.

'Over there,' said Robert; and directly he had said it he knew he ought to have said 'Yonder!'

'Ha - sayest so?' rejoined the longest boots. 'Come hither, boy. This is a matter for our leader.'

And to the leader Robert was dragged forthwith - by the reluctant ear.

The leader was the most glorious creature Robert had ever seen. He was exactly like the pictures Robert had so often admired in the historical romances. He had armour, and a helmet, and a horse, and a crest, and feathers, and a shield, and a lance, and a sword. His armour and his weapons were all, I am almost sure, of quite different periods. The shield was thirteenth-century, while the sword was of the pattern used in the Peninsular War. The cuirass was of the time of Charles I, and the helmet dated from the Second Crusade. The arms on the shield were very grand - three red running lions on a blue ground. The tents were of the latest brand and the whole appearance of camp, army, and leader might have been a shock to some. But Robert was dumb with admiration, and it all seemed to him perfectly correct, because he knew no more of heraldry or archaeology than the gifted artists who usually drew the pictures for the historical romances. The scene was indeed 'exactly like a picture'. He admired it all so much that he felt braver than ever.

'Come hither, lad,' said the glorious leader, when the men in Cromwellian steel-caps had said a few low eager words. And he took off his helmet, because he could not see properly with it on. He had a kind face, and long fair hair. 'Have no fear; thou shalt take no scathe,' he said.

Robert was glad of that. He wondered what 'scathe' was, and if it was nastier than the senna tea which he had to take sometimes.

'Unfold thy tale without alarm,' said the leader kindly. 'Whence comest thou, and what is thine intent?'

'My what?' said Robert.

'What seekest thou to accomplish? What is thine errand, that thou wanderest here alone among these rough men-at-arms? Poor child, thy mother's heart aches for thee e'en now, I'll warrant me.'

'I don't think so,' said Robert; 'you see, she doesn't know I'm out.'

The leader wiped away a manly tear, exactly as a leader in a historical romance would have done, and said:

'Fear not to speak the truth, my child; thou hast nought to fear from Wulfric de Talbot.'

Robert had a wild feeling that this glorious leader of the besieging party - being himself part of a wish - would be able to understand better than Martha, or the gipsies, or the policeman in Rochester, or the clergyman of yesterday, the true tale of the wishes and the Psammead. The only difficulty was that he knew he could never remember enough 'quothas' and 'beshrew me's', and things like that, to make his talk sound like the talk of a boy in a historical romance. However, he began boldly enough, with a sentence straight out of Ralph de Courcy; or, The Boy Crusader. He said:

'Grammercy for thy courtesy, fair sir knight. The fact is, it's like this - and I hope you're not in a hurry, because the story's rather a breather. Father and mother are away, and when we were down playing in the sand-pits we found a Psammead.'

'I cry thee mercy! A Sammyadd?' said the knight.

'Yes, a sort of - of fairy, or enchanter - yes, that's it, an enchanter; and he said we could have a wish every day, and we wished first to be beautiful.'

'Thy wish was scarce granted,' muttered one of the men-at-arms, looking at Robert, who went on as if he had not heard, though he thought the remark very rude indeed.

'And then we wished for money - treasure, you know; but we couldn't spend it. And yesterday we wished for wings, and we got them, and we had a ripping time to begin with - '

'Thy speech is strange and uncouth,' said Sir Wulfric de Talbot. 'Repeat thy words - what hadst thou?'

'A ripping - I mean a jolly - no - we were contented with our lot - that's what I mean; only, after that we got into an awful fix.'

'What is a fix? A fray, mayhap?'

'No - not a fray. A - a - a tight place.'

'A dungeon? Alas for thy youthful fettered limbs!' said the knight, with polite sympathy.

'It wasn't a dungeon. We just - just encountered undeserved misfortunes,' Robert explained, 'and to-day we are punished by not being allowed to go out. That's where I live,' - he pointed to the castle. 'The others are in there, and they're not allowed to go out. It's all the Psammead's - I mean the enchanter's fault. I wish we'd never seen him.'

'He is an enchanter of might?'

'Oh yes - of might and main. Rather!'

'And thou deemest that it is the spells of the enchanter whom thou hast angered that have lent strength to the besieging party,' said the gallant leader; 'but know thou that Wulfric de Talbot needs no enchanter's aid to lead his followers to victory.'

'No, I'm sure you don't,' said Robert, with hasty courtesy; 'of course not - you wouldn't, you know. But, all the same, it's partly his fault, but we're most to blame. You couldn't have done anything if it hadn't been for us.'

'How now, bold boy?' asked Sir Wulfric haughtily. 'Thy speech is dark, and eke scarce courteous. Unravel me this riddle!'

'Oh,' said Robert desperately, 'of course you don't know it, but you're not REAL at all. You're only here because the others must have been idiots enough to wish for a castle - and when the sun sets you'll just vanish away, and it'll be all right.'

The captain and the men-at-arms exchanged glances, at first pitying, and then sterner, as the longest-booted man said, 'Beware, noble my lord; the urchin doth but feign madness to escape from our clutches. Shall we not bind him?'

'I'm no more mad than you are,' said Robert angrily, 'perhaps not so much - only, I was an idiot to think you'd understand anything. Let me go - I haven't done anything to you.'

'Whither?' asked the knight, who seemed to have believed all the enchanter story till it came to his own share in it. 'Whither wouldst thou wend?'

'Home, of course.' Robert pointed to the castle.

'To carry news of succour? Nay!'

'All right then,' said Robert, struck by a sudden idea; 'then let me go somewhere else.' His mind sought eagerly among his memories of the historical romance.

'Sir Wulfric de Talbot,' he said slowly, 'should think foul scorn to - to keep a chap - I mean one who has done him no hurt - when he wants to cut off quietly - I mean to depart without violence.'

'This to my face! Beshrew thee for a knave!' replied Sir Wulfric. But the appeal seemed to have gone home. 'Yet thou sayest sooth,' he added thoughtfully. 'Go where thou wilt,' he added nobly, 'thou art free. Wulfric de Talbot warreth not with babes, and Jakin here shall bear thee company.' 'All right,' said Robert wildly. 'Jakin will enjoy himself, I think. Come on, Jakin. Sir Wulfric, I salute thee.'

He saluted after the modern military manner, and set off running to the sand-pit, Jakin's long boots keeping up easily.

He found the Fairy. He dug it up, he woke it up,

he implored it to give him one more wish.

'I've done two to-day already,' it grumbled, 'and one was as stiff a bit of work as ever I did.'

'Oh, do, do, do, do, DO!' said Robert, while Jakin looked on with an expression of open-mouthed horror at the strange beast that talked, and gazed with its snail's eyes at him.

'Well, what is it?' snapped the Psammead, with cross sleepiness.

'I wish I was with the others,' said Robert. And the Psammead began to swell. Robert never thought of wishing the castle and the siege away. Of course he knew they had all come out of a wish, but swords and daggers and pikes and lances seemed much too real to be wished away. Robert lost consciousness for an instant. When he opened his eyes the others were crowding round him.

'We never heard you come in,' they said. 'How awfully jolly of you to wish it to give us our wish!'

'Of course we understood that was what you'd done.'

'But you ought to have told us. Suppose we'd wished something silly.'

'Silly?' said Robert, very crossly indeed. 'How much sillier could you have been, I'd like to know? You nearly settled ME - I can tell you.'

Then he told his story, and the others admitted that it certainly had been rough on him. But they praised his courage and cleverness so much that he presently got back his lost temper, and felt braver than ever, and consented to be captain of the besieged force.

'We haven't done anything yet,' said Anthea comfortably; 'we waited for you. We're going to shoot at them through these little loopholes with the bow and arrows uncle gave you, and you shall have first shot.'

'I don't think I would,' said Robert cautiously; 'you don't know what they're like near to. They've got REAL bows and arrows - an awful length - and swords and pikes and daggers, and all sorts of sharp things. They're all quite, quite real. It's not just a - a picture, or a vision, or anything; they can hurt us - or kill us even, I shouldn't wonder. I can feel my ear all sore still. Look here - have you explored the castle? Because I think we'd better let them alone as long as they let us alone. I heard that Jakin man say they weren't going to attack till just before sundown. We can be getting ready for the attack. Are there any soldiers in the castle to defend it?'

'We don't know,' said Cyril. 'You see, directly I'd wished we were in a besieged castle, everything seemed to go upside down, and,when it came straight we looked out of the window, and saw the camp and things and you - and of course we kept on looking at everything. Isn't this room jolly? It's as real as real!'

It was. It was square, with stone walls four feet thick, and great beams for ceiling. A low door at the corner led to a flight of steps, up and down. The children went down; they found themselves in a great arched gatehouse - the enormous doors were shut and barred. There was a window in a little room at the bottom of the round turret up which the stair wound, rather larger than the other windows, and looking through it they saw that the drawbridge was up and the portcullis down; the moat looked very wide and deep. Opposite the great door that led to the moat was another great door, with a little door in it. The children went through this, and found themselves in a big paved courtyard, with the great grey walls of the castle rising dark and heavy on all four sides.

Near the middle of the courtyard stood Martha, moving her right hand backwards and forwards in the air. The cook was stooping down and moving her hands, also in a very curious way. But. the oddest and at the same time most terrible thing was the Lamb, who was sitting on nothing, about three feet from the ground, laughing happily.

The children ran towards him. Just as Anthea was reaching out her arms to take him, Martha said crossly, 'Let him alone - do, miss, when he is good.'

'But what's he DOING?' said Anthea.

'Doing? Why, a-setting in his high chair as good as gold, a precious, watching me doing of the ironing. Get along with you, do - my iron's cold again.'

She went towards the cook, and seemed to poke an invisible fire with an unseen poker - the cook seemed to be putting an unseen dish into an invisible oven.

'Run along with you, do,' she said; 'I'm behindhand as it is. You won't get no dinner if you come a-hindering of me like this. Come, off you goes, or I'll pin a dishcloth to some of your tails.'

'You're sure the Lamb's all right?' asked Jane anxiously.

'Right as ninepence, if you don't come unsettling of him. I thought you'd like to be rid of him for to-day; but take him, if you want him, for gracious' sake.'

'No, no,' they said, and hastened away. They would have to defend the castle presently, and the Lamb was safer even suspended in mid-air in an invisible kitchen than in the guardroom of a besieged castle. They went through the first doorway they came to, and sat down helplessly on a wooden bench that ran along the room inside.

'How awful!' said Anthea and Jane together; and Jane added, 'I feel as if I was in a mad asylum.'

'What does it mean?' Anthea said. 'It's creepy; I don't like it. I wish we'd wished for something plain - a rocking-horse, or a donkey, or something.'

'It's no use wishing NOW,' said Robert bitterly; and Cyril said:

'Do dry up a sec; I want to think.'

He buried his face in his hands, and the others looked about them. They were in a long room with an arched roof. There were wooden tables along it, and one across at the end of the room, on a sort of raised platform. The room was very dim and dark. The floor was strewn with dry things like sticks, and they did not smell nice.

Cyril sat up suddenly and said:

'Look here - it's all right. I think it's like this. You know, we wished that the servants shouldn't notice any difference when we got wishes. And nothing happens to the Lamb unless we specially wish it to. So of course they don't notice the castle or anything. But then the castle is on the same place where our house was - is, I mean - and the servants have to go on being in the house, or else they would notice. But you can't have a castle mixed up with our house - and so we can't see the house, because we see the castle; and they can't see the castle, because they go on seeing the house; and so - '

'Oh, DON'T!' said Jane; 'you make my head go all swimmy, like being on a roundabout. It doesn't matter! Only, I hope we shall be able to see our dinner, that's all - because if it's invisible it'll be unfeelable as well, and then we can't eat it! I KNOW it will, because I tried to feel if I could feel the Lamb's chair, and there was nothing under him at all but air. And we can't eat air, and I feel just as if I hadn't had any breakfast for years and years.'

'It's no use thinking about it,' said Anthea. 'Let's go on exploring. Perhaps we might find something to eat.'

This lighted hope in every breast, and they went on exploring the castle. But though it was the most perfect and delightful castle you can possibly imagine, and furnished in the most complete and beautiful manner, neither food nor men-at-arms were to be found in it. 'If only you'd thought of wishing to be besieged in a castle thoroughly garrisoned and provisioned!' said Jane reproachfully.

'You can't think of everything, you know,' said Anthea. 'I should think it must be nearly dinner-time by now.'

It wasn't; but they hung about watching the strange movements of the servants in the middle of the courtyard, because, of course, they couldn't be sure where the dining-room of the invisible house was. Presently they saw Martha carrying an invisible tray across the courtyard, for it seemed that, by the most fortunate accident, the dining-room of the house and the banqueting-hall of the castle were in the same place. But oh, how their hearts sank when they perceived that the tray was invisible!

They waited in wretched silence while Martha went through the form of carving an unseen leg of mutton and serving invisible greens and potatoes with a spoon that no one could see. When she had left the room, the children looked at the empty table, and then at each other.

'This is worse than anything,' said Robert, who had not till now been particularly keen on his dinner.

'I'm not so very hungry,' said Anthea, trying to make the best of things, as usual.

Cyril tightened his belt ostentatiously. Jane burst into tears.



Chapter 7 A Siege And Bed


The children were sitting in the gloomy banqueting-hall, at the end of one of the long bare wooden tables. There was now no hope. Martha had brought in the dinner, and the dinner was invisible, and unfeelable too; for, when they rubbed their hands along the table, they knew but too well that for them there was nothing there BUT table.

Suddenly Cyril felt in his pocket.

'Right, oh!' he cried. 'Look here! Biscuits.'

Rather broken and crumbled, certainly, but still biscuits. Three whole ones, and a generous handful of crumbs and fragments.

'I got them this morning - cook - and I'd quite forgotten,' he explained as he divided them with scrupulous fairness into four heaps.

They were eaten in a happy silence, though they tasted a little oddly, because they had been in Cyril's pocket all the morning with a hank of tarred twine, some green fir-cones, and a ball of cobbler's wax.

'Yes, but look here, Squirrel,' said Robert; 'you're so clever at explaining about invisibleness and all that. How is it the biscuits are here, and all the bread and meat and things have disappeared?'

'I don't know,' said Cyril after a pause, 'unless it's because WE had them. Nothing about us has changed. Everything's in my pocket all right.'

'Then if we HAD the mutton it would be real,' said Robert. 'Oh, don't I wish we could find it!'

'But we can't find it. I suppose it isn't ours till we've got it in our mouths.'

'Or in our pockets,' said Jane, thinking of the biscuits.

'Who puts mutton in their pockets, goose-girl?' said Cyril. 'But I know - at any rate, I'll try it!'

He leaned over the table with his face about an inch from it, and kept opening and shutting his mouth as if he were taking bites out of air.

'It's no good,' said Robert in deep dejection. 'You'll only - Hullo!'

Cyril stood up with a grin of triumph, holding a square piece of bread in his mouth. It was quite real. Everyone saw it. It is true that, directly he bit a piece off, the rest vanished; but it was all right, because he knew he had it in his hand though he could neither see nor feel it. He took another bite from the air between his fingers, and it turned into bread as he bit. The next moment all the others were following his example, and opening and shutting their mouths an inch or so from the bare-looking table. Robert captured a slice of mutton, and - but I think I will draw a veil over the rest of this painful scene. It is enough to say that they all had enough mutton, and that when Martha came to change the plates she said she had never seen such a mess in all her born days.

The pudding was, fortunately, a plain suet roly-poly, and in answer to Martha's questions the children all with one accord said that they would NOT have treacle on it - nor jam, nor sugar - 'Just plain, please,' they said. Martha said, 'Well, I never - what next, I wonder!' and went away.

Then ensued another scene on which I will not dwell, for nobody looks nice picking up slices of suet pudding from the table in its mouth, like a dog. The great thing, after all, was that they had had dinner; and now everyone felt more courage to prepare for the attack that was to be delivered before sunset. Robert, as captain, insisted on climbing to the top of one of the towers to reconnoitre, so up they all went. And now they could see all round the castle, and could see, too, that beyond the moat, on every side, the tents of the besieging party were pitched. Rather uncomfortable shivers ran down the children's backs as they saw that all the men were very busy cleaning or sharpening their arms, re-stringing their bows, and polishing their shields. A large party came along the road, with horses dragging along the great trunk of a tree; and Cyril felt quite pale, because he knew this was for a battering-ram.

'What a good thing we've got a moat,' he said; 'and what a good thing the drawbridge is up - I should never have known how to work it.'

'Of course it would be up in a besieged castle.'

'You'd think there ought to have been soldiers in it, wouldn't you?' said Robert.

'You see you don't know how long it's been besieged,' said Cyril darkly; 'perhaps most of the brave defenders were killed quite early in the siege and all the provisions eaten, and now there are only a few intrepid survivors - that's us, and we are going to defend it to the death.'

'How do you begin - defending to the death, I mean?' asked Anthea.

'We ought to be heavily armed - and then shoot at them when they advance to the attack.'

'They used to pour boiling lead down on besiegers when they got too close,' said Anthea. 'Father showed me the holes on purpose for pouring it down through at Bodiam Castle. And there are holes like it in the gate-tower here.'

'I think I'm glad it's only a game; it IS only a game, isn't it?' said Jane.

But no one answered.

The children found plenty of strange weapons in the castle, and if they were armed at all it was soon plain that they would be, as Cyril said, 'armed heavily' - for these swords and lances and crossbows were far too weighty even for Cyril's manly strength; and as for the longbows, none of the children could even begin to bend them. The daggers were better; but Jane hoped that the besiegers would not come close enough for daggers to be of any use.

'Never mind, we can hurl them like javelins,' said Cyril, 'or drop them on people's heads. I say - there are lots of stones on the other side of the courtyard. If we took some of those up, just to drop on their heads if they were to try swimming the moat.'

So a heap of stones grew apace, up in the room above the gate; and another heap, a shiny spiky dangerous-looking heap, of daggers and knives.

As Anthea was crossing the courtyard for more stones, a sudden and valuable idea came to her. She went to Martha and said, 'May we have just biscuits for tea? We're going to play at besieged castles, and we'd like the biscuits to provision the garrison. Put mine in my pocket, please, my hands are so dirty. And I'll tell the others to fetch theirs.'

This was indeed a happy thought, for now with four generous handfuls of air, which turned to biscuit as Martha crammed it into their pockets, the garrison was well provisioned till sundown.

They brought up some iron pots of cold water to pour on the besiegers instead of hot lead, with which the castle did not seem to be provided.

The afternoon passed with wonderful quickness. It was very exciting; but none of them, except Robert, could feel all the time that this was real deadly dangerous work. To the others, who had only seen the camp and the besiegers from a distance, the whole thing seemed half a game of make-believe, and half a splendidly distinct and perfectly safe dream. But it was only now and then that Robert could feel this.

When it seemed to be tea-time the biscuits were eaten with water from the deep well in the courtyard, drunk out of horns. Cyril insisted on putting by eight of the biscuits, in case anyone should feel faint in stress of battle.

just as he was putting away the reserve biscuits in a sort of little stone cupboard without a door, a sudden sound made him drop three. It was the loud fierce cry of a trumpet.

'You see it IS real,' said Robert, 'and they are going to attack.'

All rushed to the narrow windows.

'Yes,' said Robert, 'they're all coming out of their tents and moving about like ants. There's that Jakin dancing about where the bridge joins on. I wish he could see me put my tongue out at him! Yah!'

The others were far too pale to wish to put their tongues out at anybody. They looked at Robert with surprised respect. Anthea said:

'You really ARE brave, Robert.'

'Rot!' Cyril's pallor turned to redness now, all in a minute. 'He's been getting ready to be brave all the afternoon. And I wasn't ready, that's all. I shall be braver than he is in half a jiffy.'

'Oh dear!' said Jane, 'what does it matter which of you is the bravest? I think Cyril was a perfect silly to wish for a castle, and I don't want to play.'

'It ISN'T' - Robert was beginning sternly, but Anthea interrupted -


'Oh yes, you do,' she said coaxingly; 'it's a very nice game, really, because they can't possibly get in, and if they do the women and children are always spared by civilized armies.'

'But are you quite, quite sure they ARE civilized?' asked Jane, panting. 'They seem to be such a long time ago.'

'Of course they are.' Anthea pointed cheerfully through the narrow window. 'Why, look at the little flags on their lances, how bright they are - and how fine the leader is! Look, that's him - isn't it, Robert? - on the grey horse.'

Jane consented to look, and the scene was almost too pretty to be alarming. The green turf, the white tents, the flash of pennoned lances, the gleam of armour, and the bright colours of scarf and tunic - it was just like a splendid coloured picture. The trumpets were sounding, and when the trumpets stopped for breath the children could hear the cling-clang of armour and the murmur of voices.

A trumpeter came forward to the edge of the moat, which now seemed very much narrower than at first, and blew the longest and loudest blast they had yet heard. When the blaring noise had died away, a man who was with the trumpeter shouted:

'What ho, within there!' and his voice came plainly to the garrison in the gate-house.

'Hullo there!' Robert bellowed back at once.

'In the name of our Lord the King, and of our good lord and trusty leader Sir Wulfric de Talbot, we summon this castle to surrender - on pain of fire and sword and no quarter. Do ye surrender?'

'No,' bawled Robert, 'of course we don't! Never,

Never, NEVER!'

The man answered back:

'Then your fate be on your own heads.'

'Cheer,' said Robert in a fierce whisper. 'Cheer to show them we aren't afraid, and rattle the daggers to make more noise. One, two, three! Hip, hip, hooray! Again - Hip, hip, hooray! One more - Hip, hip, hooray!' The cheers were rather high and weak, but the rattle of the daggers lent them strength and depth.

There was another shout from the camp across the moat - and then the beleaguered fortress felt that the attack had indeed begun.

It was getting rather dark in the room above the great gate, and Jane took a very little courage as she remembered that sunset couldn't be far off now.

'The moat is dreadfully thin,' said Anthea.

'But they can't get into the castle even if they do swim over,' said Robert. And as he spoke he heard feet on the stair outside - heavy feet and the clank of steel. No one breathed for a moment. The steel and the feet went on up the turret stairs. Then Robert sprang softly to the door. He pulled off his shoes.

'Wait here,' he whispered, and stole quickly and softly after the boots and the spur-clank. He peeped into the upper room. The man was there - and it was Jakin, all dripping with moat-water, and he was fiddling about with the machinery which Robert felt sure worked the drawbridge. Robert banged the door suddenly, and turned the great key in the lock, just as Jakin sprang to the inside of the door. Then he tore downstairs and into the little turret at the foot of the tower where the biggest window was.

'We ought to have defended THIS!' he cried to the others as they followed him. He was just in time. Another man had swum over, and his fingers were on the window-ledge. Robert never knew how the man had managed to climb up out of the water. But he saw the clinging fingers, and hit them as hard as he could with an iron bar that he caught up from the floor. The man fell with a plop-plash into the moat-water. In another moment Robert was outside the little room, had banged its door and was shooting home the enormous bolts, and calling to Cyril to lend a hand.

Then they stood in the arched gate-house, breathing hard and looking at each other. jane's mouth was open.

'Cheer up, jenny,' said Robert - 'it won't last much longer.'

There was a creaking above, and something rattled and shook. The pavement they stood on seemed to tremble. Then a crash told them that the drawbridge had been lowered to its place.

'That's that beast Jakin,' said Robert. 'There's still the portcullis; I'm almost certain that's worked from lower down.'

And now the drawbridge rang and echoed hollowly to the hoofs of horses and the tramp of armed men. 'Up - quick!' cried Robert. 'Let's drop things on them.'

Even the girls were feeling almost brave now. They followed Robert quickly, and under his directions began to drop stones out through the long narrow windows. There was a confused noise below, and some groans.

'Oh dear!' said Anthea, putting down the stone she was just going to drop out. 'I'm afraid we've hurt somebody!'

Robert caught up the stone in a fury.

'I should just hope we HAD!' he said; 'I'd give something for a jolly good boiling kettle of lead. Surrender, indeed!'

And now came more tramping, and a pause, and then the thundering thump of the battering-ram. And the little room was almost quite dark.

'We've held it,' cried Robert, 'we won't surrender! The sun MUST set in a minute. Here - they're all jawing underneath again. Pity there's no time to get more stones! Here, pour that water down on them. It's no good, of course, but they'll hate it.'

'Oh dear!' said Jane; 'don't you think we'd better surrender?'

'Never!' said Robert; 'we'll have a parley if you like, but we'll never surrender. Oh, I'll be a soldier when I grow up - you just see if I don't. I won't go into the Civil Service, whatever anyone says.'

'Let's wave a handkerchief and ask for a parley,' Jane pleaded. 'I don't believe the sun's going to set to-night at all.'

'Give them the water first - the brutes!' said the bloodthirsty Robert. So Anthea tilted the pot over the nearest lead-hole, and poured. They heard a splash below, but no one below seemed to have felt it. And again the ram battered the great door. Anthea paused.

'How idiotic,' said Robert, lying flat on the floor and putting one eye to the lead hole. 'Of course the holes go straight down into the gate-house - that's for when the enemy has got past the door and the portcullis, and almost all is lost. Here, hand me the pot.' He crawled on to the three-cornered window-ledge in the middle of the wall, and, taking the pot from Anthea, poured the water out through the arrow-slit.

And as he began to pour, the noise of the battering-ram and the trampling of the foe and the shouts of 'Surrender!' and 'De Talbot for ever!' all suddenly stopped and went out like the snuff of a candle; the little dark room seemed to whirl round and turn topsy-turvy, and when the children came to themselves there they were safe and sound, in the big front bedroom of their own house - the house with the ornamental nightmare iron-top to the roof.

They all crowded to the window and looked out. The moat and the tents and the besieging force were all gone - and there was the garden with its tangle of dahlias and marigolds and asters and late roses, and the spiky iron railings and the quiet white road.

Everyone drew a deep breath.

'And that's all right!' said Robert. 'I told you so! And, I say, we didn't surrender, did we?'

'Aren't you glad now I wished for a castle?' asked Cyril.

'I think I am NOW,' said Anthea slowly. 'But I wouldn't wish for it again, I think, Squirrel dear!'

'Oh, it was simply splendid!' said Jane unexpectedly. 'I wasn't frightened a bit.'

'Oh, I say!' Cyril was beginning, but Anthea stopped him.

'Look here,' she said, 'it's just come into my head. This is the very first thing we've wished for that hasn't got us into a row. And there hasn't been the least little scrap of a row about this. Nobody's raging downstairs, we're safe and sound, we've had an awfully jolly day - at least, not jolly exactly, but you know what I mean. And we know now how brave Robert is - and Cyril too, of course,' she added hastily, 'and Jane as well. And we haven't got into a row with a single grown-up.'

The door was opened suddenly and fiercely.

'You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,' said the voice of Martha, and they could tell by her voice that she was very angry indeed. 'I thought you couldn't last through the day without getting up to some doggery! A person can't take a breath of air on the front doorstep but you must be emptying the wash-hand jug on to their heads! Off you go to bed, the lot of you, and try to get up better children in the morning. Now then - don't let me have to tell you twice. If I find any of you not in bed in ten minutes I'll let you know it, that's all! A new cap, and everything!'

She flounced out amid a disregarded chorus of regrets and apologies. The children were very sorry, but really it was not their faults. You can't help it if you are pouring water on a besieging foe, and your castle suddenly changes into your house - and everything changes with it except the water, and that happens to fall on somebody else's clean cap.

'I don't know why the water didn't change into nothing, though,' said Cyril.

'Why should it?' asked Robert. 'Water's water all the world over.' 'I expect the castle well was the same as ours in the stable-yard,' said Jane. And that was really the case.

'I thought we couldn't get through a wish-day without a row,' said Cyril; 'it was much too good to be true. Come on, Bobs, my military hero. If we lick into bed sharp she won't be so frumious, and perhaps she'll bong us up some supper. I'm jolly hungry! Good-night, kids.'

'Good-night. I hope the castle won't come creeping back in the night,' said Jane.

'Of course it won't,' said Anthea briskly, 'but Martha will - not in the night, but in a minute. Here, turn round, I'll get that knot out of your pinafore strings.'

'Wouldn't it have been degrading for Sir Wulfric de Talbot,' said Jane dreamily, 'if he could have known that half the besieged garrison wore pinafores?'

'And the other half knickerbockers. Yes - frightfully. Do stand still - you're only tightening the knot,' said Anthea.



Chapter 8 Bigger Than The Baker's Boy


'Look here,' said Cyril. 'I've got an idea.'

'Does it hurt much?' said Robert sympathetically.

'Don't be a jackape! I'm not humbugging.'

'Shut up, Bobs!' said Anthea.

'Silence for the Squirrel's oration,' said Robert.

Cyril balanced himself on the edge of the water-butt in the backyard, where they all happened to be, and spoke.

'Friends, Romans, countrymen - and women - we found a Sammyadd. We have had wishes. We've had wings, and being beautiful as the day - ugh! - that was pretty jolly beastly if you like - and wealth and castles, and that rotten gipsy business with the Lamb. But we're no forrader. We haven't really got anything worth having for our wishes.'

'We've had things happening,' said Robert; 'that's always something.'

'It's not enough, unless they're the right things,' said Cyril firmly. 'Now I've been thinking - ' 'Not really?' whispered Robert.

'In the silent what's-its-names of the night. It's like suddenly being asked something out of history - the date of the Conquest or something; you know it all right all the time, but when you're asked it all goes out of your head. Ladies and gentlemen, you know jolly well that when we're all rotting about in the usual way heaps of things keep cropping up, and then real earnest wishes come into the heads of the beholder - '

'Hear, hear!' said Robert.

' - of the beholder, however stupid he is,' Cyril went on. 'Why, even Robert might happen to think of a really useful wish if he didn't injure his poor little brains trying so hard to think.  - Shut up, Bobs, I tell you! - You'll have the whole show over.'

A struggle on the edge of a water-butt is exciting, but damp. When it was over, and the boys were partially dried, Anthea said:

'It really was you began it, Bobs. Now honour is satisfied) do let Squirrel go on. We're wasting the whole morning.'

'Well then,' said Cyril, still wringing the water out of the tails of his jacket, 'I'll call it pax if Bobs will.'

'Pax then,' said Robert sulkily. 'But I've got a lump as big as a cricket ball over my eye.'

Anthea patiently offered a dust-coloured handkerchief, and Robert bathed his wounds in silence. 'Now, Squirrel,' she said.

'Well then - let's just play bandits, or forts, or soldiers, or any of the old games. We're dead sure to think of something if we try not to. You always do.'

The others consented. Bandits was hastily chosen for the game. 'It's as good as anything else,' said Jane gloomily. It must be owned that Robert was at first but a half-hearted bandit, but when Anthea had borrowed from Martha the red-spotted handkerchief in which the keeper had brought her mushrooms that morning, and had tied up Robert's head with it so that he could be the wounded hero who had saved the bandit captain's life the day before, he cheered up wonderfully. All were soon armed. Bows and arrows slung on the back look well; and umbrellas and cricket stumps stuck through the belt give a fine impression of the wearer's being armed to the teeth. The white cotton hats that men wear in the country nowadays have a very brigandish effect when a few turkey's feathers are stuck in them. The Lamb's mail-cart was covered with a red-and-blue checked tablecloth, and made an admirable baggage-wagon. The Lamb asleep inside it was not at all in the way. So the banditti set out along the road that led to the sand-pit.

'We ought to be near the Sammyadd,' said Cyril, 'in case we think of anything suddenly.'

It is all very well to make up your minds to play bandits - or chess, or ping-pong, or any other agreeable game - but it is not easy to do it with spirit when all the wonderful wishes you can think of, or can't think of, are waiting for you round the corner. The game was dragging a little, and some of the bandits were beginning to feel that the others were disagreeable things, and were saying so candidly, when the baker's boy came along the road with loaves in a basket. The opportunity was not one to be lost.

'Stand and deliver!' cried Cyril.

'Your money or your life!' said Robert.

And they stood on each side of the baker's boy. Unfortunately, he did not seem to enter into the spirit of the thing at all. He was a baker's boy of an unusually large size. He merely said:

'Chuck it now, d'ye hear!' and pushed the bandits aside most disrespectfully.

Then Robert lassoed him with jane's skipping-rope, and instead of going round his shoulders, as Robert intended, it went round his feet and tripped him up. The basket was upset, the beautiful new loaves went bumping and bouncing all over the dusty chalky road. The girls ran to pick them up, and all in a moment Robert and the baker's boy were fighting it out, man to man, with Cyril to see fair play, and the skipping-rope twisting round their legs like an interested snake that wished to be a peacemaker. It did not succeed; indeed the way the boxwood handles sprang up and hit the fighters on the shins and ankles was not at all peace-making. I know this is the second fight - or contest - in this chapter, but I can't help it. It was that sort of day. You know yourself there are days when rows seem to keep on happening, quite without your meaning them to. If I were a writer of tales of adventure such as those which used to appear in The Boys of England when I was young, of course I should be able to describe the fight, but I cannot do it. I never can see what happens during a fight, even when it is only dogs. Also, if I had been one of these Boys of England writers, Robert would have got the best of it. But I am like George Washington - I cannot tell a lie, even about a cherry-tree, much less about a fight, and I cannot conceal from you that Robert was badly beaten, for the second time that day. The baker's boy blacked his other eye, and, being ignorant of the first rules of fair play and gentlemanly behaviour, he also pulled Robert's hair, and kicked him on the knee. Robert always used to say he could have licked the butcher if it hadn't been for the girls. But I am not sure. Anyway, what happened was this, and very painful it was to self-respecting boys.

Cyril was just tearing off his coat so as to help his brother in proper style, when Jane threw her arms round his legs and began to cry and ask him not to go and be beaten too. That 'too' was very nice for Robert, as you can imagine - but it was nothing to what he felt when Anthea rushed in between him and the baker's boy, and caught that unfair and degraded fighter round the waist, imploring him not to fight any more.

'Oh, don't hurt my brother any more!' she said in floods of tears. 'He didn't mean it - it's only play. And I'm sure he's very sorry.'

You see how unfair this was to Robert. Because, if the baker's boy had had any right and chivalrous instincts, and had yielded to Anthea's pleading and accepted her despicable apology, Robert could not, in honour, have done anything to him at a future time. But Robert's fears, if he had any, were soon dispelled. Chivalry was a stranger to the breast of the baker's boy. He pushed Anthea away very roughly, and he chased Robert with kicks and unpleasant conversation right down the road to the sand-pit, and there, with one last kick, he landed him in a heap of sand.

'I'D larn you, you young varmint!' he said, and went off to pick up his loaves and go about his business. Cyril, impeded by Jane, could do nothing without hurting her, for she clung round his legs with the strength of despair. The baker's boy went off red and damp about the face; abusive to the last, he called them a pack of silly idiots, and disappeared round the corner. Then jane's grasp loosened. Cyril turned away in silent dignity to follow Robert, and the girls followed him, weeping without restraint.

It was not a happy party that flung itself down in the sand beside the sobbing Robert. For Robert was sobbing - mostly with rage. Though of course I know that a really heroic boy is always dry-eyed after a fight. But then he always wins, which had not been the case with Robert.

Cyril was angry with Jane; Robert was furious with Anthea; the girls were miserable; and not one of the four was pleased with the baker's boy. There was, as French writers say, 'a silence full of emotion'.

Then Robert dug his toes and his hands into the sand and wriggled in his rage. 'He'd better wait till I'm grown up - the cowardly brute! Beast! - I hate him! But I'll pay him out. just because he's bigger than me.'

'You began,' said Jane incautiously.

'I know I did, silly - but I was only rotting - and he kicked me - look here - '

Robert tore down a stocking and showed a purple bruise touched up with red. 'I only wish I was bigger than him, that's all.'

He dug his fingers in the sand, and sprang up, for his hand had touched something furry. It was the Psammead, of course - 'On the look-out to make sillies of them as usual,' as Cyril remarked later. And of course the next moment Robert's wish was granted, and he was bigger than the baker's boy. Oh, but much, much bigger. He was bigger than the big policeman who used to be at the crossing at the Mansion House years ago - the one who was so kind in helping old ladies over the crossing - and he was the biggest man I have ever seen, as well as the kindest. No one had a foot-rule in its pocket, so Robert could not be measured - but he was taller than your father would be if he stood on your mother's head, which I am sure he would never be unkind enough to do. He must have been ten or eleven feet high, and as broad as a boy of that height ought to be. his Norfolk suit had fortunately grown too, and now he stood up in it - with one of his enormous stockings turned down to show the gigantic bruise on his vast leg. Immense tears of fury still stood on his flushed giant face. He looked so surprised, and he was so large to be wearing an Eton collar, that the others could not help laughing.

'The Sammyadd's done us again,' said Cyril.

'Not us - ME,' said Robert. 'If you'd got any decent feeling you'd try to make it make you the same size. You've no idea how silly it feels,' he added thoughtlessly.

'And I don't want to; I can jolly well see how silly it looks,' Cyril was beginning; but Anthea said:

'Oh, DON'T! I don't know what's the matter with you boys to-day. Look here, Squirrel, let's play fair. It is hateful for poor old Bobs, all alone up there. Let's ask the Sammyadd for another wish, and, if it will, I do really think we ought to be made the same size.'

The others agreed, but not gaily; but when they found the Psammead, it wouldn't.

'Not I,' it said crossly, rubbing its face with its feet. He's a rude violent boy, and it'll do him good to be the wrong size for a bit. What did he want to come digging me out with his nasty wet hands for? He nearly touched me! He's a perfect savage. A boy of the Stone Age would have had more sense.'

Robert's hands had indeed been wet - with tears.

'Go away and leave me in peace, do,' the Psammead went on. 'I can't think why you don't wish for something sensible - something to eat or drink, or good manners, or good tempers. Go along with you, do!'

It almost snarled as it shook its whiskers, and turned a sulky brown back on them. The most hopeful felt that further parley was vain. They turned again to the colossal Robert.

'Whatever shall we do?' they said; and they all said it.

'First,' said Robert grimly, 'I'm going to reason with that baker's boy. I shall catch him at the end of the road.'

'Don't hit a chap littler than yourself, old man,' said Cyril.

'Do I look like hitting him?' said Robert scornfully. 'Why, I should KILL him. But I'll give him something to remember. Wait till I pull up my stocking.' He pulled up his stocking, which was as large as a small bolster-case, and strode off. His strides were six or seven feet long, so that it was quite easy for him to be at the bottom of the hill, ready to meet the baker's boy when he came down swinging the empty basket to meet his master's cart, which had been leaving bread at the cottages along the road.

Robert crouched behind a haystack in the farmyard, that is at the corner, and when he heard the boy come whistling along, he jumped out at him and caught him by the collar.

'Now,' he said, and his voice was about four times its usual size, just as his body was four times its, 'I'm going to teach you to kick boys smaller than you.'

He lifted up the baker's boy and set him on the top of the haystack, which was about sixteen feet from the ground, and then he sat down on the roof of the cowshed and told the baker's boy exactly what he thought of him. I don't think the boy heard it all - he was in a sort of trance of terror. When Robert had said everything he could think of, and some things twice over, he shook the boy and said:

'And now get down the best way you can,' and left him.

I don't know how the baker's boy got down, but I do know that he missed the cart, and got into the very hottest of hot water when he turned up at last at the bakehouse. I am sorry for him, but, after all, it was quite right that he should be taught that English boys mustn't use their feet when they fight, but their fists. Of course the water he got into only became hotter when he tried to tell his master about the boy he had licked and the giant as high as a church, because no one could possibly believe such a tale as that. Next day the tale was believed - but that was too late to be of any use to the baker's boy.

When Robert rejoined the others he found them in the garden. Anthea had thoughtfully asked Martha to let them have dinner out there - because the dining-room was rather small, and it would have been so awkward to have a brother the size of Robert in there. The Lamb, who had slept peacefully during the whole stormy morning, was now found to be sneezing, and Martha said he had a cold and would be better indoors.

'And really it's just as well,' said Cyril, 'for I don't believe he'd ever have stopped screaming if he'd once seen you the awful size you are!'

Robert was indeed what a draper would call an 'out-size' in boys. He found himself able to step right over the iron gate in the front garden.

Martha brought out the dinner - it was cold veal and baked potatoes, with sago pudding and stewed plums to follow.

She of course did not notice that Robert was anything but the usual size, and she gave him as much meat and potatoes as usual and no more. You have no idea how small your usual helping of dinner looks when you are many times your proper size. Robert groaned, and asked for more bread. But Martha would not go on giving more bread for ever. She was in a hurry, because the keeper intended to call on his way to Benenhurst Fair, and she wished to be dressed smartly before he came.

'I wish WE were going to the Fair,' said Robert.

'You can't go anywhere that size,' said Cyril.

'Why not?' said Robert. 'They have giants at fairs, much bigger ones than me.'

'Not much, they don't,' Cyril was beginning, when Jane screamed 'Oh!' with such loud suddenness that they all thumped her on the back and asked whether she had swallowed a plum-stone.

'No,' she said, breathless from being thumped, 'it's - it's not a plum-stone. it's an idea. Let's take Robert to the Fair, and get them to give us money for showing him! Then we really shall get something out of the old Sammyadd at last!'

'Take me, indeed!' said Robert indignantly. 'Much more likely me take you!'

And so it turned out. The idea appealed irresistibly to everyone but Robert, and even he was brought round by Anthea's suggestion that he should have a double share of any money they might make. There was a little old pony-trap in the coach-house - the kind that is called a governess-cart. It seemed desirable to get to the Fair as quickly as possible, so Robert - who could now take enormous steps and so go very fast indeed - consented to wheel the others in this. It was as easy to him now as wheeling the Lamb in the mail-cart had been in the morning. The Lamb's cold prevented his being of the party.

It was a strange sensation being wheeled in a pony-carriage by a giant. Everyone enjoyed the journey except Robert and the few people they passed on the way. These mostly went into what looked like some kind of standing-up fits by the roadside, as Anthea said. just outside Benenhurst, Robert hid in a barn, and the others went on to the Fair.

There were some swings, and a hooting tooting blaring merry-go-round, and a shooting-gallery and coconut shies. Resisting an impulse to win a coconut - or at least to attempt the enterprise - Cyril went up to the woman who was loading little guns before the array of glass bottles on strings against a sheet of canvas.

'Here you are, little gentleman!' she said. 'Penny a shot!'

'No, thank you,' said Cyril, 'we are here on business, not on pleasure. Who's the master?'

'The what?'

'The master - the head - the boss of the show.'

'Over there,' she said, pointing to a stout man in a dirty linen jacket who was sleeping in the sun; 'but I don't advise you to wake him sudden. His temper's contrary, especially these hot days. Better have a shot while you're waiting.'

'It's rather important,' said Cyril. 'It'll be very profitable to him. I think he'll be sorry if we take it away.'

'Oh, if it's money in his pocket,' said the woman. 'No kid now? What is it?'

'It's a GIANT.'

'You ARE kidding?'

'Come along and see,' said Anthea.

The woman looked doubtfully at them, then she called to a ragged little girl in striped stockings and a dingy white petticoat that came below her brown frock, and leaving her in charge of the 'shooting-gallery' she turned to Anthea and said, 'Well, hurry up! But if you ARE kidding, you'd best say so. I'm as mild as milk myself, but my Bill he's a fair terror and - '

Anthea led the way to the barn. 'It really IS a giant,' she said. 'He's a giant little boy - in Norfolks like my brother's there. And we didn't bring him up to the Fair because people do stare so, and they seem to go into kind of standing-up fits when they see him. And we thought perhaps you'd like to show him and get pennies; and if you like to pay us something, you can - only, it'll have to be rather a lot, because we promised him he should have a double share of whatever we made.'

The woman murmured something indistinct, of which the children could only hear the words, 'Swelp me!' 'balmy,' and 'crumpet,' which conveyed no definite idea to their minds. She had taken Anthea's hand, and was holding it very firmly; and Anthea could not help wondering what would happen if Robert should have wandered off or turned his proper size during the interval. But she knew that the Psammead's gifts really did last till sunset, however inconvenient their lasting might be; and she did not think, somehow, that Robert would care to go out alone while he was that size.

When they reached the barn and Cyril called 'Robert!' there was a stir among the loose hay, and Robert began to come out. His hand and arm came first - then a foot and leg. When the woman saw the hand she said 'My!' but when she saw the foot she said 'Upon my civvy!' and when, by slow and heavy degrees, the whole of Robert's enormous bulk was at last completely disclosed, she drew a long breath and began to say many things, compared with which 'balmy' and 'crumpet' seemed quite ordinary. She dropped into understandable English at last.

'What'll you take for him?' she said excitedly. 'Anything in reason. We'd have a special van built - leastways, I know where there's a second-hand one would do up handsome - what a baby elephant had, as died. What'll you take? He's soft, ain't he? Them giants mostly is - but I never see - no, never! What'll you take? Down on the nail. We'll treat him like a king, and give him first-rate grub and a doss fit for a bloomin' dook. He must be dotty or he wouldn't need you kids to cart him about. What'll you take for him?'

'They won't take anything,' said Robert sternly. 'I'm no more soft than you are - not so much, I shouldn't wonder. I'll come and be a show for to-day if you'll give me' - he hesitated at the enormous price he was about to ask - 'if you'll give me fifteen shillings.'

'Done,' said the woman, so quickly that Robert felt he had been unfair to himself, and wished he had asked thirty. 'Come on now - and see my Bill - and we'll fix a price for the season. I dessay you might get as much as two quid a week reg'lar. Come on - and make yourself as small as you can, for gracious' sake!'

This was not very small, and a crowd gathered quickly, so that it was at the head of an enthusiastic procession that Robert entered the trampled meadow where the Fair was held, and passed over the stubbly yellow dusty grass to the door of the biggest tent. He crept in, and the woman went to call her Bill. He was the big sleeping man, and he did not seem at all pleased at being awakened. Cyril, watching through a slit in the tent, saw him scowl and shake a heavy fist and a sleepy head. Then the woman went on speaking very fast. Cyril heard 'Strewth,' and 'biggest draw you ever, so help me!' and he began to share Robert's feeling that fifteen shillings was indeed far too little. Bill slouched up to the tent and entered. When he beheld the magnificent proportions of Robert he said but little - 'Strike me pink!' were the only words the children could afterwards remember - but he produced fifteen shillings, mainly in sixpences and coppers, and handed it to Robert.

'We'll fix up about what you're to draw when the show's over to-night,' he said with hoarse heartiness. 'Lor' love a duck! you'll be that happy with us you'll never want to leave us. Can you do a song now - or a bit of a breakdown?'

'Not to-day,' said Robert, rejecting the idea of trying to sing 'As once in May', a favourite of his mother's, and the only song he could think of at the moment.

'Get Levi and clear them bloomin' photos out. Clear the tent. Stick up a curtain or suthink,' the man went on. 'Lor', what a pity we ain't got no tights his size! But we'll have 'em before the week's out. Young man, your fortune's made. It's a good thing you came to me, and not to some chaps as I could tell you on. I've known blokes as beat their giants, and starved 'em too; so I'll tell you straight, you're in luck this day if you never was afore. 'Cos I'm a lamb, I am - and I don't deceive you.'

'I'm not afraid of anyone's beating ME,' said Robert, looking down on the 'lamb'. Robert was crouched on his knees, because the tent was not big enough for him to stand upright in, but even in that position he could still look down on most people. 'But I'm awfully hungry I wish you'd get me something to eat.'

'Here, 'Becca,' said the hoarse Bill. 'Get him some grub - the best you've got, mind!' Another whisper followed, of which the children only heard, 'Down in black and white - first thing to-morrow.'

Then the woman went to get the food - it was only bread and cheese when it came, but it was delightful to the large and empty Robert; and the man went to post sentinels round the tent, to give the alarm if Robert should attempt to escape with his fifteen shillings.

'As if we weren't honest,' said Anthea indignantly when the meaning of the sentinels dawned on her.

Then began a very strange and wonderful afternoon.

Bill was a man who knew his business. In a very little while, the photographic views, the spyglasses you look at them through, so that they really seem rather real, and the lights you see them by, were all packed away. A curtain - it was an old red-and-black carpet really - was run across the tent. Robert was concealed behind, and Bill was standing on a trestle-table outside the tent making a speech. It was rather a good speech. It began by saying that the giant it was his privilege to introduce to the public that day was the eldest son of the Emperor of San Francisco, compelled through an unfortunate love affair with the Duchess of the Fiji Islands to leave his own country and take refuge in England - the land of liberty - where freedom was the right of every man, no matter how big he was. It ended by the announcement that the first twenty who came to the tent door should see the giant for threepence apiece. 'After that,' said Bill, 'the price is riz, and I don't undertake to say what it won't be riz to. So now's yer time.'

A young man squiring his sweetheart on her afternoon out was the first to come forward. For that occasion his was the princely attitude - no expense spared - money no object. His girl wished to see the giant? Well, she should see the giant, even though seeing the giant cost threepence each and the other entertainments were all penny ones.

The flap of the tent was raised - the couple entered. Next moment a wild shriek from the girl thrilled through all present. Bill slapped his leg. 'That's done the trick!' he whispered to 'Becca. It was indeed a splendid advertisement of the charms of Robert. When the girl came out she was pale and trembling, and a crowd was round the tent.


'What was it like?' asked a bailiff.

'Oh! - horrid! - you wouldn't believe,' she said. 'It's as big as a barn, and that fierce. It froze the blood in my bones. I wouldn't ha' missed seeing it for anything.'

The fierceness was only caused by Robert's trying not to laugh. But the desire to do that soon left him, and before sunset he was more inclined to cry than to laugh, and more inclined to sleep than either. For, by ones and twos and threes, people kept coming in all the afternoon, and Robert had to shake hands with those who wished it, and allow himself to be punched and pulled and patted and thumped, so that people might make sure he was really real.

The other children sat on a bench and watched and waited, and were very bored indeed. It seemed to them that this was the hardest way of earning money that could have been invented. And only fifteen shillings! Bill had taken four times that already, for the news of the giant had spread, and tradespeople in carts, and gentlepeople in carriages, came from far and near. One gentleman with an eyeglass, and a very large yellow rose in his buttonhole, offered Robert, in an obliging whisper, ten pounds a week to appear at the Crystal Palace. Robert had to say 'No'.

'I can't,' he said regretfully. 'It's no use promising what you can't do.'

'Ah, poor fellow, bound for a term of years, I suppose! Well, here's my card; when your time's up come to me.'

'I will - if I'm the same size then,' said Robert truthfully.

'If you grow a bit, so much the better,' said the gentleman. When he had gone, Robert beckoned Cyril and said:

'Tell them I must and will have an easy. And I want my tea.'

Tea was provided, and a paper hastily pinned on the tent. It said:

Closed For Half An Hour While The Giant Gets His Tea

Then there was a hurried council.

'How am I to get away?' said Robert. 'I've been thinking about it all the afternoon.'

'Why, walk out when the sun sets and you're your right size. They can't do anything to us.'

Robert opened his eyes. 'Why, they'd nearly kill us,' he said, 'when they saw me get my right size. No, we must think of some other way. We MUST be alone when the sun sets.'

'I know,' said Cyril briskly, and he went to the door, outside which Bill was smoking a clay pipe and talking in a low voice to 'Becca. Cyril heard him say - 'Good as havin' a fortune left you.'

'Look here,' said Cyril, 'you can let people come in again in a minute. He's nearly finished his tea. But he must be left alone when the sun sets. He's very queer at that time of day, and if he's worried I won't answer for the consequences.'

'Why - what comes over him?' asked Bill.

'I don't know; it's - it's a sort of a change,' said Cyril candidly. 'He isn't at all like himself - you'd hardly know him. He's very queer indeed. Someone'll get hurt if he's not alone about sunset.' This was true.

'He'll pull round for the evening, I s'pose?'

'Oh yes - half an hour after sunset he'll be quite himself again.'

'Best humour him,' said the woman.

And so, at what Cyril judged was about half an hour before sunset, the tent was again closed 'whilst the giant gets his supper'.

The crowd was very merry about the giant's meals and their coming so close together.

'Well, he can pick a bit,' Bill owned. 'You see he has to eat hearty, being the size he is.'

Inside the tent the four children breathlessly arranged a plan of retreat. 'You go NOW,' said Cyril to the girls, 'and get along home as fast as you can. Oh, never mind the beastly pony-cart; we'll get that to-morrow. Robert and I are dressed the same. We'll manage somehow, like Sydney Carton did. Only, you girls MUST get out, or it's all no go. We can run, but you can't - whatever you may think. No, Jane, it's no good Robert going out and knocking people down. The police would follow him till he turned his proper size, and then arrest him like a shot. Go you must! If you don't, I'll never speak to you again. It was you got us into this mess really, hanging round people's legs the way you did this morning. Go, I tell you!'

And Jane and Anthea went.

'We're going home,' they said to Bill. 'We're leaving the giant with you. Be kind to him.' And that, as Anthea said afterwards, was very deceitful, but what were they to do?

When they had gone, Cyril went to Bill.

'Look here,' he said, 'he wants some ears of corn - there's some in the next field but one. I'll just run and get it. Oh, and he says can't you loop up the tent at the back a bit? He says he's stifling for a breath of air. I'll see no one peeps in at him. I'll cover him up, and he can take a nap while I go for the corn. He WILL have it - there's no holding him when he gets like this.'

The giant was made comfortable with a heap of sacks and an old tarpaulin. The curtain was looped up, and the brothers were left alone. They matured their plan in whispers. Outside, the merry-go-round blared out its comic tunes, screaming now and then to attract public notice.

Half a minute after the sun had set, a boy in a Norfolk suit came out past Bill.

'I'm off for the corn,' he said, and mingled quickly with the crowd.

At the same instant a boy came out of the back of the tent past 'Becca, posted there as sentinel.

'I'm off after the corn,' said this boy also. And he, too, moved away quietly and was lost in the crowd. The front-door boy was Cyril; the back-door was Robert - now, since sunset, once more his proper size. They walked quickly through the field, and along the road, where Robert caught Cyril up. Then they ran. They were home as soon as the girls were, for it was a long way, and they ran most of it. It was indeed a very long way, as they found when they had to go and drag the pony-trap home next morning, with no enormous Robert to wheel them in it as if it were a mail-cart, and they were babies and he was their gigantic nursemaid.


I cannot possibly tell you what Bill and 'Becca said when they found that the giant had gone. For one thing, I do not know.



Chapter 9 Grown Up


Cyril had once pointed out that ordinary life is full of occasions on which a wish would be most useful. And this thought filled his mind when he happened to wake early on the morning after the morning after Robert had wished to be bigger than the baker's boy, and had been it. The day that lay between these two days had been occupied entirely by getting the governess-cart home from Benenhurst.

Cyril dressed hastily; he did not take a bath, because tin baths are so noisy, and he had no wish to rouse Robert, and he slipped off alone, as Anthea had once done, and ran through the dewy morning to the sand-pit. He dug up the Psammead very carefully and kindly, and began the conversation by asking it whether it still felt any ill effects from the contact with the tears of Robert the day before yesterday. The Psammead was in a good temper. It replied politely.

'And now, what can I do for you?' it said. 'I suppose you've come here so early to ask for something for yourself, something your brothers and sisters aren't to know about eh? Now, do be persuaded for your own good! Ask for a good fat Megatherium and have done with it.'

'Thank you - not to-day, I think,' said Cyril cautiously. 'What I really wanted to say was - you know how you're always wishing for things when you're playing at anything?'

'I seldom play,' said the Psammead coldly.

'Well, you know what I mean,' Cyril went on impatiently. 'What I want to say is: won't you let us have our wish just when we think of it, and just where we happen to be? So that we don't have to come and disturb you again,' added the crafty Cyril.

'It'll only end in your wishing for something you don't really want, like you did about the castle,' said the Psammead, stretching its brown arms and yawning. 'It's always the same since people left off eating really wholesome things. However, have it your own way. Good-bye.'

'Good-bye,' said Cyril politely.

'I'll tell you what,' said the Psammead suddenly, shooting out its long snail's eyes - 'I'm getting tired of you - all of you. You have no more sense than so many oysters. Go along with you!' And Cyril went.

'What an awful long time babies STAY babies,' said Cyril after the Lamb had taken his watch out of his pocket while he wasn't noticing, and with coos and clucks of naughty rapture had opened the case and used the whole thing as a garden spade, and when even immersion in a wash-hand basin had failed to wash the mould from the works and make the watch go again. Cyril had said several things in the heat of the moment; but now he was calmer, and had even consented to carry the Lamb part of the way to the woods. Cyril had persuaded the others to agree to his plan, and not to wish for anything more till they really did wish it. Meantime it seemed good to go to the woods for nuts, and on the mossy grass under a sweet chestnut-tree the five were sitting. The Lamb was pulling up the moss by fat handfuls, and Cyril was gloomily contemplating the ruins of his watch.

'He does grow,' said Anthea. 'Doesn't oo, precious?'

'Me grow,' said the Lamb cheerfully - 'me grow big boy, have guns an' mouses - an' - an' ...' Imagination or vocabulary gave out here. But anyway it was the longest speech the Lamb had ever made, and it charmed everyone, even Cyril, who tumbled the Lamb over and rolled him in the moss to the music of delighted squeals.

'I suppose he'll be grown up some day,' Anthea was saying, dreamily looking up at the blue of the sky that showed between the long straight chestnut-leaves. But at that moment the Lamb, struggling gaily with Cyril, thrust a stoutly-shod little foot against his brother's chest; there was a crack! - the innocent Lamb had broken the glass of father's second-best Waterbury watch, which Cyril had borrowed without leave.

'Grow up some day!' said Cyril bitterly, plumping the Lamb down on the grass. 'I daresay he will when nobody wants him to. I wish to goodness he would - '

'OH, take care!' cried Anthea in an agony of apprehension. But it was too late - like music to a song her words and Cyril's came out together - Anthea - 'Oh, take care!' Cyril - 'Grow up now!'

The faithful Psammead was true to its promise, and there, before the horrified eyes of its brothers and sisters, the Lamb suddenly and violently grew up. It was the most terrible moment. The change was not so sudden as the wish-changes usually were. The Baby's face changed first. It grew thinner and larger, lines came in the forehead, the eyes grew more deep-set and darker in colour, the mouth grew longer and thinner; most terrible of all, a little dark moustache appeared on the lip of one who was still - except as to the face - a two-year-old baby in a linen smock and white open-work socks.

'Oh, I wish it wouldn't! Oh, I wish it wouldn't! You boys might wish as well!' They all wished hard, for the sight was enough to dismay the most heartless. They all wished so hard, indeed, that they felt quite giddy and almost lost consciousness; but the wishing was quite vain, for, when the wood ceased to whirl round, their dazzled eyes were riveted at once by the spectacle of a very proper-looking young man in flannels and a straw hat - a young man who wore the same little black moustache which just before they had actually seen growing upon the Baby's lip. This, then, was the Lamb - grown up! Their own Lamb! It was a terrible moment. The grown-up Lamb moved gracefully across the moss and settled himself against the trunk of the sweet chestnut. He tilted the straw hat over his eyes. He was evidently weary. He was going to sleep. The Lamb - the original little tiresome beloved Lamb often went to sleep at odd times and in unexpected places. Was this new Lamb in the grey flannel suit and the pale green necktie like the other Lamb? or had his mind grown up together with his body?

That was the question which the others, in a hurried council held among the yellowing bracken a few yards from the sleeper, debated eagerly.

'Whichever it is, it'll be just as awful,' said Anthea. 'If his inside senses are grown up too, he won't stand our looking after him; and if he's still a baby inside of him how on earth are we to get him to do anything? And it'll be getting on for dinner-time in a minute 'And we haven't got any nuts,' said Jane.

'Oh, bother nuts!' said Robert; 'but dinner's different - I didn't have half enough dinner yesterday. Couldn't we tie him to the tree and go home to our dinners and come back afterwards?'

'A fat lot of dinner we should get if we went back without the Lamb!' said Cyril in scornful misery. 'And it'll be just the same if we go back with him in the state he is now. Yes, I know it's my doing; don't rub it in! I know I'm a beast, and not fit to live; you can take that for settled, and say no more about it. The question is, what are we going to do?'

'Let's wake him up, and take him into Rochester or Maidstone and get some grub at a pastrycook's,' said Robert hopefully.

'Take him?' repeated Cyril. 'Yes - do! It's all MY fault - I don't deny that - but you'll find you've got your work cut out for you if you try to take that young man anywhere. The Lamb always was spoilt, but now he's grown up he's a demon - simply. I can see it. Look at his mouth.'

'Well then,' said Robert, 'let's wake him up and see what HE'LL do. Perhaps HE'LL take us to Maidstone and stand Sam. He ought to have a lot of money in the pockets of those extra-special bags. We MUST have dinner, anyway.'

They drew lots with little bits of bracken. It fell to jane's lot to waken the grown-up Lamb.

She did it gently by tickling his nose with a twig of wild honeysuckle. He said 'Bother the flies!' twice, and then opened his eyes.

'Hullo, kiddies!' he said in a languid tone, 'still here? What's the giddy hour? You'll be late for your grub!'

'I know we shall,' said Robert bitterly.

'Then cut along home,' said the grown-up Lamb.

'What about your grub, though?' asked Jane.

'Oh, how far is it to the station, do you think? I've a sort of notion that I'll run up to town and have some lunch at the club.'

Blank misery fell like a pall on the four others. The Lamb - alone - unattended - would go to town and have lunch at a club! Perhaps he would also have tea there. Perhaps sunset would come upon him amid the dazzling luxury of club-land, and a helpless cross sleepy baby would find itself alone amid unsympathetic waiters, and would wail miserably for 'Panty' from the depths of a club arm-chair! The picture moved Anthea almost to tears.

'Oh no, Lamb ducky, you mustn't do that!' she cried incautiously.

The grown-up Lamb frowned. 'My dear Anthea,' he said, 'how often am I to tell you that my name is Hilary or St Maur or Devereux? - any of my baptismal names are free to my little brothers and sisters, but NOT "Lamb" - a relic of foolish and far-off childhood.'

This was awful. He was their elder brother now, was he? Well, of course he was, if he was grown up - since they weren't. Thus, in whispers, Anthea and Robert.

But the almost daily adventures resulting from the Psammead wishes were making the children wise beyond their years.

'Dear Hilary,' said Anthea, and the others choked at the name, 'you know father didn't wish you to go to London. He wouldn't like us to be left alone without you to take care of us. Oh, deceitful beast that I am!' she added to herself.

'Look here,' said Cyril, 'if you're our elder brother, why not behave as such and take us over to Maidstone and give us a jolly good blow-out, and we'll go on the river afterwards?'

'I'm infinitely obliged to you,' said the Lamb courteously, 'but I should prefer solitude. Go home to your lunch - I mean your dinner. Perhaps I may look in about tea-time - or I may not be home till after you are in your beds.'

Their beds! Speaking glances flashed between the wretched four. Much bed there would be for them if they went home without the Lamb.

'We promised mother not to lose sight of you if we took you out,'Jane said before the others could stop her.

'Look here, Jane,' said the grown-up Lamb, putting his hands in his pockets and looking down at her, 'little girls should be seen and not heard. You kids must learn not to make yourselves a nuisance. Run along home now - and perhaps, if you're good, I'll give you each a penny to-morrow.'

'Look here,' said Cyril, in the best 'man to man' tone at his command, 'where are you going, old man? You might let Bobs and me come with you - even if you don't want the girls.'

This was really rather noble of Cyril, for he never did care much about being seen in public with the Lamb, who of course after sunset would be a baby again.

The 'man to man' tone succeeded.

'I shall just run over to Maidstone on my bike,' said the new Lamb airily, fingering the little black moustache. 'I can lunch at The Crown - and perhaps I'll have a pull on the river; but I can't take you all on the machine - now, can I? Run along home, like good children.'

The position was desperate. Robert exchanged a despairing look with Cyril. Anthea detached a pin from her waistband, a pin whose withdrawal left a gaping chasm between skirt and bodice, and handed it furtively to Robert - with a grimace of the darkest and deepest meaning. Robert slipped away to the road. There, sure enough, stood a bicycle - a beautiful new free-wheel. Of course Robert understood at once that if the Lamb was grown up he MUST have a bicycle. This had always been one of Robert's own reasons for wishing to be grown up. He hastily began to use the pin - eleven punctures in the back tyre, seven in the front. He would have made the total twenty-two but for the rustling of the yellow hazel-leaves, which warned him of the approach of the others. He hastily leaned a hand on each wheel, and was rewarded by the 'whish' of what was left of the air escaping from eighteen neat pin-holes.

'Your bike's run down,' said Robert, wondering how he could so soon have learned to deceive.

'So it is,' said Cyril.

'It's a puncture,' said Anthea, stooping down, and standing up again with a thorn which she had got ready for the purpose. 'Look here.'

The grown-up Lamb (or Hilary, as I suppose one must now call him) fixed his pump and blew up the tyre. The punctured state of it was soon evident.

'I suppose there's a cottage somewhere near - where one could get a pail of water?' said the Lamb.

There was; and when the number of punctures had been made manifest, it was felt to be a special blessing that the cottage provided 'teas for cyclists'. It provided an odd sort of tea-and-hammy meal for the Lamb and his brothers. This was paid for out of the fifteen shillings which had been earned by Robert when he was a giant - for the Lamb, it appeared, had unfortunately no money about him. This was a great disappointment for the others; but it is a thing that will happen, even to the most grown-up of us. However, Robert had enough to eat, and that was something. Quietly but persistently the miserable four took it in turns to try to persuade the Lamb (or St Maur) to spend the rest of the day in the woods. There was not very much of the day left by the time he had mended the eighteenth puncture. He looked up from the completed work with a sigh of relief, and suddenly put his tie straight.

'There's a lady coming,' he said briskly - 'for goodness' sake, get out of the way. Go home - hide - vanish somehow! I can't be seen with a pack of dirty kids.' His brothers and sisters were indeed rather dirty, because, earlier in the day, the Lamb, in his infant state, had sprinkled a good deal of garden soil over them. The grown-up Lamb's voice was so tyrant-like, as Jane said afterwards, that they actually retreated to the back garden, and left him with his little moustache and his flannel suit to meet alone the young lady, who now came up the front garden wheeling a bicycle.

The woman of the house came out, and the young lady spoke to her - the Lamb raised his hat as she passed him - and the children could not hear what she said, though they were craning round the corner by the pig-pail and listening with all their ears. They felt it to be 'perfectly fair,' as Robert said, 'with that wretched Lamb in that condition.'

When the Lamb spoke in a languid voice heavy with politeness, they heard well enough.

'A puncture?' he was saying. 'Can I not be of any assistance? If you could allow me - ?'

There was a stifled explosion of laughter behind the pig-pail - the grown-up Lamb (otherwise Devereux) turned the tail of an angry eye in its direction.

'You're very kind,' said the lady, looking at the Lamb. She looked rather shy, but, as the boys put it, there didn't seem to be any nonsense about her.

'But oh,' whispered Cyril behind the pig-pail, 'I should have thought he'd had enough bicycle-mending for one day - and if she only knew that really and truly he's only a whiny-piny, silly little baby!'

'He's not,' Anthea murmured angrily. 'He's a dear - if people only let him alone. It's our own precious Lamb still, whatever silly idiots may turn him into - isn't he, Pussy?'

Jane doubtfully supposed so.

Now, the Lamb - whom I must try to remember to call St Maur - was examining the lady's bicycle and talking to her with a very grown-up manner indeed. No one could possibly have supposed, to see and hear him, that only that very morning he had been a chubby child of two years breaking other people's Waterbury watches. Devereux (as he ought to be called for the future) took out a gold watch when he had mended the lady's bicycle, and all the onlookers behind the pig-pail said 'Oh!' - because it seemed so unfair that the Baby, who had only that morning destroyed two cheap but honest watches, should now, in the grown-upness Cyril's folly had raised him to, have a real gold watch - with a chain and seals!

Hilary (as I will now term him) withered his brothers and sisters with a glance, and then said to the lady - with whom he seemed to be quite friendly:

'If you will allow me, I will ride with you as far as the Cross Roads; it is getting late, and there are tramps about.'

No one will ever know what answer the young lady intended to give to this gallant offer, for, directly Anthea heard it made, she rushed out, knocking against the pig-pail, which overflowed in a turbid stream, and caught the Lamb (I suppose I ought to say Hilary) by the arm. The others followed, and in an instant the four dirty children were visible, beyond disguise.

'Don't let him,' said Anthea to the lady, and she spoke with intense earnestness; 'he's not fit to go with anyone!'

'Go away, little girl!' said St Maur (as we will now call him) in a terrible voice. 'Go home at once!'

'You'd much better not have anything to do with him,' the now reckless Anthea went on. 'He doesn't know who he is. He's something very different from what you think he is.'

'What do you mean?' asked the lady not unnaturally, while Devereux (as I must term the grown-up Lamb) tried vainly to push Anthea away. The others backed her up, and she stood solid as a rock.

'You just let him go with you,' said Anthea, 'you'll soon see what I mean! How would you like to suddenly see a poor little helpless baby spinning along downhill beside you with its feet up on a bicycle it had lost control Of?'

The lady had turned rather pale.

'Who are these very dirty children?' she asked the grown-up Lamb (sometimes called St Maur in these pages).

'I don't know,' he lied miserably.

'Oh, Lamb! how can you?' cried Jane - 'when you know perfectly well you're our own little baby brother that we're so fond of. We're his big brothers and sisters,' she explained, turning to the lady, who with trembling hands was now turning her bicycle towards the gate, 'and we've got to take care of him. And we must get him home before sunset, or I don't know whatever will become of us. You see, he's sort of under a spell - enchanted - you know what I mean!'

Again and again the Lamb (Devereux, I mean) had tried to stop Jane's eloquence, but Robert and Cyril held him, one by each leg, and no proper explanation was possible. The lady rode hastily away, and electrified her relatives at dinner by telling them of her escape from a family of dangerous lunatics. 'The little girl's eyes were simply those of a maniac. I can't think how she came to be at large,' she said.

When her bicycle had whizzed away down the road, Cyril spoke gravely.

'Hilary, old chap,' he said, 'you must have had a sunstroke or something. And the things you've been saying to that lady! Why, if we were to tell you the things you've said when you are yourself again, say to - morrow morning, you wouldn't even understand them - let alone believe them! You trust to me, old chap, and come home now, and if you're not yourself in the morning we'll ask the milkman to ask the doctor to come.'

The poor grown-up Lamb (St Maur was really one of his Christian names) seemed now too bewildered to resist.

'Since you seem all to be as mad as the whole worshipful company of hatters,' he said bitterly, 'I suppose I HAD better take you home. But you're not to suppose I shall pass this over. I shall have something to say to you all to-morrow morning.'

'Yes, you will, my Lamb,' said Anthea under her breath, 'but it won't be at all the sort of thing you think it's going to be.'

In her heart she could hear the pretty, soft little loving voice of the baby Lamb - so different from the affected tones of the dreadful grown-up Lamb (one of whose names was Devereux) - saying, 'Me love Panty - wants to come to own Panty.'

'Oh, let's get home, for goodness' sake,' she said. 'You shall say whatever you like in the morning - if you can,' she added in a whisper. It was a gloomy party that went home through the soft evening. During Anthea's remarks Robert had again made play with the pin and the bicycle tyre and the Lamb (whom they had to call St Maur or Devereux or Hilary) seemed really at last to have had his fill of bicycle-mending. So the machine was wheeled.

The sun was just on the point of setting when they arrived at the White House. The four elder children would have liked to linger in the lane till the complete sunsetting turned the grown-up Lamb (whose Christian names I will not further weary you by repeating) into their own dear tiresome baby brother. But he, in his grown-upness, insisted on going on, and thus he was met in the front garden by Martha.

Now you remember that, as a special favour, the Psammead had arranged that the servants in the house should never notice any change brought about by the wishes of the children. Therefore Martha merely saw the usual party, with the baby Lamb, about whom she had been desperately anxious all the afternoon, trotting beside Anthea on fat baby legs, while the children, of course, still saw the grown-up Lamb (never mind what names he was christened by), and Martha rushed at him and caught him in her arms, exclaiming:

'Come to his own Martha, then - a precious poppet!'

The grown-up Lamb (whose names shall now be buried in oblivion) struggled furiously. An expression of intense horror and annoyance was seen on his face. But Martha was stronger than he. She lifted him up and carried him into the house. None of the children will ever forget that picture. The neat grey-flannel-suited grown-up young man with the green tie and the little black moustache - fortunately, he was slightly built, and not tall - struggling in the sturdy arms of Martha, who bore him away helpless, imploring him, as she went, to be a good boy now, and come and have his nice bremmilk! Fortunately, the sun set as they reached the doorstep, the bicycle disappeared, and Martha was seen to carry into the house the real live darling sleepy two-year-old Lamb. The grown-up Lamb (nameless hence - forth) was gone for ever.

'For ever,' said Cyril, 'because, as soon as ever the Lamb's old enough to be bullied, we must jolly well begin to bully him, for his own sake - so that he mayn't grow up like that.'

'You shan't bully him,' said Anthea stoutly; 'not if I can stop it.'

'We must tame him by kindness,' said Jane.

'You see,' said Robert, 'if he grows up in the usual way, there'll be plenty of time to correct him as he goes along. The awful thing to-day was his growing up so suddenly. There was no time to improve him at all.'

'He doesn't want any improving,' said Anthea as the voice of the Lamb came cooing through the open door, just as she had heard it in her heart that afternoon:

'Me loves Panty - wants to come to own Panty!'



Chapter 10 Scalps


Probably the day would have been a greater success if Cyril had not been reading The Last of the Mohicans. The story was running in his head at breakfast, and as he took his third cup of tea he said dreamily, 'I wish there were Red Indians in England - not big ones, you know, but little ones, just about the right size for us to fight.'

Everyone disagreed with him at the time, and no one attached any importance to the incident. But when they went down to the sand-pit to ask for a hundred pounds in two-shilling pieces with Queen Victoria's head on, to prevent mistakes - which they had always felt to be a really reasonable wish that must turn out well - they found out that they had done it again! For the Psammead, which was very cross and sleepy, said:

'Oh, don't bother me. You've had your wish.'

'I didn't know it,' said Cyril.

'Don't you remember yesterday?' said the Sand-fairy, still more disagreeably. 'You asked me to let you have your wishes wherever you happened to be, and you wished this morning, and you've got it.'

'Oh, have we?' said Robert. 'What is it?'

'So you've forgotten?' said the Psammead, beginning to burrow. 'Never mind; you'll know soon enough. And I wish you joy of it! A nice thing you've let yourselves in for!'

'We always do, somehow,' said Jane sadly.

And now the odd thing was that no one could remember anyone's having wished for anything that morning. The wish about the Red Indians had not stuck in anyone's head. It was a most anxious morning. Everyone was trying to remember what had been wished for, and no one could, and everyone kept expecting something awful to happen every minute. It was most agitating; they knew, from what the Psammead had said, that they must have wished for something more than usually undesirable, and they spent several hours in most agonizing uncertainty. It was not till nearly dinner-time that Jane tumbled over The Last of the Mohicans - which had, of course, been left face downwards on the floor - and when Anthea had picked her and the book up she suddenly said, 'I know!' and sat down flat on the carpet.

'Oh, Pussy, how awful! It was Indians he wished for - Cyril - at breakfast, don't you remember? He said, "I wish there were Red Indians in England," - and now there are, and they're going about scalping people all over the country, like as not.'

'Perhaps they're only in Northumberland and Durham,' said Jane soothingly. It was almost impossible to believe that it could really hurt people much to be scalped so far away as that.

'Don't you believe it!' said Anthea. 'The Sammyadd said we'd let ourselves in for a nice thing. That means they'll come HERE. And suppose they scalped the Lamb!'

'Perhaps the scalping would come right again at sunset,' said Jane; but she did not speak so hopefully as usual.

'Not it!' said Anthea. 'The things that grow out of the wishes don't go. Look at the fifteen shillings! Pussy, I'm going to break something, and you must let me have every penny of money you've got. The Indians will come HERE, don't you see? That spiteful Psammead as good as said so. You see what my plan is? Come on!'

Jane did not see at all. But she followed her sister meekly into their mother's bedroom.

Anthea lifted down the heavy water-jug - it had a pattern of storks and long grasses on it, which Anthea never forgot. She carried it into the dressing-room, and carefully emptied the water out of it into the bath. Then she took the jug back into the bedroom and dropped it on the floor. You know how a jug always breaks if you happen to drop it by accident. If you happen to drop it on purpose, it is quite different. Anthea dropped that jug three times, and it was as unbroken as ever. So at last she had to take her father's boot-tree and break the jug with that in cold blood. It was heartless work.

Next she broke open the missionary-box with the poker. Jane told her that it was wrong, of course, but Anthea shut her lips very tight and then said:

'Don't be silly - it's a matter of life and death.'

There was not very much in the missionary-box - only seven-and-fourpence - but the girls between them had nearly four shillings. This made over eleven shillings, as you will easily see.

Anthea tied up the money in a corner of her pocket-handkerchief. 'Come on, Jane!' she said, and ran down to the farm. She knew that the farmer was going into Rochester that afternoon. In fact it had been arranged that he was to take the four children with him. They had planned this in the happy hour when they believed that they were going to get that hundred pounds, in two-shilling pieces, out of the Psammead. They had arranged to pay the farmer two shillings each for the ride. Now Anthea hastily explained to him that they could not go, but would he take Martha and the Baby instead? He agreed, but he was not pleased to get only half-a-crown instead of eight shillings.

Then the girls ran home again. Anthea was agitated, but not flurried. When she came to think it over afterwards, she could not help seeing that she had acted with the most far-seeing promptitude, just like a born general. She fetched a little box from her corner drawer, and went to find Martha, who was laying the cloth and not in the best of tempers.

'Look here,' said Anthea. 'I've broken the toilet-jug in mother's room.'

'Just like you - always up to some mischief,' said Martha, dumping down a salt-cellar with a bang.

'Don't be cross, Martha dear,' said Anthea. 'I've got enough money to pay for a new one - if only you'll be a dear and go and buy it for us. Your cousins keep a china-shop, don't they? And I would like you to get it to-day, in case mother comes home to-morrow. You know she said she might, perhaps.'

'But you're all going into town yourselves,' said Martha.

'We can't afford to, if we get the new jug,' said Anthea; 'but we'll pay for you to go, if you'll take the Lamb. And I say, Martha, look here - I'll give you my Liberty box, if you'll go. Look, it's most awfully pretty - all inlaid with real silver and ivory and ebony like King Solomon's temple.'

'I see,' said Martha; 'no, I don't want your box, miss. What you want is to get the precious Lamb off your hands for the afternoon. Don't you go for to think I don't see through you!'

This was so true that Anthea longed to deny it at once - Martha had no business to know so much. But she held her tongue.

Martha set down the bread with a bang that made it jump off its trencher.

'I DO want the jug got,' said Anthea softly. 'You WILL go, won't you?'

'Well, just for this once, I don't mind; but mind you don't get into none of your outrageous mischief while I'm gone - that's all!'

'He's going earlier than he thought,' said Anthea eagerly. 'You'd better hurry and get dressed. Do put on that lovely purple frock, Martha, and the hat with the pink cornflowers, and the yellow-lace collar. Jane'll finish laying the cloth, and I'll wash the Lamb and get him ready.'

As she washed the unwilling Lamb, and hurried him into his best clothes, Anthea peeped out of the window from time to time; so far all was well - she could see no Red Indians. When with a rush and a scurry and some deepening of the damask of Martha's complexion she and the Lamb had been got off, Anthea drew a deep breath.

'HE'S safe!' she said, and, to jane's horror, flung herself down on the floor and burst into floods of tears. Jane did not understand at all how a person could be so brave and like a general, and then suddenly give way and go flat like an air-balloon when you prick it. It is better not to go flat, of course, but you will observe that Anthea did not give way till her aim was accomplished. She had got the dear Lamb out of danger - she felt certain the Red Indians would be round the White House or nowhere - the farmer's cart would not come back till after sunset, so she could afford to cry a little. It was partly with joy that she cried, because she had done what she meant to do. She cried for about three minutes, while Jane hugged her miserably and said at five-second intervals, 'Don't cry, Panther dear!'

Then she jumped up, rubbed her eyes hard with the corner of her pinafore, so that they kept red for the rest of the day, and started to tell the boys. But just at that moment cook rang the dinner-bell, and nothing could be said till they had all been helped to minced beef. Then cook left the room, and Anthea told her tale. But it is a mistake to tell a thrilling tale when people are eating minced beef and boiled potatoes. There seemed somehow to be something about the food that made the idea of Red Indians seem flat and unbelievable. The boys actually laughed, and called Anthea a little silly.

'Why,' said Cyril, 'I'm almost sure it was before I said that, that Jane said she wished it would be a fine day.'

'It wasn't,' said Jane briefly.

'Why, if it was Indians,' Cyril went on - 'salt, please, and mustard - I must have something to make this mush go down - if it was Indians, they'd have been infesting the place long before this - you know they would. I believe it's the fine day.'

'Then why did the Sammyadd say we'd let ourselves in for a nice thing?' asked Anthea. She was feeling very cross. She knew she had acted with nobility and discretion, and after that it was very hard to be called a little silly, especially when she had the weight of a burglared missionary-box and about seven-and-fourpence, mostly in coppers, lying like lead upon her conscience.

There was a silence, during which cook took away the mincy plates and brought in the treacle-pudding. As soon as she had retired, Cyril began again.

'Of course I don't mean to say,' he admitted, 'that it wasn't a good thing to get Martha and the Lamb out of the light for the afternoon; but as for Red Indians - why, you know jolly well the wishes always come that very minute. If there was going to be Red Indians, they'd be here now.'

'I expect they are,' said Anthea; 'they're lurking amid the undergrowth, for anything you know. I do think you're most beastly unkind.'

'Indians almost always DO lurk, really, though, don't they?' put in Jane, anxious for peace.

No, they don't,' said Cyril tartly. 'And I'm not unkind, I'm only truthful. And I say it was utter rot breaking the water-jug; and as for the missionary-box, I believe it's a treason-crime, and I shouldn't wonder if you could be hanged for it, if any of us was to split - '

'Shut up, can't you?' said Robert; but Cyril couldn't. You see, he felt in his heart that if there SHOULD be Indians they would be entirely his own fault, so he did not wish to believe in them. And trying not to believe things when in your heart you are almost sure they are true, is as bad for the temper as anything I know.

'It's simply idiotic,' he said, 'talking about Indians, when you can see for yourselves that it's Jane who's got her wish. Look what a fine day it is - OH - '

He had turned towards the window to point out the fineness of the day - the others turned too - and a frozen silence caught at Cyril, and none of the others felt at all like breaking it. For there, peering round the corner of the window, among the red leaves of the Virginia creeper, was a face - a brown face, with a long nose and a tight mouth and very bright eyes. And the face was painted in coloured patches. It had long black hair, and in the hair were feathers!

Every child's mouth in the room opened, and stayed open. The treacle-pudding was growing white and cold on their plates. No one could move.

Suddenly the feathered head was cautiously withdrawn, and the spell was broken. I am sorry to say that Anthea's first words were very like a girl.

'There, now!' she said. 'I told you so!'

Treacle-pudding had now definitely ceased to charm. Hastily wrapping their portions in a Spectator of the week before the week before last, they hid them behind the crinkled-paper stove-ornament, and fled upstairs to reconnoitre and to hold a hurried council.

'Pax,' said Cyril handsomely when they reached their mother's bedroom. 'Panther, I'm sorry if I was a brute.'

'All right,' said Anthea, 'but you see now!'

No further trace of Indians, however, could be discerned from the windows.

'Well,' said Robert, 'what are we to do?'

'The only thing I can think of,' said Anthea, who was now generally admitted to be the heroine of the day, 'is - if we dressed up as like Indians as we can, and looked out of the windows, or even went out. They might think we were the powerful leaders of a large neighbouring tribe, and - and not do anything to us, you know, for fear of awful vengeance.'

'But Eliza, and the cook?' said Jane.

'You forget - they can't notice anything,' said Robert. 'They wouldn't notice anything out of the way, even if they were scalped or roasted at a slow fire.'

'But would they come right at sunset?'

'Of course. You can't be really scalped or burned to death without noticing it, and you'd be sure to notice it next day, even if it escaped your attention at the time,' said Cyril. 'I think Anthea's right, but we shall want a most awful lot of feathers.'

'I'll go down to the hen-house,' said Robert. 'There's one of the turkeys in there - it's not very well. I could cut its feathers without it minding much. It's very bad - doesn't seem to care what happens to it. Get me the cutting-out scissors.'

Earnest reconnoitring convinced them all that no Indians were in the poultry-yard. Robert went. In five minutes he came back - pale, but with many feathers.

'Look here,' he said, 'this is jolly serious. I cut off the feathers, and when I turned to come out there was an Indian squinting at me from under the old hen-coop. I just brandished the feathers and yelled, and got away before he could get the coop off the top of himself. Panther, get the coloured blankets off our beds, and look slippy, can't you?'

It is wonderful how like an Indian you can make yourselves with blankets and feathers and coloured scarves. Of course none of the children happened to have long black hair, but there was a lot of black calico that had been got to cover school-books with. They cut strips of this into a sort of fine fringe, and fastened it round their heads with the amber-coloured ribbons off the girls' Sunday dresses. Then they stuck turkeys' feathers in the ribbons. The calico looked very like long black hair, especially when the strips began to curl up a bit.

'But our faces,' said Anthea, 'they're not at all the right colour. We're all rather pale, and I'm sure I don't know why, but Cyril is the colour of putty.'

'I'm not,' said Cyril.

'The real Indians outside seem to be brownish,' said Robert hastily. 'I think we ought to be really RED - it's sort of superior to have a red skin, if you are one.'

The red ochre cook used for the kitchen bricks seemed to be about the reddest thing in the house. The children mixed some in a saucer with milk, as they had seen cook do for the kitchen floor. Then they carefully painted each other's faces and hands with it, till they were quite as red as any Red Indian need be - if not redder.

They knew at once that they must look very terrible when they met Eliza in the passage, and she screamed aloud. This unsolicited testimonial pleased them very much. Hastily telling her not to be a goose, and that it was only a game, the four blanketed, feathered, really and truly Redskins went boldly out to meet the foe. I say boldly. That is because I wish to be polite. At any rate, they went.

Along the hedge dividing the wilderness from the garden was a row of dark heads, all highly feathered.

'It's our only chance,' whispered Anthea. 'Much better than to wait for their blood-freezing attack. We must pretend like mad. Like that game of cards where you pretend you've got aces when you haven't. Fluffing they call it, I think. Now then. Whoop!'

With four wild war-whoops - or as near them as English children could be expected to go without any previous practice - they rushed through the gate and struck four warlike attitudes in face of the line of Red Indians. These were all about the same height, and that height was Cyril's.

'I hope to goodness they can talk English,' said Cyril through his attitude.

Anthea knew they could, though she never knew how she came to know it. She had a white towel tied to a walking-stick. This was a flag of truce, and she waved it, in the hope that the Indians would know what it was. Apparently they did - for one who was browner than the others stepped forward.

'Ye seek a pow-wow?' he said in excellent English. 'I am Golden Eagle, of the mighty tribe of Rock-dwellers.' 'And I,' said Anthea, with a sudden inspiration, 'am the Black Panther - chief of the - the - the - Mazawattee tribe. My brothers - I don't mean - yes, I do - the tribe - I mean the Mazawattees - are in ambush below the brow of yonder hill.'

'And what mighty warriors be these?' asked Golden Eagle, turning to the others.

Cyril said he was the great chief Squirrel, of the Moning Congo tribe, and, seeing that Jane was sucking her thumb and could evidently think of no name for herself, he added, 'This great warrior is Wild Cat - Pussy Ferox we call it in this land - leader of the vast Phiteezi tribe.'

And thou, valorous Redskin?' Golden Eagle inquired suddenly of Robert, who, taken unawares, could only reply that he was Bobs, leader of the Cape Mounted Police.

'And now,' said Black Panther, 'our tribes, if we just whistle them up, will far outnumber your puny forces; so resistance is useless. Return, therefore, to your own land, O brother, and smoke pipes of peace in your wampums with your squaws and your medicine-men, and dress yourselves in the gayest wigwams, and eat happily of the juicy fresh-caught moccasins.'

'You've got it all wrong,' murmured Cyril angrily. But Golden Eagle only looked inquiringly at her.

'Thy customs are other than ours, O Black Panther,' he said. 'Bring up thy tribe, that we may hold pow-wow in state before them, as becomes great chiefs.'

'We'll bring them up right enough,' said Anthea, 'with their bows and arrows, and tomahawks, and scalping-knives, and everything you can think of, if you don't look sharp and go.'

She spoke bravely enough, but the hearts of all the children were beating furiously, and their breath came in shorter and shorter gasps. For the little real Red Indians were closing up round them - coming nearer and nearer with angry murmurs - so that they were the centre of a crowd of dark, cruel faces.

'It's no go,' whispered Robert. 'I knew it wouldn't be. We must make a bolt for the Psammead. It might help us. If it doesn't - well, I suppose we shall come alive again at sunset. I wonder if scalping hurts as much as they say.'

'I'll wave the flag again,' said Anthea. 'If they stand back, we'll run for it.'

She waved the towel, and the chief commanded his followers to stand back. Then, charging wildly at the place where the line of Indians was thinnest, the four children started to run. Their first rush knocked down some half-dozen Indians, over whose blanketed bodies the children leaped, and made straight for the sand-Pit. This was no time for the safe easy way by which carts go down - right over the edge of the sand-pit they went, among the yellow and pale purple flowers and dried grasses, past the little sand-martins' little front doors, skipping, clinging, bounding, stumbling, sprawling, and finally rolling.

Yellow Eagle and his followers came up with them just at the very spot where they had seen the Psammead that morning.

Breathless and beaten, the wretched children now awaited their fate. Sharp knives and axes gleamed round them, but worse than these was the cruel light in the eyes of Golden Eagle and his followers.

'Ye have lied to us, O Black Panther of the Mazawattees - and thou, too, Squirrel of the Moning Congos. These also, Pussy Ferox of the Phiteezi, and Bobs of the Cape Mounted Police - these also have lied to us, if not with their tongue, yet by their silence. Ye have lied under the cover of the Truce-flag of the Pale-face. Ye have no followers. Your tribes are far away - following the hunting trail. What shall be their doom?' he concluded, turning with a bitter smile to the other Red Indians.

'Build we the fire!' shouted his followers; and at once a dozen ready volunteers started to look for fuel. The four children, each held between two strong little Indians, cast despairing glances round them. Oh, if they could only see the Psammead!

'Do you mean to scalp us first and then roast us?' asked Anthea desperately.

'Of course!' Redskin opened his eyes at her. 'It's always done.'

The Indians had formed a ring round the children, and now sat on the ground gazing at their captives. There was a threatening silence.

Then slowly, by twos and threes, the Indians who had gone to look for firewood came back, and they came back empty-handed. They had not been able to find a single stick of wood, for a fire! No one ever can, as a matter of fact, in that part of Kent.

The children drew a deep breath of relief, but it ended in a moan of terror. For bright knives were being brandished all about them. Next moment each child was seized by an Indian; each closed its eyes and tried not to scream. They waited for the sharp agony of the knife. It did not come. Next moment they were released, and fell in a trembling heap. Their heads did not hurt at all. They only felt strangely cool! Wild war-whoops rang in their ears. When they ventured to open their eyes they saw four of their foes dancing round them with wild leaps and screams, and each of the four brandished in his hand a scalp of long flowing black hair. They put their hands to their heads - their own scalps were safe! The poor untutored savages had indeed scalped the children. But they had only, so to speak, scalped them of the black calico ringlets!

The children fell into each other's arms, sobbing and laughing.

'Their scalps are ours,' chanted the chief; 'ill-rooted were their ill-fated hairs! They came off in the hands of the victors - without struggle, without resistance, they yielded their scalps to the conquering Rock-dwellers! Oh, how little a thing is a scalp so lightly won!'

'They'll take our real ones in a minute; you see if they don't,' said Robert, trying to rub some of the red ochre off his face and hands on to his hair.

'Cheated of our just and fiery revenge are we,' the chant went on - 'but there are other torments than the scalping-knife and the flames. Yet is the slow fire the correct thing. O strange unnatural country, wherein a man may find no wood to burn his enemy! - Ah, for the boundless forests of my native land, where the great trees for thousands of miles grow but to furnish firewood wherewithal to burn our foes. Ah, would we were but in our native forest once more!'

Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, the golden gravel shone all round the four children instead of the dusky figures. For every single Indian had vanished on the instant at their leader's word. The Psammead must have been there all the time. And it had given the Indian chief his wish.


Martha brought home a jug with a pattern of storks and long grasses on it. Also she brought back all Anthea's money.

'My cousin, she give me the jug for luck; she said it was an odd one what the basin of had got smashed.'

'Oh, Martha, you arc a dear!' sighed Anthea, throwing her arms round her.

'Yes,' giggled Martha, 'you'd better make the most of me while you've got me. I shall give your ma notice directly minute she comes back.'

'Oh, Martha, we haven't been so very horrid to you, have we?' asked Anthea, aghast.

'Oh, it ain't that, miss.' Martha giggled more than ever. 'I'm a-goin' to be married. It's Beale the gamekeeper. He's been a-proposin' to me off and on ever since you come home from the clergyman's where you got locked up on the church-tower. And to-day I said the word an' made him a happy man.'

Anthea put the seven-and-fourpence back in the missionary-box, and pasted paper over the place where the poker had broken it. She was very glad to be able to do this, and she does not know to this day whether breaking open a missionary-box is or is not a hanging matter.



Chapter 11 The Last Wish


Of course you, who see above that this is the eleventh (and last) chapter, know very well that the day of which this chapter tells must be the last on which Cyril, Anthea, Robert, and Jane will have a chance of getting anything out of the Psammead, or Sand-fairy.

But the children themselves did not know this. They were full of rosy visions, and, whereas on other days they had often found it extremely difficult to think of anything really nice to wish for, their brains were now full of the most beautiful and sensible ideas. 'This,' as Jane remarked afterwards, 'is always the way.' Everyone was up extra early that morning, and these plans were hopefully discussed in the garden before breakfast. The old idea of one hundred pounds in modern florins was still first favourite, but there were others that ran it close - the chief of these being the 'pony each' idea. This had a great advantage. You could wish for a pony each during the morning, ride it all day, have it vanish at sunset, and wish it back again next day. Which would be an economy of litter and stabling. But at breakfast two things happened. First, there was a letter from mother. Granny was better, and mother and father hoped to be home that very afternoon. A cheer arose. And of course this news at once scattered all the before-breakfast wish-ideas. For everyone saw quite plainly that the wish for the day must be something to please mother and not to please themselves.

'I wonder what she WOULD like,' pondered Cyril.

'She'd like us all to be good,' said Jane primly.

'Yes - but that's so dull for us,' Cyril rejoined; 'and, besides, I should hope we could be that without sand-fairies to help us. No; it must be something splendid, that we couldn't possibly get without wishing for.'

'Look out,' said Anthea in a warning voice; 'don't forget yesterday. Remember, we get our wishes now just wherever we happen to be when we say "I wish". Don't let's let ourselves in for anything silly - to-day of all days.'

'All right,' said Cyril. 'You needn't jaw.'

just then Martha came in with a jug full of hot water for the teapot - and a face full of importance for the children.

'A blessing we're all alive to eat our breakfasses!' she said darkly.

'Why, whatever's happened?' everybody asked.

'Oh, nothing,' said Martha, 'only it seems nobody's safe from being murdered in their beds nowadays.'

'Why,' said Jane as an agreeable thrill of horror ran down her back and legs and out at her toes, 'has anyone been murdered in their beds?'

'Well - not exactly,' said Martha; 'but they might just as well. There's been burglars over at Peasmarsh Place - Beale's just told me - and they've took every single one of Lady Chittenden's diamonds and jewels and things, and she's a-goin' out of one fainting fit into another, with hardly time to say "Oh, my diamonds!" in between. And Lord Chittenden's away in London.'

'Lady Chittenden,' said Anthea; 'we've seen her. She wears a red-and-white dress, and she has no children of her own and can't abide other folkses'.'

'That's her,' said Martha. 'Well, she's put all her trust in riches, and you see how she's served. They say the diamonds and things was worth thousands of thousands of pounds. There was a necklace and a river - whatever that is - and no end of bracelets; and a tarrer and ever so many rings. But there, I mustn't stand talking and all the place to clean down afore your ma comes home.'

'I don't see why she should ever have had such lots of diamonds,' said Anthea when Martha had Bounced off. 'She was rather a nasty lady, I thought. And mother hasn't any diamonds, and hardly any jewels - the topaz necklace, and the sapphire ring daddy gave her when they were engaged, and the garnet star, and the little pearl brooch with great-grandpapa's hair in it - that's about all.'

'When I'm grown up I'll buy mother no end of diamonds,' said Robert, 'if she wants them. I shall make so much money exploring in Africa I shan't know what to do with it.'

'Wouldn't it be jolly,' said Jane dreamily, 'if mother could find all those lovely things, necklaces and rivers of diamonds and tarrers?'

'TI -- ARAS,' said Cyril.

'Ti -- aras, then - and rings and everything in her room when she came home? I wish she would.' The others gazed at her in horror.

'Well, she WILL,' said Robert; 'you've wished, my good Jane - and our only chance now is to find the Psammead, and if it's in a good temper it MAY take back the wish and give us another. If not - well - goodness knows what we're in for! - the police, of course, and - Don't cry, silly! We'll stand by you. Father says we need never be afraid if we don't do anything wrong and always speak the truth.'

But Cyril and Anthea exchanged gloomy glances. They remembered how convincing the truth about the Psammead had been once before when told to the police.

It was a day of misfortunes. Of course the Psammead could not be found. Nor the jewels, though every one Of the children searched their mother's room again and again.

'Of course,' Robert said, 'WE couldn't find them. It'll be mother who'll do that. Perhaps she'll think they've been in the house for years and years, and never know they are the stolen ones at all.'

'Oh yes!' Cyril was very scornful; 'then mother will be a receiver of stolen goods, and you know jolly well what THAT'S worse than.'

Another and exhaustive search of the sand-pit failed to reveal the Psammead, so the children went back to the house slowly and sadly.

'I don't care,' said Anthea stoutly, 'we'll tell mother the truth, and she'll give back the jewels - and make everything all right.'


'Do you think so?' said Cyril slowly. 'Do you think She'll believe us? Could anyone believe about a Sammyadd unless they'd seen it? She'll think we're pretending. Or else she'll think we're raving mad, and then we shall be sent to Bedlam. How would you like it?' - he turned suddenly on the miserable Jane - 'how would you like it, to be shut up in an iron cage with bars and padded walls, and nothing to do but stick straws in your hair all day, and listen to the howlings and ravings of the other maniacs? Make up your minds to it, all of you. It's no use telling mother.'

'But it's true,' said Jane.

'Of course it is, but it's not true enough for grown-up people to believe it,' said Anthea. 'Cyril's right. Let's put flowers in all the vases, and try not to think about diamonds. After all, everything has come right in the end all the other times.'

So they filled all the pots they could find with flowers - asters and zinnias, and loose-leaved late red roses from the wall of the stable-yard, till the house was a perfect bower.

And almost as soon as dinner was cleared away mother arrived, and was clasped in eight loving arms. It was very difficult indeed not to tell her all about the Psammead at once, because they had got into the habit of telling her everything. But they did succeed in not telling her. Mother, on her side, had plenty to tell them - about Granny, and Granny's pigeons, and Auntie Emma's lame tame donkey. She was very delighted with the flowery-boweryness of the house; and everything seemed so natural and pleasant, now that she was home again, that the children almost thought they must have dreamed the Psammead.

But, when mother moved towards the stairs to go UP to her bedroom and take off her bonnet, the eight arms clung round her just as if she only had two children, one the Lamb and the other an octopus.

'Don't go up, mummy darling,' said Anthea; 'let me take your things up for you.'

'Or I will,' said Cyril.

'We want you to come and look at the rose-tree,' said Robert.

'Oh, don't go up!' said Jane helplessly.

'Nonsense, dears,' said mother briskly, 'I'm not such an old woman yet that I can't take my bonnet off in the proper place. Besides, I must wash these black hands of mine.'

So up she went, and the children, following her, exchanged glances of gloomy foreboding.

Mother took off her bonnet - it was a very pretty hat, really, with white roses on it - and when she had taken it off she went to the dressing-table to do her pretty hair.

On the table between the ring-stand and the pincushion lay a green leather case. Mother opened it.

'Oh, how lovely!' she cried. It was a ring, a large pearl with shining many-lighted diamonds set round it. 'Wherever did this come from?' mother asked, trying it on her wedding finger, which it fitted beautifully. 'However did it come here?'

'I don't know,' said each of the children truthfully.

'Father must have told Martha to put it here,' mother said. 'I'll run down and ask her.'

'Let me look at it,' said Anthea, who knew Martha would not be able to see the ring. But when Martha was asked, of course she denied putting the ring there, and so did Eliza and cook.

Mother came back to her bedroom, very much interested and pleased about the ring. But, when she opened the dressing-table drawer and found a long case containing an almost priceless diamond necklace, she was more interested still, though not so pleased. In the wardrobe, when she went to put away her 'bonnet', she found a tiara and several brooches, and the rest of the jewellery turned up in various parts of the room during the next half-hour. The children looked more and more uncomfortable, and now Jane began to sniff.

Mother looked at her gravely.

'Jane,' she said, 'I am sure you know something about this. Now think before you speak, and tell me the truth.'

'We found a Fairy,' said Jane obediently.

'No nonsense, please,' said her mother sharply.

'Don't be silly, Jane,' Cyril interrupted. Then he went on desperately. 'Look here, mother, we've never seen the things before, but Lady Chittenden at Peasmarsh Place lost all her jewellery by wicked burglars last night. Could this possibly be it?'

All drew a deep breath. They were saved.

'But how could they have put it here? And why should they?' asked mother, not unreasonably. 'Surely it would have been easier and safer to make off with it?'

'Suppose,' said Cyril, 'they thought it better to wait for - for sunset - nightfall, I mean, before they went off with it. No one but us knew that you were coming back to-day.'

'I must send for the police at once,' said mother distractedly. 'Oh, how I wish daddy were here!'

'Wouldn't it be better to wait till he DOES come?' asked Robert, knowing that his father would not be home before sunset.

'No, no; I can't wait a minute with all this on my mind,' cried mother. 'All this' was the heap of jewel-cases on the bed. They put them all in the wardrobe, and mother locked it. Then mother called Martha.

'Martha,' she said, 'has any stranger been into MY room since I've been away? Now, answer me truthfully.'

'No, mum,' answered Martha; 'leastways, what I mean to say - '

She stopped.

'Come,' said her mistress kindly; 'I see someone has. You must tell me at once. Don't be frightened. I'm sure you haven't done anything wrong.'

Martha burst into heavy sobs.

'I was a-goin' to give you warning this very day, mum, to leave at the end of my month, so I was - on account of me being going to make a respectable young man happy. A gamekeeper he is by trade, mum - and I wouldn't deceive you - of the name of Beale. And it's as true as I stand here, it Was your coming home in such a hurry, and no warning given, out of the kindness of his heart it was, as he says, "Martha, my beauty," he says - which I ain't and never was, but you know how them men will go on - "I can't see you a-toiling and a-moiling and not lend a 'elping 'and; which mine is a strong arm and it's yours, Martha, my dear," says he. And so he helped me a-cleanin' of the windows, but outside, mum, the whole time, and me in; if I never say another breathing word it's the gospel truth.'

'Were you with him the whole time?' asked her mistress.

'Him outside and me in, I was,' said Martha; 'except for fetching up a fresh pail and the leather that that slut of a Eliza 'd hidden away behind the mangle.'

'That will do,' said the children's mother. 'I am not pleased with you, Martha, but you have spoken the truth, and that counts for something.'

When Martha had gone, the children clung round their mother.

'Oh, mummy darling,' cried Anthea, 'it isn't Beale's fault, it isn't really! He's a great dear; he is, truly and honourably, and as honest as the day. Don't let the police take him, mummy! oh, don't, don't, don't!'

It was truly awful. Here was an innocent man accused of robbery through that silly wish of Jane's, and it was absolutely useless to tell the truth. All longed to, but they thought of the straws in the hair and the shrieks of the other frantic maniacs, and they could not do it.

'Is there a cart hereabouts?' asked mother feverishly. 'A trap of any sort? I must drive in to Rochester and tell the police at once.'

All the children sobbed, 'There's a cart at the farm, but, oh, don't go! - don't go! - oh, don't go! - wait till daddy comes home!'

Mother took not the faintest notice. When she had set her mind on a thing she always went straight through with it; she was rather like Anthea in this respect.

'Look here, Cyril,' she said, sticking on her hat with long sharp violet-headed pins, 'I leave you in charge. Stay in the dressing-room. You can pretend to be swimming boats in the bath, or something. Say I gave you leave. But stay there, with the landing door open; I've locked the other. And don't let anyone go into my room. Remember, no one knows the jewels are there except me, and all of you, and the wicked thieves who put them there. Robert, you stay in the garden and watch the windows. If anyone tries to get in you must run and tell the two farm men that I'll send up to wait in the kitchen. I'll tell them there are dangerous characters about - that's true enough. Now, remember, I trust you both. But I don't think they'll try it till after dark, so you're quite safe. Good-bye, darlings.'

And she locked her bedroom door and went off with the key in her pocket.

The children could not help admiring the dashing and decided way in which she had acted. They thought how useful she would have been in organizing escape from some of the tight places in which they had found themselves of late in consequence of their ill-timed wishes.

'She's a born general,' said Cyril - 'but I don't know what's going to happen to us. Even if the girls were to hunt for that beastly Sammyadd and find it, and get it to take the jewels away again, mother would only think we hadn't looked out properly and let the burglars sneak in and nick them - or else the police will think WE'VE got them - or else that she's been fooling them. Oh, it's a pretty decent average ghastly mess this time, and no mistake!'


He savagely made a paper boat and began to float it in the bath, as he had been told to do.

Robert went into the garden and sat down on the worn yellow grass, with his miserable head between his helpless hands.

Anthea and Jane whispered together in the passage downstairs, where the coconut matting was - with the hole in it that you always caught your foot in if you were not careful. Martha's voice could be heard in the kitchen - grumbling loud and long.

'It's simply quite too dreadfully awful,' said Anthea. 'How do you know all the diamonds are there, too? If they aren't, the police will think mother and father have got them, and that they've only given up some of them for a kind of desperate blind. And they'll be put in prison, and we shall be branded outcasts, the children of felons. And it won't be at all nice for father and mother either,' she added, by a candid afterthought.

'But what can WE do?' asked Jane.

'Nothing - at least we might look for the Psammead again. It's a very, very hot day. He may have come out to warm that whisker of his.'

'He won't give us any more beastly wishes to-day,' said Jane flatly. 'He gets crosser and crosser every time we see him. I believe he hates having to give wishes.'

Anthea had been shaking her head gloomily - now she stopped shaking it so suddenly that it really looked as though she were pricking up her ears.

'What is it?' asked Jane. 'Oh, have you thought of something?'

'Our one chance,' cried Anthea dramatically; 'the last lone-lorn forlorn hope. Come on.'

At a brisk trot she led the way to the sand-pit. Oh, joy! - there was the Psammead, basking in a golden sandy hollow and preening its whiskers happily in the glowing afternoon sun. The moment it saw them it whisked round and began to burrow - it evidently preferred its own company to theirs. But Anthea was too quick for it. She caught it by its furry shoulders gently but firmly, and held it.

'Here - none of that!' said the Psammead. 'Leave go of me, will you?'

But Anthea held him fast.

'Dear kind darling Sammyadd,' she said breathlessly.

'Oh yes - it's all very well,' it said; 'you want another wish, I expect. But I can't keep on slaving from morning till night giving people their wishes. I must have SOME time to myself.'

'Do you hate giving wishes?' asked Anthea gently, and her voice trembled with excitement.

'Of course I do,' it said. 'Leave go of me or I'll bite! - I really will - I mean it. Oh, well, if you choose to risk it.'

Anthea risked it and held on.

'Look here,' she said, 'don't bite me - listen to reason. If you'll only do what we want to-day, we'll never ask you for another wish as long as we live.'

The Psammead was much moved.

'I'd do anything,' it said in a tearful voice. 'I'd almost burst myself to give you one wish after another, as long as I held out, if you'd only never, never ask me to do it after to-day. If you knew how I hate to blow myself out with other people's wishes, and how frightened I am always that I shall strain a muscle or something. And then to wake up every morning and know you've GOT to do it. You don't know what it is - you don't know what it is, you don't!' Its voice cracked with emotion, and the last 'don't' was a squeak.

Anthea set it down gently on the sand.

'It's all over now,' she said soothingly. 'We promise faithfully never to ask for another wish after to-day.' 'Well, go ahead,' said the Psammead; 'let's get it over.'

'How many can you do?'

'I don't know - as long as I can hold out.'

'Well, first, I wish Lady Chittenden may find she's never lost her jewels.'

The Psammead blew itself out, collapsed, and said, 'Done.'

'I wish, said Anthea more slowly, 'mother mayn't get to the police.'

'Done,' said the creature after the proper interval.

'I wish,' said Jane suddenly, 'mother could forget all about the diamonds.'

'Done,' said the Psammead; but its voice was weaker.

'Wouldn't you like to rest a little?' asked Anthea considerately.

'Yes, please,' said the Psammead; 'and, before we go further, will you wish something for me?'

'Can't you do wishes for yourself?'

'Of course not,' it said; 'we were always expected to give each other our wishes - not that we had any to speak of in the good old Megatherium days. just wish, will you, that you may never be able, any of you, to tell anyone a word about ME.'

'Why?' asked Jane.

'Why, don't you see, if you told grown-ups I should have no peace of my life. They'd get hold of me, and they wouldn't wish silly things like you do, but real earnest things; and the scientific people would hit on some way of making things last after sunset, as likely as not; and they'd ask for a graduated income-tax, and old-age pensions and manhood suffrage, and free secondary education, and dull things like that; and get them, and keep them, and the whole world would be turned topsy-turvy. Do wish it! Quick!'

Anthea repeated the Psammead's wish, and it blew itself out to a larger size than they had yet seen it attain.

'And now,' it said as it collapsed, 'can I do anything more for you?'

'Just one thing; and I think that clears everything up, doesn't it, Jane? I wish Martha to forget about the diamond ring, and mother to forget about the keeper cleaning the windows.' 'It's like the "Brass Bottle",' said Jane.

'Yes, I'm glad we read that or I should never have thought of it.'

'Now,' said the Psammead faintly, 'I'm almost worn out. Is there anything else?'

'No; only thank you kindly for all you've done for us, and I hope you'll have a good long sleep, and I hope we shall see you again some day.'

'Is that a wish?' it said in a weak voice.

'Yes, please,' said the two girls together.

Then for the last time in this story they saw the Psammead blow itself out and collapse suddenly. It nodded to them, blinked its long snail's eyes, burrowed, and disappeared, scratching fiercely to the last, and the sand closed over it.

'I hope we've done right?' said Jane.

'I'm sure we have,' said Anthea. 'Come on home and tell the boys.'

Anthea found Cyril glooming over his paper boats, and told him. Jane told Robert. The two tales were only just ended when mother walked in, hot and dusty. She explained that as she was being driven into Rochester to buy the girls' autumn school-dresses the axle had broken, and but for the narrowness of the lane and the high soft hedges she would have been thrown out. As it was, she was not hurt, but she had had to walk home. 'And oh, my dearest dear chicks,' she said, 'I am simply dying for a cup of tea! Do run and see if the kettle boils!'

'So you see it's all right,'Jane whispered. 'She doesn't remember.'

'No more does Martha,' said Anthea, who had been to ask after the state of the kettle.

As the servants sat at their tea, Beale the gamekeeper dropped in. He brought the welcome news that Lady Chittenden's diamonds had not been lost at all. Lord Chittenden had taken them to be re-set and cleaned, and the maid who knew about it had gone for a holiday. So that was all right.

'I wonder if we ever shall see the Psammead again,' said Jane wistfully as they walked in the garden, while mother was putting the Lamb to bed.

'I'm sure we shall,' said Cyril, 'if you really wished it.'

'We've promised never to ask it for another wish,' said Anthea.

'I never want to,' said Robert earnestly.

They did see it again, of course, but not in this story. And it was not in a sand-pit either, but in a very, very, very different place. It was in a  --  But I must say no more.

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Thrilling Stories Of The Ocean From Authentic Accounts Of Modern Voyagers And Travellers

By

Marmaduke Park



Stories Of The Ocean.



Volney Beckner.


The white sharks are the dread of sailors in all hot climates, for they constantly attend vessels in expectation of anything which may be thrown overboard. A shark will thus sometimes traverse the ocean in company with a ship for several hundred leagues. Woe to the poor mariner who may chance to fall overboard while this sea-monster is present.

Some species of sharks grow to an enormous size, often weighing from one to four thousand pounds each. The skin of the shark is rough, and is used for polishing wood, ivory, &c.; that of one species is manufactured into an article called agreen: spectacle-cases are made of it. The white shark is the sailor's worst enemy: he has five rows of wedge-shaped teeth, which are notched like a saw: when the animal is at rest they are flat in his mouth, but when about to seize his prey they are erected by a set of muscles which join them to the jaw. His mouth is so situated under the head that he is obliged to turn himself on one side before he can grasp any thing with those enormous jaws.

I will now give you an account of the death of a very brave little boy, who was killed by a shark. He was an Irish boy; his name was Volney Beckner, the son of a poor fisherman. His father, having always intended Volney for a seafaring life, took great pains to teach him such things as it is useful for a sailor to know, and tried to make him brave and hardy; he taught him to swim when a mere baby.

Volney was only nine years old when he first went to sea in a merchant ship; the same vessel in which his father sometimes sailed. Here he worked hard and fared hard, but this gave him no uneasiness; his frame was robust, he never took cold, he knew not what fear was.

In the most boisterous weather, when the rain fell in torrents, and the wind howled around the ship, the little Irish boy would fearlessly and cheerfully climb the stays and sailyards, mount the topmast, or perform any other duty required of him. At twelve years old the captain promoted the clever, good tempered, and trustworthy boy; spoke well of him before the whole crew, and doubled his pay.

Volney was very sensible to his praises. His messmates loved him for his generous nature, and because he had often shown himself ready to brave danger in order to assist them; but an occasion soon arrived in which he had an opportunity of performing one of the most truly heroic deeds on record.

The vessel in which Volney and his father sailed was bound to Port au Prince, in St. Domingo. A little girl, the daughter of one of the passengers, having slipped away from her nurse, ran on deck to amuse herself. While gazing on the expanse of water, the heaving of the vessel made her dizzy, and she fell overboard.

Volney's father saw the accident, darted after her, and quickly caught her by the dress; but while with one hand he swam to reach the ship, and with the other held the child, he saw a shark advancing towards them. He called aloud for help; there was no time to lose, yet none dared to afford him any. No one, did I say? Yes, little Volney, prompted by filial love, ventured on a deed which strong men dared not attempt.

Armed with a broad, sharp sabre, he threw himself into the sea, then diving like a fish under the shark, he stabbed the weapon into his body up to the hilt. Thus wounded the shark quitted his prey, and turned on the boy, who again and again attacked him with the sabre, but the struggle was too unequal; ropes were quickly thrown from the deck to the father and son; each succeeded in grasping one, and loud rose the cry of joy, "They are saved!" Not so! The shark, enraged at seeing that he was about to be altogether disappointed of his prey, made one desperate spring, and tore asunder the body of the noble-hearted little boy, while his father and the fainting child in his arms were saved.



The Poultry Basket -- A Life-Preserver.


I will tell you an old story of an incident which occurred many years ago, but perhaps it may be new to you, and please you as much as it did me when I was a little girl, and used to sit on my grandpapa's knee, and listen to this tale among many others.

The hero of my story was a countryman; you may, if you please, fancy his neat white cottage on the hill-side, with its rustic porch, all overgrown with jasmine, roses, and clematis; the pretty garden and orchard belonging to it, with the snug poultry yard, the shed for the cow, and the stack of food for winter's use on one side.

You may fancy the pleasure of the little children who lived at this cottage in going with their mother morning and evening to feed the poultry; the noise and bustle among the feathered tribe at this time; how some rudely push before and peck the others in their anxiety to obtain the first grains that fall from the basket, and how the little children take care that the most greedy shall not get it all; their joy at seeing the young broods of tiny chicks covered with downy feathers, and the anxiety of the hens each to protect her own from danger, and teach them to scratch and pick up food for themselves; while they never forget to admire and praise the beauty of the fine old cock, as he struts about with an air of magnificence, like the very king of the guard.

"High was his comb, and coral red withal, In dents embattled like a castle wall; His bill was raven-black and shone like jet, Blue were his legs, and orient were his feet; White were his nails, like silver to behold! His body glittering like burnished gold."

If you had been there, you would have wished to visit the little orchard; to see the gentle cow, and the geese feeding on the common beyond; to watch the young ducklings, dipping and ducking and enjoying their watering sport in the pond.

If it be spring, the children would delight in gathering the sweet-scented meadow flowers -- the water ranunculus, with its golden cups, the modest daisy, the pink cuckoo-flower, and the yellow cowslips; while overhead the bees kept up a constant humming; they have found their way from the straw hives in the garden and are diving into the delicious blossoms of the apple and cherry trees, robbing many a one of its sweets.

But now to my history of what did really happen to a countryman, who very likely lived in such a pretty cottage as I have described.

He had more poultry in his yard than he needed for his own use; some of them had been fatted for sale; and wishing to turn them into money, he left his home, which was near Bristol, with a basket full of them on his arm. Having reached the river, he went on board the ferry boat, intending to go across to a place called Bristol Hot-Wells. Many gentle folks visit this spot for the sake of drinking the waters of the wells, which are thought to be very beneficial in some complaints; and no doubt our countryman hoped that among them his poultry would fetch a good price.

The ferry boat was nearly half way over the river, when, by some accident, the poor man lost his footing and fell into the stream; he could not swim, and the current carried him more than a hundred yards from the boat; but he kept fast hold of his poultry basket, which being buoyant, supported him until he was perceived, and rescued by some men in a fishing-smack.

I hope he reached the Hot-Wells in safety after all, and sold his poultry for as much as he expected; and, what is still better, that his heart was filled with gratitude to God for his preservation from danger so imminent.



The Life Boat.


Oh what a stirring scene is this! see how the brave fellows are pulling with their oars, and endeavoring with all their might to reach the ship in distress before it is too late! Well, I suppose you are curious to know how an open boat like this can float in such an angry, boiling sea. I will tell you how it is accomplished; the sides of the boat are lined with hollow boxes of copper, which being perfectly air-tight, render her buoyant, even when full of water, or loaded to the very water's edge.

The originator of this simple and beautiful contrivance was a London coach maker, named Lionel Lukin, a man whose benevolent feelings flowed towards all his fellow men, but more especially towards that portion of them who brave the dangers of the sea. After devoting sixty years of his life to the pursuits of his business, he retired to Hythe in Kent, where he finished a well-spent life in peace and tranquility, dying in February, 1834. His body was interred in the churchyard of Hythe, which is situated on rising ground, commanding a fine view of the ocean; a fit resting place for the remains of one whose talents had been successfully directed to the means of rescuing from shipwreck and a watery grave many hundreds, or perhaps we may say many thousands, of poor seamen. He obtained a patent for his first boat in 1785.

The two sailors in the picture below are Greenwich pensioners, supported, you know, at Greenwich Hospital, which was founded by Charles II. for superannuated or wounded sailors. They are smoking their pipes, and discussing the merits of the Life Boat.



Whale Fishing.


The whale is the largest of all known animals. There are three kinds of whale; the Greenland, called by the sailors the right whale, as being most highly prized by them; the great northern rorqual, called by fishers the razor-back or finner, and the cachalot or spermaciti whale. The common whale measures from sixty to seventy feet in length: the mouth, when open, is large enough to admit a ship's jolly boat, with all her men in it. It contains no teeth; and enormous as the creature is, the opening to the throat is very narrow, not more than an inch and a half across in the largest whale.

Instead of teeth the mouth of the whale is furnished with a curious framework of a substance called baleen; you will know it by the name of whalebone; it is arranged in rows, and projects beyond the lips in a hanging fringe; the food of the whale consists of shrimps, small fishes, sea-snails, and innumerable minute creatures, called medusae, which are found in those seas where the whales feed in such vast quantities that they make the water of a deep green or olive color.

When feeding the whale swims with open mouth under the water, and all the objects which lie in the way of that great moving cavern are caught by the baleen, and never seen again. Along with their food they swallow a vast quantity of water, which passes back again through the nostrils, and is collected into a bag placed at the external orifice of the cavity of the nose, whence it is expelled by the pressure of powerful muscles through a very narrow opening pierced in the top of the head.

In this way it spouts the water in beautiful jets from twenty to thirty feet in height. The voice of the whale is like a low murmuring: it has a smooth skin all over its body, under which lies that thick lard which yields the oil for which they are so much sought. The Greenland whale has but two side-fins; its tail is in the shape of a crescent; it is an instrument of immense power; it has been sometimes known with one stroke to hurl large boats high into the air, breaking them into a thousand fragments. The whale shows great affection for her young, which is called the calf; the fishermen well know this, and turn it to their own account; they try to strike the young with the harpoon, which is a strong, barbed instrument, and if they do this they are almost sure of securing the mother also, as nothing will induce her to leave it.

Mr. Scorseby, who was for a long time engaged in the whale fishery, has written a book containing a very interesting account of them. He mentions a case in which a young whale was struck beside its dam. She instantly seized and darted off with it, but not until the line had been fixed to its body. In spite of all that could be done to her, she remained near her dying little one, till she was struck again and again, and thus both perished. Sometimes, however, on an occasion like this, the old whale becomes furious, and then the danger to the men is very great, as they attack the whale in boats, several of which belong to each ship.

A number of these boats once made towards a whale, which, with her calf was playing round a group of rocks. The old whale perceiving the approaching danger, did all she could to warn her little one of it, till the sight became quite affecting. She led it away from the boats, swam round it, embraced it with her fins, and sometimes rolled over with it in the waves.

The men in the boats now rowed a-head of the whales, and drove them back among the rocks, at which the mother evinced great uneasiness and anxiety; she swam round and round the young one in lessening circles; but all her care was unheeded, and the inexperienced calf soon met its fate. It was struck and killed, and a harpoon fixed in the mother, when, roused to reckless fury, she flew on one of the boats, and made her tail descend with such tremendous force on the very centre of it, as to cut it in two, and kill two of the men, the rest swimming in all directions for their lives.



Ship Towed To Land By Bullocks


Swimming is a manly exercise, and one in which, under proper care, every little boy ought to be instructed. In the first place it is a very healthy and invigorating practice frequently to immerse the body in water: and when we recollect how often the knowledge of this art has been blessed by the Supreme Disposer of events as a means of saving his rational creatures from sudden death, it seems that to neglect this object is almost to refuse to avail ourselves of one of the means of safety, which a kind Providence has placed within our reach.

Only imagine yourself to be, as many before you have been, in a situation of pressing danger on the sea, and yet at no great distance from the land, so that you might hope to reach it by swimming, but to remain on board the vessel appeared certain death, how thankful you would then feel to your friends if they had put this means of escape into your power! Or if you were to see some unfortunate fellow-creature struggling in the water, and about to disappear from your sight, how willingly, if conscious of your own power to support yourself, would you plunge into the water to his rescue! and how would your heart glow with delight if your efforts to save him should prove successful!

Here is a picture representing the very remarkable preservation of the crew of a vessel on the coast of Newfoundland. In this instance man availed himself of the instinct which ever prompts the brute creation to self-preservation. The ship was freighted with live cattle; in a dreadful storm she was dismasted, and became a mere wreck. The crew being unable to manage her, it occurred to the captain, whose name was Drummond, as a last resort, to attach some ropes to the horns of some of the bullocks, and turn them into the sea. This was done, the bullocks swam towards land and towed the ship to the shore. Thus the lives of the crew were saved.



The Sinking Of The Royal George.


The Royal George was an old ship; she had seen much service. Her build was rather short and high, but she sailed well, and carried the tallest masts and squarest canvas of any of England's gun-ships. She had just returned from Spithead, where there were twenty or thirty ships of war, called a fleet, lying under command of Lord Howe. It was on the 29th of August, 1782. She was lying off Portsmouth; her decks had been washed the day before, and the carpenter discovered that the pipes which admitted water to cleanse the ship was worn out, and must be replaced. This pipe being three feet under the water, it was needful to heel, or lay the ship a little on one side. To do this, the heavy guns on the larboard side were run out of the port-holes (those window-like openings which you see in the side of the vessel) as far as they would go, and the guns on the starboard side were drawn up and secured in the middle of the deck; this brought the sills of the port-holes on the lowest side nearly even with the water.

Just as the crew had finished breakfast, a vessel called the Lark came on the low side of the ship to unship a cargo of rum; the casks were put on board on that side, and this additional weight, together with that of the men employed in unloading, caused the ship to heel still more on one side; every wave of the sea now washed in at her port-holes, and thus she had soon so great a weight of water in her hold, that slowly and almost imperceptibly she sank still further down on her side. Twice, the carpenter, seeing the danger, went on board to ask the officer on duty to order the ship to be righted; and if he had not been a proud and angry man, who would not acknowledge himself to be in the wrong, all might yet have been well.

The plumbers had almost finished their work, when a sudden breeze blew on the raised side of the ship, forced her still further down, and the water began to pour into her lower port-holes. Instantly the danger became apparent; the men were ordered to right the ship: they ran to move the guns for this purpose, but it was too late.

In a minute or two more, she fell quite over on her side, with her masts nearly flat on the water, and the Royal George sank to the bottom, before one signal of distress could be given! By this dreadful accident, about nine hundred persons lost their lives; about two hundred and thirty were saved, some by running up the rigging, and being with others picked up by the boats which put off immediately from other vessels to their assistance. There were many visitors, women and little children on board at the time of the accident.



Blowing Up Of The Royal George.


At the time when the dreadful event which I have just related to you occurred, the Lark sloop, which brought the cargo of rum, was lying alongside of the Royal George; in going down, the main-yard of the Royal George caught the boom of the Lark, and they sank together, but this made the position of the Royal George much more upright in the water than it would otherwise have been. There she lay at the bottom of the sea, just as you have seen small vessels when left by the tide on a bank. Cowper, when he heard the sad tale, thus wrote

"Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.

"But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er, And he, and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more."

Admiral Kempenfelt was writing in his cabin when the ship sank; his first captain tried to inform him of their situation, but the heeling of the ship so jammed the cabin doors that he could not open them: thus the admiral perished with the rest. It seems Cowper thought the Royal George might be recovered; other people were of the same opinion.

In September of the year in which the vessel sank, a gentleman, named Tracey, living in the neighborhood, by means of diving-machines, ascertained the position and state of the ship, and made proposals to government to adopt means of raising her and getting her again afloat. After a great many vexatious delays and interruptions on the part of those who were to have supplied him with assistance, he succeeded in getting up the Lark sloop. His efforts to raise the Royal George were so far successful, that at every time of high tide she was lifted from her bed; and on the 9th of October she was hove at least thirty or forty feet to westward; but the days were getting short, the boisterous winds of winter were setting in, the lighters to which Tracey's apparatus was attached were too old and rotten to bear the strain, and he was forced to abandon the attempt.

The sunken ship remained, a constant impediment to other vessels wishing to cast anchor near the spot, for nearly fifty years, when Colonel Pasley, by means of gunpowder, completely demolished the wreck: the loose pieces of timber floated to the surface; heavier pieces -- the ship's guns, cables, anchors, the fire-hearth, cooking utensils, and many smaller articles were recovered by the divers. These men went down in Indian-rubber dresses, which were air and water-tight; they were furnished with helmets, in each side of which were glass windows, to admit light, and supplied with air by means of pipes, communicating with an air-pump above. By these means they could remain under water more than an hour at a time. I do not think you are old enough to understand the nature of Colonel Pasley's operations. Large hollow vessels, called cylinders, were filled with gunpowder, and attached by the divers to the wreck, these were connected by conducting wires with a battery on board a lighter above, at a sufficient distance to be out of reach of danger when the explosion took place. Colonel Pasley then gave the word to fire the end of the rod; instantly a report was heard, and those who witnessed the explosions, say that the effect was very beautiful. On one occasion, the water rose in a splendid column above fifty feet high, the spray sparkling like diamonds in the sun; then the large fragments of the wreck came floating to the surface; soon after the mud from the bottom, blackening the circle of water, and spreading to a great distance around; and with it rose to the surface great numbers of fish, who, poor things, had found a hiding-place in the wreck, but were dislodged and killed by the terrible gunpowder.



Loss Of The Melville Castle.


Many and great are the dangers to which those who lead a seafaring life are exposed. The lightning's flash may strike a ship when far away from port, upon the trackless deep, or the sudden bursting of a particular kind of cloud, called a waterspout, may overwhelm her, and none be left to tell her fate. But of all the perils to which a ship is liable, I think that of her striking on a sand-bank, or on sunken rocks is the greatest. There must be men and women now living on the Kentish coast, in whose memory the disastrous wreck of the Melville Castle, with all its attendant horrors, is yet fresh. It is a sorrowful tale, doubly so, inasmuch as acts of imprudence, and still worse, of obstinacy, may be said to have occasioned the loss of four hundred and fifty lives.

In the first place, the Melville Castle, or as I suppose we should call her the Vryheid, was in a very decayed state; she had been long in the East India Company's service, and was by them sold to some Dutch merchants, who had her upper works tolerably repaired, new sheathed and coppered her, and resold her to the Dutch government, who were then in want of a vessel to carry out troops and stores to Batavia.

The Melville Castle was accordingly equipped for the voyage, painted throughout, and her name changed to the Vryheid. On the the morning of November, 1802, she set sail from the Texel, a port on the coast of Holland, with a fair wind, which lasted till early on the following day, when a heavy gale came on in an adverse direction.

The captain immediately had the top-gallant masts and yards struck to make her ride more easily; but as the day advanced, the violence of the wind increased, and vain seemed every effort of the crew to manage the ship. There were many mothers and little children on board, whose state was truly pitiable. The ship was scourged onward by the resistless blast, which continued to increase until it blew a perfect hurricane.

About three in the afternoon, the mainmast fell overboard, sweeping several of the crew into the sea, and severely injuring four or five more. By this time they were near enough to the Kentish coast to discern objects on land, but the waves which rolled mountains high prevented the possibility of any help approaching. By great exertion the ship was brought to anchor in Hythe Bay, and for a few moments hope cheered the bosoms of those on board; it was but a few, for almost immediately she was found to have sprung a leak; and while all hands were busy at the pumps, the storm came on with increased fury.

In this dismal plight they continued till about six o'clock the following morning, when the ship parted from one of her largest anchors, and drifted on towards Dymchurch-wall, about three miles to the west of Hythe. This wall is formed by immense piles, and cross pieces of timber, supported by wooden jetties, which stretch far into the sea. It was built to prevent the water from overflowing a rich, level district, called Romney Marsh.

The crew continued to fire guns and hoist signals of distress. At daybreak a pilot boat put off from Dover, and nearing the Melville Castle, advised the captain to put back to Deal or Hythe, and wait for calmer weather, or, said the boatman, "all hands will assuredly be lost." But the captain would not act on his recommendation; he thought the pilot boat exaggerated the danger, hoped the wind would abate as the day opened, and that he should avoid the demands of the Dover pilot or the Down fees by not casting anchor there. Another help the captain rejected, and bitterly did he lament it when it was too late.

No sooner had the pilot boat departed, than the commodore at Deal despatched two boats to endeavor to board the ship. The captain obstinately refused to take any notice of them, and ordered the crew to let the vessel drive before the wind. This they did, till the ship ran so close in shore, that the captain himself saw the imminent danger, and twice attempted to put her about, but in vain. On the first of the projecting jetties of Dymchurch-wall the vessel struck. I would not if I could grieve your young heart with a detail of all the horrors that ensued; the devoted ship continued to beat on the piles, the sea breaking over her with such violence, that the pumps could no longer be worked.

The foremast soon went over the ship's side, carrying twelve seamen with it, who were swallowed up by the billows. The rudder was unshipped, the tiller tore up the gundeck, and the water rushed in at the port-holes. At this fearful moment most of the passengers and crew joined in solemn prayer to the Almighty. Morning came, but it was only to witness the demolition of the wreck.

Many were the efforts made by the sufferers, some in the jolly boat, some on a raft, others by lashing themselves to pieces of timber, hogsheads, and even hencoops, to reach the shore; but out of four hundred and seventy-two persons who a few days before had left the coast of Holland, not more than eighteen escaped the raging billows. The miserable remnant received generous attention from the inhabitants of the place, who did all in their power to aid their recovery.



Burning Of The Kent East Indiaman.


This picture represents the burning of the Kent East Indiaman, in the Bay of Biscay. She had on board in all six hundred and forty-one persons at the time of the accident. The fire broke out in the hold during a storm. An officer on duty, finding that a spirit cask had broken loose, was taking measures to secure it, when a lurch of the ship caused him to drop his lantern, and in his eagerness to save it, he let go the cask, which suddenly stove in, and the spirits communicated with the flame, the whole place was instantly in a blaze. Hopes of subduing the fire at first were strong, but soon heavy volumes of smoke and a pitchy smell told that it had reached the cable-room.

In these awful circumstances, the captain ordered the lower decks to be scuttled, to admit water. This was done; several poor seamen being suffocated by the smoke in executing the order; but now a new danger threatened, the sea rushed in so furiously, that the ship was becoming water-logged, and all feared her going down. Between six and seven hundred human beings, were by by this time crowded on the deck. Many on their knees earnestly implored the mercy of an all-powerful God! while some old stout-hearted sailors quietly seated themselves directly over the powder magazine, expecting an explosion every moment, and thinking thus to put a speedier end to their torture.

In this time of despair, it occurred to the fourth mate to send a man to the foremast, hoping, but scarce daring to think it probable, that some friendly sail might be in sight. The man at the fore-top looked around him; it was a moment of intense anxiety; then waving his hat, he cried out, "A sail, on the lee-bow!"

Those on deck received the news with heart-felt gratitude, and answered with three cheers. Signals of distress were instantly hoisted, and endeavors used to make towards the stranger, while the minute guns were fired continuously. She proved to be the brig Cambria, Captain Cook, master, bound to Vera Cruz, having twenty Cornish miners, and some agents of the Mining Company on board. For about one quarter of an hour, the crew of the Kent doubted whether the brig perceived their signals: but after a period of dreadful suspense, they saw the British colors hoisted, and the brig making towards them.

On this, the crew of the Kent got their boats in readiness; the first was filled with women, passengers, and officers' wives, and was lowered into a sea so tempestuous as to leave small hope of their reaching the brig; they did, however, after being nearly swamped through some entanglement of the ropes, get clear of the Kent, and were safely taken on board the Cambria, which prudently lay at some distance off.

After the first trip, it was found impossible for the boats to come close alongside of the Kent, and the poor women and children suffered dreadfully, in being lowered over the stern into them by means of ropes. Amid this gloomy scene, many beautiful examples occurred of filial and parental affection, and of disinterested friendship; and many sorrowful instances of individual loss and suffering. At length, when all had been removed from the burning vessel, but a few, who were so overcome by fear as to refuse to make the attempt to reach the brig, the captain quitted his ill-fated ship.

The flames which had spread along her upper deck, now mounted rapidly to the mast and rigging, forming one general conflagration and lighting up the heavens to an immense distance round. One by one her stately masts fell over her sides. By half-past one in the morning the fire reached the powder magazine; the looked-for explosion took place, and the burning fragments of the vessel were blown high into the air, like so many rockets.

The Cambria, with her crowd of sufferers, made all speed to the nearest port, and reached Portsmouth in safety, shortly after midnight, on the 3d of March, 1825, the accident having taken place on the 28th of February. Wonderful to tell, fourteen of the poor creatures, left on the Kent, were rescued by another ship, the Caroline, on her passage from Alexandria to Liverpool.



The Pelican.


The life of a pelican seems to be a very lazy, if not a very pleasant one. Man, ever on the watch to turn the habits of animals to his own account, observing how good a fisherman the pelican is, often catches and tames him, and makes him fish for him. I have heard of a bird of this kind in America, which was so well trained, that it would at command go off in the morning, and return at night with its pouch full, and stretched to the utmost; part of its treasure it disgorged for its master, the rest was given to the bird for its trouble. It is hardly credible what these extraordinary pouches will hold; it is said, that among other things, a man's leg with the boots on was once found in one of them.

Pelicans live in flocks; they and the cormorants sometimes help one another to get a living. The cormorant is a species of pelican, of a dusky color: it is sometimes called the sea crow. The cormorants are the best divers, so the pelicans arrange themselves in a large circle at some great distance from the land, and flap their great wings on the surface of the water, while the cormorants dive beneath. Away swim the poor frightened fish towards the shore; the pelicans draw into a narrower circle, and the fish at last are brought into so small a compass, that their pursuers find no difficulty in obtaining a plentiful meal.



Catching Turtle.


There are two kinds of turtle; the one is called the green turtle, and is much valued as a delicious article of food; the other the hawk's bill turtle supplies the tortoise shell of commerce, which is prepared and moulded into various forms by heat. The flesh of the hawk's bill turtle is considered very unwholesome.

The turtles in the picture are of the edible kind; they are found on the shores of nearly all the countries within the tropics.

There is a little rocky island in the south Atlantic Ocean, called the Island of Ascension, where they are found in vast numbers, and this barren spot is often visited by Indiamen for the purpose of obtaining some of them. The turtles feed on the sea weed and other marine plants which grow on the shoals and sand banks, and with their powerful jaws, they crush the small sea shells which are found among the weeds. This kind of food is always to be had in great abundance, so that the turtles have no occasion to quarrel among themselves, for that which is afforded in such plenty for all; indeed they seem to be a very quiet and inoffensive race, herding peaceably together on their extensive feeding-grounds, and when satisfied retiring to the fresh water at the mouth of the rivers, where they remain holding their heads above water, as if to breathe the fresh air, till the shadow of any of their numerous enemies alarms them, when they instantly dive to the bottom for security.

In the month of April, the females leave the water after sunset, in order to deposit their eggs in the sand. By means of their fore-fins they dig a hole above high water mark, about one foot wide and two deep, into which they drop above a hundred eggs; they then cover them lightly over with a layer of sand, sufficient to hide them, and yet thin enough to admit the warmth of the sun's rays for hatching them. The instinct which leads the female turtle to the shore to lay her eggs, renders her a prey to man. The fishers wait for them on shore, especially on a moonlight night, and following them in one of their journeys, either coming or returning, they turn them quickly over on their backs, before they have time to defend themselves, or to blind their assailants by throwing up the sand with their fins.

When very large, for I should tell you that the usual weight of the turtle is from four to six hundred pounds, it requires the efforts of several men to turn them over, and for this purpose they often employ levers: the back shell of the turtle is so flat that when once over it is impossible for them to right themselves, so there the poor creatures lie in this helpless condition, till they are either taken away in the manner you see in the picture, or deposited by their captors in a crawl, which is a kind of enclosure surrounded by stakes, and so situated as to admit the influx of the sea.

The inhabitants of the Bahama Isles, catch many turtles at a considerable distance from the shore; they strike them with a spear, the head of which slips off when it has entered the body of the turtle, but it is fastened by a string to the pole, and by means of this apparatus they are able to secure them, and either take them into the boat or haul them on shore. The length of the green turtle frequently exceeds six feet. A boy ten years old, a son of Captain Roche, once made use of a very large shell as a boat, and ventured in it from the shore to his father's ship which lay about a quarter of a mile off. It was in the bay of Campeachy, off Port Royal, where the rightful occupant of this shell was caught.



The Wreck Of The Steamboat.


The following narrative teaches a lesson of courage and devotion such as are seldom read. In one of the light-houses of the desolate Farne Isles, amid the ocean, with no prospect before it but the wide expanse of sea, and now and then a distant sail appearing, her cradle hymn the ceaseless sound of the everlasting deep, there lived a little child whose name was Grace Darling. Her father was the keeper of the light-house; and here Grace lived and grew up to the age of twenty-two, her mother's constant helpmate in all domestic duties. She had a fair and healthy countenance, which wore a kind and cheerful smile, proceeding from a heart at peace with others, and happy in the consciousness of endeavoring to do its duty.

It was at early dawn, one September morning, in the year 1838, that the family at the Longstone light-house looked out through a dense fog which hung over the waters. All night the sea had run extremely high, with a heavy gale from the north, and at this moment the storm continued unabated. Mr. and Mrs. Darling and Grace were at this time the only persons in the light-house; through the dim mist they perceived the wreck of a large steam vessel on the rocks, and by the aid of their telescope the could even make out the forms of some persons clinging to her.

It was the Forfarshire steamboat on her passage from Hull to Dundee. She left the former place with sixty-three persons on board. She had entered Berwick Bay about eight o'clock the previous evening, in a heavy gale and in a leaky condition; the motion of the vessel soon increased the leak to such a degree that the fires could not be kept burning. About ten o'clock she bore up off St. Abb's Head, the storm still raging. Soon after the engineer reported that the engines would not work; the vessel became unmanageable; it was raining heavily, and the fog was so dense that it was impossible to make out their situation. At length the appearance of breakers close to leeward, and the Farne lights just becoming visible, showed to all on board their imminent danger.

The captain vainly tried to run the vessel between the islands and the main land, she would no longer answer the helm, and was driven to and fro by a furious sea. Between three and four o'clock in the morning she struck with her bows foremost on a jagged rock, which pierced her timbers. Soon after the first shock a mighty wave lifted the vessel from the rock, and let her fall again with such violence as fairly to break her in two pieces; the after part, containing the cabin with many passengers, all of whom perished, was instantly carried away through a tremendous current, while the fore part was fixed on the rock. The survivors, only nine in number, five of the crew and four passengers, remained in this dreadful situation till daybreak, when they were descried by the family at the light-house. But who could dare to cross the raging abyss which lay between them?

Grace, full of pity and anxiety for the wretched people on the wreck, forgot all toil and danger, and urged her father to launch the boat; she took one oar and her father the other; but Grace had never assisted in the boat before, and it was only by extreme exertion and the most determined courage that they succeeded in bringing the boat up to the rock, and rescuing nine of their fellow creatures from a watery grave, and with the help of the crew in returning, landed all safe at the light-house.

Happy Grace Darling! she needed no other reward than the joy of her own heart and the warm thanks of those she had helped to deliver; but the news of the heroic deed soon spread, and wondering and admiring strangers came from far and near to see Grace and that lonely light-house. Nay more, they showered gifts upon her, and a public subscription was raised with a view of rewarding her bravery, to the amount of seven hundred pounds. She continued to live with her parents on their barren isles, finding happiness in her simple duties and in administering to their comfort, until her death, which took place little more than three years after the wreck of the Forfarshire steamer.



Waterspouts.

These wonderful appearances are caused by the action of currents of wind meeting in the atmosphere from different quarters. They are sometimes seen on land, but much more frequently at sea, where they are very dangerous visitors. I will try to give you some idea of what they are, and perhaps the picture may help you a little. I dare say you have often noticed little eddies of wind whirling up dust and leaves, or any light substances which happened to be in the way; when these occur on a larger scale they are called whirlwinds.

Now if a cloud happens to be exactly in the point where two such furious currents of wind meet, it is turned round and round by them with great speed and is condensed into the form of a cone; this whirling motion drives from the centre of the cloud all the particles contained in it, producing what is called a vacuum, or empty space, into which the water or any thing else lying beneath it has an irresistible tendency to rush. Underneath the dense impending cloud, the sea becomes violently agitated, and the waves dart rapidly towards the centre of the troubled mass of water: on reaching it they disperse in vapor, and rise, whirling in a spiral direction towards the cloud. The descending and ascending columns unite, the whole presenting the appearance of a hollow cylinder, or tube of glass, empty within. This, Maltebrun tells us, and he further adds, "it glides over the sea without any wind being felt; indeed several have been seen at once, pursuing different directions. When the cloud and the marine base of the waterspout move with equal velocity, the lower cone is often seen to incline sideways, or even to bend, and finally to burst in pieces. A noise is then heard like the noise of a cataract falling in a deep valley. Lightning frequently issues from the very bosom of the waterspout, particularly when it breaks; but no thunder is ever heard."

Sailors, to prevent the danger which would arise from coming in contact with one of these tremendous columns, discharge a cannon into it: the ball passing through it breaks the watery cylinder, and causes it to burst, just as a touch causes your beautiful soap-bubbles to vanish, and turn to water again. These waterspouts, at sea, generally occur between the tropics, and I believe frequently after a calm, such as the poet has described in the following lines:

"Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be, And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea!

"All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody sun at noon, Right up above the mast did stand. No bigger than the moon.

"Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath, nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

"Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where And not a drop to drink!"

Happily "dead calms" do not generally last so long as to lead to any serious result. Sailors have a superstitious and foolish belief that whistling in a calm will bring up a breeze, and they do this in a drawling, beseeching tone, on some prominent part of the vessel. Poor fellows! what a pity that their thoughts should not more frequently be directed to Him "who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with a span," and whose works and wonders in the deep "they that go down to the sea in ships" have such abundant opportunity for observing.



Heaving The Lead.


Here we have a sailor in the act of heaving the lead, or taking soundings, which is a thing extremely necessary to be done when a ship is approaching the shore, as there is great danger of her running on a sand-bank or striking on a sunken rock. I will now tell you how it is managed. A sailor gets over the ship's side, as you see in the engraving, and takes his station in what are called "the chains;" he holds in his hand a coil of rope, with the length in fathoms marked upon it; this rope has a mass of lead attached to the end of it. At the bottom of the lead, is a hollow place, into which a piece of tallow candle is stuck, which brings up distinguishing marks from the bottom of the sea, such as small shells, sand, or mud, adhering to it. If the tallow be only indented it is supposed to have fallen on bare rocks. A correct account of the soundings is entered in the logbook; this book contains a description of the ship's course, the direction of the wind, and other circumstances, during every hour of each day and night. Having arranged the rope so as to allow it to fall freely when cast, the sailor throws the lead forward into the water, giving rope sufficient to allow it to touch the bottom; then with a sudden jerk, such as long practice alone can enable him to give, he raises the weight, and after examining the mark on the rope made by the water, calls out lustily, so that all forward can hear, "By the mark seven," or "By the deep nine," according to the case, or whatever the number of fathoms may be. The lead-line is marked into lengths of six feet, called fathoms, by knots, or pieces of leather, or old sail-cloth. In narrow or intricate channels, it is sometimes needful to place a man in the chains on each side of the ship, as the depth will vary a fathom or more even in the breadth of the vessel, and it is of great consequence that the leadsmen give the depth correctly, as a wrong report might cause the ship to run aground. The time that the leadsman is employed in taking soundings is often a period of deep anxiety to the crew and passengers, especially if the vessel be near an unknown coast. When the decrease in the number of fathoms is sudden, the captain knows that danger is near, and quickly gives orders to alter the ship's course: the sailors instantly obey his directions; but sometimes not all their activity and energy can save the vessel; she strikes and becomes a wreck.

Turn to the 27th chapter of the Acts of the Apostles in your Bible, and you will there read the deeply interesting account of Paul's shipwreck on the island Melita. Life has often been compared to a voyage -- and aptly so.

You will find that you, like the mariner, are exposed to many dangers, and that you are never for one moment safe in trusting to your own skill to guide your little bark. In watchfulness and prayer, look to your Heavenly Pilot for directions under every circumstance, often examining your own heart, as the seaman heaves the lead in danger. Then will you be safely guided through storms and calms, amid rocks and shoals, and reach at last the blessed haven of eternal rest and peace.



The Balloon At Sea.


A balloon is a hollow globe, made of silk, rendered air-tight by a coating of gum and resin, and enclosed within a strong network. When filled with gas it is so much lighter than the air which surrounds us, that it will rise with heavier bodies suspended to it. In a sort of car or boat attached, men, who are called "aeronauts," have performed journeys through the air.

The balloon was invented by a Frenchman named Montgolfier. Great expectations were at first entertained of this art of sailing through the air, but as yet it has not proved of much practical use. Many disasters have at different times befallen balloon voyagers.

Many years ago, Major Mooney ascended in his balloon from Norwich, expecting from the direction of the wind that he might descend near Ipswich; but when he had risen about one mile from the earth, a violent current carried him and his balloon towards Yarmouth. The balloon fell on the sea, about nine miles from land. The Major supported himself for some time in the water, by holding firmly to the balloon, and was at last rescued from his dangerous situation by the crew of a cutter which was cruising on the coast.

This was a disastrous voyage, but I think it will interest you to hear of a more successful one, performed by three gentlemen, one of whom, Mr. Green, has introduced some great improvements in the art of filling and guiding balloons. These gentlemen left the earth in the car of a very large balloon, at half-past one o'clock, on Monday, the 7th of November, 1836, intending to proceed to some point on the continent of Europe not very distant from Paris. They were provided with provisions for a fortnight; these, with sand-bags for ballast, cordage, and all needful apparatus for such a journey were placed in the bottom of the car, while all around hung cloaks, carpet bags, barrels of wood and copper, barometers, telescopes, lamps, spirit-flasks, coffee-warmers, &c, for you know it would be impossible for them afterwards to supply any thing which might have been forgotten.

Thus duly furnished, the balloon was rapidly borne away by a moderate breeze over the fertile fields of Kent to Dover. It was forty-eight minutes past four when the first sound of the waves on the sea-beach broke on the voyagers' ears: the sun was sinking below the horizon, and as the balloon was rapidly borne into the region of mist which hung over the ocean, we must suppose something of dread and uncertainty attended the adventurer's minds. Scarcely, however, had they completed some arrangements, intended to render the balloon more buoyant in the heavy atmosphere, than again the sound of waves surprised them, and below were seen glittering the well-known lights of Calais and the neighboring shores. Passing over Calais the aeronauts lowered a blue-light to give notice of their presence, but could not tell whether the inhabitants perceived it. By this time night had completely closed in, and still the silken ball pursued its course. So long as lights were burning in the towns and villages which it passed in rapid succession, the solitary voyagers looked down on the scene with delight; sometimes they could even catch the hum of the yet busy multitude, or the bark of a watch-dog; but midnight came, and the world was hushed in sleep.

As soon as the people were again stirring below, the guide-rope was hauled into the balloon, and the grappling-iron lowered; and after sundry difficulties from the danger of getting entangled in a wood, and grievously affrighting two ladies, who stood awhile petrified with amazement at the unusual apparition, the voyagers succeeded in alighting in a grassy valley, about six miles from the town of Weilburg, in the Duchy of Nassau. Here every attention and accommodation was afforded them, and thus ended this remarkable journey, an extent of about five hundred British miles having been passed over in the space of eighteen hours.



An Adventure Of Paul Jones.


John Paul Jones was a famous naval commander in the service of the United States, during the revolutionary war. He was a native of Scotland, but having come to Virginia and settled before the war broke out, he joined the patriots as soon as hostilities commenced, and rendered the most important services through the whole of the long and arduous contest, by which our independence was acquired.

The following account of one of his adventures is given by his biographer.

Eager to retaliate upon Britain for some predatory exploits of her sailors on the American coast, and exasperated by the resolution which the English government had taken, to treat all the supporters of independence as traitors and rebels, Captain Paul Jones entered the Irish Channel, and approaching his native shores, not as a friend, but as a determined enemy. On the night of the 22d of April, 1778, he came to anchor in the Solway Firth, almost within sight of the trees which sheltered the house in which he first drew the breath of life.

Early next morning, he rowed for the English coast, at the head of thirty-one volunteers, in two boats, with the intention of destroying the shipping, about two hundred sail, which lay in the harbor of Whitehaven.

In this daring attempt he would probably have succeeded without difficulty, had not the strength of the opposing tide retarded his progress so much, that day began to dawn before he could gain the shore. He despatched the smaller of the two boats to the north of the port to set fire to the vessels, whilst he led the remainder of the party to the more hazardous duty of securing the fort, which was situated on a hill to the south. It was a cold morning, and the sentinels little aware that an enemy was so near, had retired into the guard-room for warmth, affording Jones an opportunity to take them by surprise, of which he did not fail to avail himself. Climbing over the shoulders of the tallest of his men, he crept silently through one of the embrasures and was instantly followed by the rest. Their first care was to make fast the door of the guard-room, and their next to spike the cannon, thirty-six in number. Having effected this without bloodshed, they proceeded to join the detachment which had been sent to the north; and finding that a false alarm had deterred them from executing their orders, Jones instantly proceeded to set fire to the vessels within his reach. By this time, however, the inhabitants were roused, and the invaders were obliged to retreat, leaving three ships in flames, of which one alone was destroyed.

On the same day with this adventure, another memorable occurrence took place, which contributed, for a time, to add greatly to the odium which the first had brought on his name in Britain, but which, in the end, enabled him to prove that he was possessed of the most heroic qualities. In cruising off the coast of Galloway, it occurred to him, that, if he could get into his power a man of high rank and influence in the state, he should able, by retaining him as a hostage, to ensure to the American prisoners of war more lenient treatment than was threatened by the British government. Knowing that the Earl of Selkirk possessed a seat at St. Mary's Isle, a beautiful peninsula at the mouth of the Dee, and being ill-informed with regard to the political connections of that nobleman, he destined him for the subject of his experiment. With that view, he landed on the Isle, about noon, with two officers and a few men; but, before they had proceeded far, he learned that his lordship was from home. Finding his object frustrated, he now wished to return; but his crew were not so easily satisfied. Their object was plunder; and as they consisted of men in a very imperfect state of discipline, and with whom it would have been dangerous to contend, he allowed them to proceed. He exacted from them, however, a promise that they should be guilty of no violence; that the men should not enter the house, and that the officers, after having made their demands, should accept what might be put into their hands without scrutiny. These conditions were punctually obeyed. The greater part of the Selkirk plate was carried off in triumph by the crew, and Paul Jones was, for a time, stigmatized as a freebooter; but he nobly vindicated his character, by taking the earliest opportunity of purchasing the whole of it, out of his own private funds, and remitting it safe to its original owner, without accepting the smallest remuneration. National prejudice has misrepresented this transaction; and in order to excite the popular indignation against Jones, it has been common to state, that this attempt on the person, and as it was supposed the property, of Lord Selkirk, was aggravated by ingratitude, his father having eaten of that nobleman's bread. Nothing can be more false. Neither Mr. Paul, nor any of his kindred, ever was in the earl's employ, or had ever the most distant connection with his lordship or his family; and in a correspondence which took place between our hero and Lady Selkirk, relative to the restitution of the plate, a most honorable testimony was gratefully paid by the latter to the captain's character.



Admiral Nelson.


Nelson lost the sight of one eye at the siege of Calvi, by a shot driving the sand and gravel into it, and he lost his arm by a shot in an expedition against Teneriffe; but the most dangerous of his exploits were, boarding the battery at San Bartolomeo, boarding the San Joseph, the boat action in the Bay of Cadiz, and the famous battles of the Nile and Trafalgar. Of these, perhaps, the boat action during the blockade of Cadiz was the most severe. While making an attempt against the Spanish gunboats, he was attacked by D. Miguel Tregayen, in an armed launch, carrying twenty-six men; fearful odds against his ten bargemen, captain, and coxswain. Eighteen Spaniards were killed, the rest wounded, and the launch captured.

The Spaniards were more than two to one, and yet he beat them; but it was a hard and desperate struggle, hand to hand and blade to blade. Twice did John Sykes, the coxswain, save Nelson's life, by parrying off blows that would have destroyed him, and once did he interpose his head to receive the blow of a Spanish sabre; but he would willingly have died for his admiral.

Poor Sykes was wounded badly, but not killed.

When Nelson's health was established after the loss of his arm, he sent to the minister of St. George's, Hanover Square, the following desire to offer up his thanksgiving: -- "An officer desires to return thanks to Almighty God for his perfect recovery from a severe wound, and also for the many mercies bestowed on him." Thus showing that he was humble enough to be thankful to God, and continued so in the midst of all his successes.

The following is an instance of his coolness in the hour of danger. The late Lieutenant-General the Hon. Sir William Stewart, as lieutenant-colonel of the rifle-brigade, embarked to do duty in the fleet which was led by Sir Hyde Parker and Nelson, to the attack of Copenhagen in 1801. "I was," says he, "with Lord Nelson when he wrote the note to the Crown Prince of Denmark, proposing terms of arrangement. A cannon ball struck off the head of the boy who was crossing the cabin with the light to seal it. "Bring another candle," said his lordship. I observed, that I thought it might very well be sent as it was, for it would not be expected that the usual forms could be observed at such a moment. "That is the very thing I should wish to avoid, Colonel," replied he, "for if the least appearance of precipitation were perceptible in the manner of sending this note, it might spoil all." Another candle being now brought, his lordship sealed the letter, carefully enclosed in an envelope, with a seal bearing his coat of arms and coronet, and delivered it to the officer in waiting to receive it. It is said that the moment was a critical one, and that Lord Nelson's note decided the event."

A seaman of the name of Hewson, who had served under Nelson, was working as a caster in a manufactory at Birmingham when Nelson visited that place. Among other manufactories, the admiral paid a visit to that where Hewson was at work as a brass-founder; and though no employment disfigures a workman more with smoke and dust than the process of casting, the quick eye of Nelson recognized in the caster an old associate. "What, Hewson, my lad," said he, "are you here?" Hewson laid hold of the hair that hung over his forehead, and making an awkward bow, replied, "Yes, your honor." "Why, how comes this about! You and I are old acquaintances; you were with me in the Captain when I boarded the San Joseph, were you not?" Hewson again laid hold of of his hair, and bowing, replied, "Yes, your honor." "I remember you well," said Nelson; "you were one of the cleverest fellows about the vessel! If any thing was to be done, Hewson was the lad to do. Why, what do you here, working like a negro? Take this," throwing him money, "and wash the dust down your throat."

Hewson withdrew to a neighboring alehouse, boasting of the character the admiral had given him. Month after month passed away, but Hewson returned not -- his shop-tools were abandoned, and no one could account for his absence. At length a stripling, in a sailor's jacket, entered the manufactory and said, "he was come to settle his father's affairs." This was no other than Hewson's son, from whose account it appeared, that when Hewson, somewhat elevated with liquor, but more with the praise the admiral had bestowed on him, quitted Birmingham, he walked his way down to Portsmouth, entered once more on board Lord Nelson's ship, and fell with him in the battle of Trafalgar.

At the battle of Trafalgar, Collingwood, in the Royal Sovereign, led the lee-line of fourteen ships, Nelson, in the Victory, was at the head of the weather-line, consisting of fourteen ships. Besides these there were four frigates.

The ships of France and Spain, opposed to the British, were in number thirty-three, with seven large frigates. The odds were great against the English, but the superior tactics, and well-known bravery of Nelson, clothed him with power, that more than made up the difference. When every thing was prepared for the engagement, Nelson retired into his cabin alone, and wrote down the following prayer.

"May the great God, whom I worship grant to my country, and for the benefit of Europe in general, a great and glorious victory, and may no misconduct in any one tarnish it, and may humanity after victory, be the predominant feature in the British fleet! For myself, individually, I commit my life to Him that made me; and may his blessing alight on my endeavors for serving my country faithfully! To him I resign myself, and the just cause which is entrusted to me to defend. Amen! Amen! Amen!"

He wore on the day of the battle his admiral's frock coat, and on his left breast, over his heart, four stars of the orders of honor, which had been conferred upon him. Those around thought it was dangerous to wear his stars, lest he should be too plainly seen by the enemy, but they were afraid to tell him so, because he had said, "In honor I gained them, and in honor I will die with them."

The effect produced by the signal given by Lord Nelson, "England expects every man to do his duty!" was wonderful; it ran from ship to ship, from man to man, from heart to heart, like a train of gunpowder. Officers and men seemed animated with one spirit, and that was a determination to win the day, or at least never to surrender to the enemy.

The captains commanded on their quarterdecks; the boatswains in the forecastle; the gunners attended to the magazines, and the carpenters with their plug-shots, put themselves in readiness with high-wrought energy, nor were the seamen and marines a whit behind hand in entering on their several duties. The guns, the tackle, the round, grape, and canister-shot, the powder-boys, the captains of guns, with their priming-boxes, and the officers with their drawn swords, cut an imposing appearance; and the cock-pit would have made a rudy face turn pale.

The wounded are all taken down into the cock-pit. It will hardly bear thinking about. But in the cockpit were laid out ready for use, wine, water, and surgeon's instruments, with napkins, basins, sponges, and bandages.

The combined fleets of France and Spain, at Trafalgar, under Villenueve, the French admiral, a brave and skilful man, were in the form of a crescent, and the two British lines ran down upon them parallel to each other. As soon as the British van was within gunshot the enemy opened their fire. The Royal Sovereign soon rounded to under the stern of the Santa Anna, and Admiral Nelson's ship, the Victory, laid herself on board the Redoubtable. From that moment the roaring of guns, the crash against the sides of the ships, clouds of smoke, splintered yards, and falling masts, were the order of the day.

The death warrant of the navy of France was signed and sealed by the fight of Trafalgar. In the heat of the action, a ball, fired from the mizzen-top of the Redoubtable, struck Admiral Nelson on the left shoulder, when he instantly fell. "They have done for me, at last, Hardy," said he, to his captain.

Though mortally wounded, he gave some necessary direction concerning the ship, and when carried below inquired earnestly how the battle went on. When he knew that the victory had been gained -- for twenty ships in all struck to the British admiral -- he expressed himself satisfied. "Now I am satisfied," said he; "thank God, I have done my duty!" Many times he repeated this expression, and "Thank God I have done my duty;" and "Kiss me, Hardy," were among the last words that were uttered by his lips. Thus, with a heart full of patriotism, died the bravest commander, the most vigilant seaman, and the most ardent friend of his country, that every led on a British fleet to victory.

Even amid the exultation of victory, a grateful country mourned his loss. A bountiful provision was made for his family; a public funeral was awarded to his remains, and monuments in the principal cities of his native land were erected to his memory. A sorrowing nation lamented over his bier, and Britania, indeed, felt that old England's defender was numbered with the dead.



Discovery Of The Pacific Ocean.


Vasco Nunes de Balboa, a Spaniard, as you see by his name, was born in 1475. He was one of the adventurers who pursued the path which Columbus had pointed out. He led a party of Spaniards, who going out from Darien founded a colony in the neighboring regions. Some gold being found the Spaniards got into a violent quarrel.

One of the Indian chiefs being present, was so disgusted at this, that he struck the scales with which they were weighing it so hard with his fist, that the gold was scattered all about.

"Why," said he, "do you quarrel for such a trifle? If you really value gold so highly, as to leave your own homes, and come and seize the lands and dwellings of others for the sake of it, I can tell you of a land where you may find it in plenty. Beyond those lofty mountains," said he, pointing to the south-west, "lies a mighty sea, which people sail on with vessels almost as big as yours. All the streams that flow from the other side of these mountains abound in gold, and all the utensils of the people are made of gold."

This was enough for Balboa. He inquired of the Indian the best way of getting across the mountains, to find this land of gold. The Indian kindly told him every thing he knew, but at the same time warned him not to go over there, for the Indians were many and were fierce, and would eat human flesh. But Balboa was not to be discouraged. He collected a band of one hundred and ninety bold and hardy men, armed with swords, targets, and cross-bows, and some blood-hounds, (for, strange to tell, the Spaniards had trained fierce dogs to hunt the Indians, and even the mild Bilboa was not ashamed to use them,) and so he set out on his expedition to the west.

Embarking with his men, September 1st, 1513, at the village of Darien, in a brigantine and nine large canoes, he sailed along the coast to the north-west, to Coyba, where the young Indian chief lived, and where the Isthmus of Darien is narrowest. He had taken a few friendly Indians with him, as guides; and the young chief furnished him with a few more on his arrival. Then leaving half his own men at Coyba, to guard the brigantine and canoes, he began his march for the mountains, and through the terrible wilderness.

It was the 6th of September. The heat was excessive, and the journey toilsome and difficult. They had to climb rocky precipices, struggle through close and tangled forests, and cross marshes, which the great rains had rendered almost impassable. September 8th, they passed an Indian village at the foot of the mountains, but the inhabitants did not molest them; on the contrary they fled into the forests.

Here some of the men became exhausted, from the great heat and travelling in the marshes. These were sent back, by slow marches, in the care of guides, to Coyba. On the 20th of September they again set forward.

The wilderness was so craggy, and the forest trees and underwood so matted together, that in four days they only advanced about thirty miles, and they now began to suffer from hunger. They also met with many rapid foaming streams, to cross some of which they had to stop and build rafts.

Now it was that they met with a numerous tribe of Indians, who, armed with bows and arrows, and clubs of palm wood, almost as hard as iron, gave them battle. But the Spaniards, although comparatively few in numbers, with their fire-arms and bloodhounds and the aid of the friendly Indians who were with them, soon put them to flight, and took possession of their village. Balboa's men robbed the village of all its gold and silver, and of every thing valuable in it; and even he himself, whose heart the love of gold had begun already to harden, shared with his men the plunder.

It was a dear bought victory, however; for though the Indians had lost six hundred of their number in the contest, they could easily recruit their forces. But Balboa, whose band was now reduced, by sickness and the contest, from ninety-five men to sixty-seven, had no means of adding to their strength, but was forced to proceed with what forces he had.

Early the next morning after the battle, they set out on their journey up the mountain. About ten o'clock they came out of the tangled forest, and reached an open space, where they enjoyed the cool breezes of the mountains. They now began to take a little courage. Their joy was heightened still more, when they heard one of the Indian guides exclaim, "The sea! the sea!"

Balboa commanded his men to stop; and resolving to be the first European who should behold this new sea, he forbade his men to stir from their places till he called them. Then ascending to the summit of the height, which the Indian had mounted, he beheld the sea glittering in the morning sun.

Calling now upon his little troop to ascend the height, and view the noble prospect along with him, "behold," said he, "the rich reward of our toil. This is a sight upon which no Spaniard's eye ever before rested." And in their great joy the leader and his men embraced each other.

Balboa then took possession of the sea and coast, and the surrounding country, in the name of the King of Spain; and having cut down a tree, and made it into the form of a cross -- for they were Catholics -- he set it up on the very spot where he first beheld the grand Pacific Ocean. He also made a high mound, by heaping up large stones, upon which he carved the king's name. This was on September 26th, 1513.

Not content with seeing the ocean, Balboa determined to visit it. Arriving, after much toil, at one of the bays on the coast, he called it St. Michael's Bay. Coming to a beach a mile or two long, "If this is a sea," said he, "it will soon be covered with water; let us wait and see if there be a tide." So he seated himself under a tree, and the water soon began to flow. He tasted it and found it salt; and then waded up to his knees in it, and took possession of it in the name of his king.

Balboa's heart was now so lifted up by success, and his whole nature so changed, that he was ready to fight and destroy every Indian tribe that opposed his progress. But he had not always the best of it. On one occasion he was lost, with one or two followers, and having been seized by some natives, carried immediately before their cazique, or chief. He was seated on a raised seat, covered with a panther's skin, and bore a single feather of the vulture upon his head. Beside him stood his slaves, to fan him, and screen his head from the sun, and around him warriors, with the sculls of their enemies fixed upon their spears: which made the whole scene very horrible.

Balboa humbled himself before the chief; and taking off his coat, profusely decorated, offered it as a peace offering. The cazique would not accept it, but said, "You are poor and desolate -- I am rich and powerful. I will not hurt you, though you are my enemy." He then ordered him safe conduct through the forests; and Balboa regained his own people, the Spaniards, in safety. This escape softened Balboa's heart, and he never afterwards treated the Indians with the same severity.

After many victories, and many other singular escapes, he returned back to Coyba. But the sufferings of his men, in returning, were extreme, for want both of water and provisions. The streams were most of them dried up, and provisions could not be found. Gold they indeed had, almost as much as they could carry, and the Indians kept bringing them more; but this they could not eat or drink, and it would not buy what was not to be bought.

He arrived at Darien after about two months' absence, having lost nearly all his men, by war and sickness. His discovery made a great noise, and procured him much honor, but he did not live to enjoy it.

A new governor was appointed in his place, who, having a mortal hatred to Balboa, threw him into prison, and, after a mock trial, had him beheaded, in 1517, in his 48th year.



Admiral Keppel And The Dey Of Algiers.


When Admiral Keppel was sent to the Dey of Algiers, to demand restitution of two ships which the pirates had taken, he sailed with his squadron into the Bay of Algiers, and cast anchor in front of the Dey's palace. He then landed, and, attended only by his captain and barge's crew, demanded an immediate audience of the Dey. This being granted, he claimed full satisfaction for the injuries done to the subjects of his Britannic Majesty. Surprised and enraged at the boldness of the admiral's remonstrance, the Dey exclaimed, "that he wondered at the English King's insolence in sending him a foolish, beardless boy." A well-timed reply from the admiral made the Dey forget the laws of all nations in respect to ambassadors, and he ordered his mutes to attend with the bow-string, at the same time telling the admiral he should pay for his audacity with his life. Unmoved by this menace, the admiral took the Dey to the window facing the bay, and showed him the English fleet riding at anchor, and told him that if he dared put him to death there were men enough in that fleet to make him a glorious funeral-pile. The Dey was wise enough to take the hint. The admiral obtained ample restitution, and came off in safety.



Loss Of The Cataraque.


The Cataraque, Captain C.W. Findlay, sailed from Liverpool, on the 20th of April, 1849, with three hundred and sixty emigrants, and a crew including two doctors, (brothers,) of forty-six souls. The emigrants were principally from Bedfordshire, Staffordshire, Yorkshire, and Northamptonshire. About one hundred and twenty of the passengers were married, with families, and in all seventy-three children.

On the 3d of August, at seven o'clock in the evening, the ship was hove to, and continued lying to until three A.M. of the 4th. At half past four, being quite dark, and raining hard, blowing a fearful gale, the ship struck on a reef, situated on the west coast of King's Island, at the entrance of Bass's Straights.

Immediately after the ship struck, she was sounded, and it was ascertained that there was four feet of water in the hold. An awful scene of confusion and misery ensued. All the passengers attempted to rush upon deck, and many succeeded in doing so, until the heaving of the vessel knocked down the ladders, when the shrieks from below, calling on those on deck to assist them were terrific. The crew were on deck the moment the ship struck, and were instantly employed in handing up the passengers. Up to the time the vessel began breaking up, the crew succeeded in getting upwards of three hundred passengers on deck. But a terrible fate awaited the greater part of them.

The day dawned. The stern of the vessel was found to be washed in, and numerous dead bodies were found floating round the ship; some clinging to the rocks which they had grasped in despair. About two hundred of the passengers and crew held on to the vessel, although the raging sea was breaking over her, and every wave washed some of them to a watery grave. In this manner, kindred were separated, while those who remained could only expect the same fate to reach them. Things continued in this condition until four in the afternoon, when the vessel parted amidships, at the fore part of the main rigging, and immediately between seventy and a hundred persons were thrown into the waves. Thus the insatiable ocean swallowed its prey piece-meal. About five, the wreck parted by the fore-rigging, and so many persons were thrown into the sea, that only seventy were left on the forecastle, they being lashed to the wreck. Even these were gradually diminished in number, some giving out from exhaustion, and others anticipating fate, by drowning themselves.

When day dawned, on the following morning, only about thirty persons were left alive, and these were almost exhausted. The sea was making a clean breach into the forecastle, the deck of which was rapidly breaking up. Parents and children, husbands and wives, were seen floating around the vessel, many in an embrace, which even the ocean's power could not sunder. The few who remained alive could only look up to heaven for a hope of safety. Soon after daylight, the vessel totally disappeared, and out of four hundred and twenty-three persons who had been on board the vessel, only nine were saved by being washed on shore, and these were nearly exhausted.



Loss Of The Francis Spaight.


On the morning of the 7th of January, 1848, the barque Francis Spaight, lying in Table Bay, at the Cape of Good Hope, parted her anchor, and in attempting to beat out, grounded, broadside on the beach. The gale at the time she struck was furious, and the surf tremendous, making a clean breach over the vessel, carrying away the bulwark, long boat, main hatch, and part of the deck, with one of the crew.

The shore was thronged with the inhabitants of Cape Town, anxious for the fate of the vessel. An attempt was made to send a rope from the land to the wreck, but the rope broke. Rockets were fired with lines attached, and one was thrown across the foremast stay, where none of the men could reach it, on account of the fearful rolling of the sea. After some extraordinary delay, a whale boat was brought from the town, and manned by six daring fellows, who dashed through the surf, and were soon alongside the vessel.

All except the carpenter, fifteen in number, got into the boat, and pushed off. At this moment a terrific sea upset the boat, and twenty-one persons were struggling in the surf for life. The people on the beach were horror-stricken; and men on horseback were seen plunging into the sea, risking their lives to save their fellow-creatures; but eighteen sunk to rise no more. The masts of the vessel fell with a tremendous crash, but the carpenter still clung to the wreck. At length a surf-boat, towed by a smaller one, proceeded towards the wreck. One of these boats was capsized, and two lives lost. But the carpenter was rescued. This man, (James Robertson,) and John McLeod, seaman, were all of the crew that reached the shore. The inhabitants of Cape Town were all anxiety in regard to the fate of the vessel; and those daring heroes who sacrificed themselves for the sake of their fellow men were worthy of a monument as lofty as those erected to the bravest warriors.

The place where the Francis Spaight went ashore had been, a short time previous, the scene of a far more terrible disaster. This was the wreck of the ship Waterloo, by which two hundred persons were lost, in spite of the most extraordinary and heroic exertions on the part of the inhabitants of Cape Town.

The bay is very much exposed to storms, and its shores are particulary dangerous, on account of their shelving character. The Francis Spaight had just put into the bay for the purpose of obtaining a supply of provisions, and it was intended that she should sail the next day. But the Ruler of the elements intended it otherwise. Her cargo was nearly a total loss.



Loss Of The Golden Rule.


The ship Golden Rule, Captain Austin, sailed from Wiscasset, with a cargo of timber, September, 8, 1807.

On the 29th, she experienced a severe gale from the south-east; and at eight o'clock, A.M., they discovered that she had sprung a leak, and had four feet of water in her hold; at nine it had increased to eight feet, notwithstanding they had two pumps going, and were throwing her deck load overboard, which they were enabled to do very slowly, from the sea driving the planks about the deck, and wounding the crew.

About ten o'clock, the water had risen to twelve feet, and the gale had also evidently increased; the crew and all on board were quite exhausted; and on going into the cabin they found she was welling fast. The main and mizzen masts were now cut away, to prevent her upsetting, and she was quite clear of her deck load. At eleven o'clock she was full up to her main deck, and all her bulk heads were knocked away.

It now occurred to some of the crew, to endeavor to save some bread; and Mr. Boyd, the first mate, with great resolution, went into the cabin and gave out some bread, and two bottles of rum; but so rapidly did she fill, from the timber of her cargo shifting, that he was forced to break through the sky-light to save himself. Their small stock of provisions was now put into the binnacle, as a secure place. It had been there but a few minutes, when a tremendous sea struck them, and carried away the binnacle.

They had now little hope left -- the wheel was broken, and they proceeded to secure themselves as well as they could, some in the fore-top, and the rest were lashing themselves to the taffrail; before they could accomplish the latter plan, another sea, if possible, more heavy than the former, hurried them all from their places, and washed two of the men overboard; they were seen swimming for the ship, a short time, when a wave hurried them from the sight of their lamenting comrades.

They now endeavored to keep the ship before the wind, which they were partially enabled to do through the night. The next day another man died from cold and hunger.

The deck was now blown up, and her side stove in, all hands had given themselves up, when, on the 30th at noon, they were roused by the cry of "a sail!" and they had the satisfaction to see her bear down for them. She was the brig George, of Portland; and Captain Wildridge sent his long-boat to take them from the wreck.



Dangers Of Whaling Ships Among Ice Bergs.


The masses of ice by which the ocean is traversed assume a vast variety of shapes, but may be comprehended in two general classes. The first consists of sheets of ice, analogous to those which annually cover the the lakes and rivers of northern lands. They present a surface which is generally level, but here and there diversified by projections, called hummocks, which arise from the ice having been thrown up by some pressure or force to which it has been subject. Sheets of ice, which are so large that their whole extent of surface cannot be seen from the masthead of a vessel, are called fields. They have sometimes an area of more than a hundred square miles, and rise above the level of the sea from two to eight feet. When a piece of ice, though of a considerable size, can be distinguished in its extent, it is termed a floe. A number of sheets, large or small, joining each other, and stretching out in any particular direction, constitute a stream. Captain Cook found a stream extending across Behring's Straits, connecting eastern Asia with the western extremity of North America. Owing to the vast extent of some fields of ice, they would undoubtedly be conducted to a lower latitude in the Atlantic before their dissolution, under the influence of a warmer climate, but for the intervention of other causes. It frequently happens that two masses are propelled against each other, and are both shivered into fragments by the violence of the concussion. The ordinary swell of the ocean also acts with tremendous power upon a large tract, especially when it has been so thawed as to have become thin, and breaks it up into a thousand smaller pieces in a very short period. The danger of being entrapped between two ice-fields coming into contact with each other is one of the perils which the navigator has frequently to encounter in the northern seas; and fatal to his vessel and his life has the occurrence often been, while in a vast number of instances escape has seemed almost miraculous.

"At half-past six," says Captain Ross, relating to his first voyage of discovery, in the Isabella, to the arctic regions, with Captain Parry, in the Alexander, "the ice began to move, and, the wind increasing to a gale, the only chance left for us was to endeavor to force the ship through it to the north, where it partially opened; but the channel was so much obstructed by heavy fragments, that our utmost efforts were ineffectual; the ice closed in upon us, and at noon we felt its pressure most severely. A large floe, which lay on one side of the Isabella, appeared to be fixed; while, on the other side, another of considerable bulk was passing along with a rapid motion, assuming a somewhat circular direction, in consequence of one side having struck on the fixed field. The pressure continuing to increase, it became doubtful whether the ship would be able to sustain it; every support threatened to give way, the beams in the hold began to bend, and the iron tanks settled together.

"At this critical moment, when it seemed impossible for us to bear the accumulating pressure much longer, the hull rose several feet; while the ice, which was more than six feet thick, broke against the sides, curling back on itself. The great stress now fell upon our bow; and, after being again lifted up, we were carried with great violence towards the Alexander which had hitherto been, in a great measure, defended by the Isabella. Every effort to avoid their getting foul of each other failed; the ice-anchors and cables broke one after another; and the sterns of the two ships came so violently into contact, as to crush to pieces a boat that could not be removed in time. The collision was tremendous, the anchors and chain-plates being broken, and nothing less than the loss of the masts expected; but at this eventful instant, by the interposition of Providence, the force of the ice seemed exhausted; the two fields suddenly receded, and we passed the Alexander with comparatively little damage. A clear channel soon after opened, and we ran into a pool, thus escaping the immediate danger; but the fall of snow being very heavy, our situation still remained doubtful, nor could we conjecture whether we were yet in a place of safety. Neither the masters, the mates, nor those men who had been all their lives in the Greenland service, had ever experienced such imminent peril; and they declared, that a common whaler must have been crushed to atoms."

Captain Scoresby relates a similar narrow escape from destruction owing to the same cause. "In the year 1804," he observes, "I had an opportunity of witnessing the effects produced by the lesser masses in motion. Passing between two fields of ice newly formed, about a foot in thickness, they were observed rapidly to approach each other, and, before our ship could pass the strait, they met with a velocity of three or four miles per hour. The one overlaid the other, and presently covered many acres of surface. The ship proving an obstacle to the course of the ice, it squeezed up on both sides, shaking her in a dreadful manner, and producing a loud grinding or lengthened acute trembling noise, according as the degree of pressure was diminished or increased, until it had risen as high as the deck. After about two hours the motion ceased, and soon afterwards the two sheets of ice receded from each other nearly as rapidly as they had before advanced. The ship in this case did not receive any injury; but, had the ice only been half a foot thicker, she might have been wrecked." Other navigators have not been so fortunate; and the annual loss of whaling vessels in the polar seas is considerable, the Dutch having had as many as seventy-three sail of ships wrecked in one season. Between the years 1669 and 1778, both inclusive, or a period of one hundred and seven years, they sent to the Greenland fishery fourteen thousand one hundred and sixty-seven ships, of which five hundred and sixty-one, or about four in the hundred, were lost.

Every one will remember the intense and mournful interest occasioned by the loss of the President steamer which left New York in the year 1841 to cross the Atlantic, but perished in the passage, without leaving a survivor to tell the story of her fate. It has been deemed highly probable that this vessel got entangled in the ice, and was destroyed by collision with its masses; for during that year, in the month of April, the Great Western steamer encountered a field extending upwards of a hundred miles in one direction, surrounded with an immense number of floes and bergs, and had great difficulty in effecting its passage by this floating continent in safety.

Another form under which the ice appears in the ocean is that of bergs, which differ from the ice-fields in shape and origin. They are masses projecting to a great height above the surface of the water, and have the appearance of chalk or marble cliffs and mountains upon the deep. They have been seen with an elevation of two hundred feet -- a circumference of two miles: and it has been shown by experiments on the buoyancy of ice floating in sea water, that the proportion above the surface is only about one-seventh of the thickness of the whole mass. During the first expedition of Ross, he found an ice berg in Baffin's Bay, at a distance of seven leagues from the land, which was measured by a party under Lieutenant Parry. Considerable difficulty was experienced in the attempt to land, as, in rowing round the berg, they found it perpendicular in every place but one. When they had ascended to the top, which was perfectly flat, they discovered a white bear in quiet possession of the mass, who plunged into the sea without hesitation, and effected his escape. The party found the ice berg to be four thousand one hundred and sixty-nine yards long, three thousand eight hundred and sixty-nine yards broad, and fifty-one feet high, being aground in sixty-one fathoms. Its appearance was like that of the back of the Isle of Wight, and the cliffs resembled those of the chalk range to the west of Dover. The weight of this mass was calculated to amount to one billion two hundred and ninety two millions three hundred and ninety seven thousand six hundred and seventy-three tons.

An ice berg examined by Captain Graah, on the east coast of Greenland, rose one hundred and twenty feet out of the water, had a circumference of four thousand feet at the base, and its solid contents were estimated to be upwards of nine hundred millions of cubic feet. When viewed at a distance, nothing can be more interesting than the appearance of a considerable number of these formations, exhibiting an infinite variety of shape, and requiring no stretch of imagination to convert them into a series of floating towers, castles, churches, obelisks, and pyramids, or a snowy range of Alpine heights. No pencil, an observer has remarked, has ever given any thing like the true effect of an ice berg. In a picture they are huge, uncouth masses, stuck in the sea; while their chief beauty and grandeur -- their slow stately motion, the whirling of the snow about their summits, and the fearful crackling of their parts -- they cannot give. The ice of the bergs is compact and solid, or of a fine green tint verging to blue; and large pieces may be frequently obtained, equal to the most beautiful crystal in transparency. It is stated by Scoresby, that with a portion of this ice, of by no means regular convexity, used as a burning lens, he has frequently burnt wood, fired gunpowder, melted lead, and lit the sailors' pipes, to their no small astonishment, the ice itself remaining in the mean while perfectly fixed and pellucid.



Massacre Of The Crew Of The Atahualpa.


The Atahualpa, of Boston, left that port in August, 1803, bound to the north-west coast of America, for the purpose of trading with the natives. She arrived on the coast in the month of January, 1804; and, after visiting the several islands, and purchasing skins, on the 5th of June, 1805, weighed anchor from Chockokee, on the north-west coast, and made sail. On the 8th, arrived at Millbank sound, and came to an anchor within musket-shot of the village. Soon after her arrival, the chief of the Indians, by the name of Keite, came off to the ship, with some of his tribe, and informed the captain that the Caroline, Captain Sturgess, had sailed from thence ten days before.

On the 11th, the chief came off again, with his tribe, and another tribe that was there, and traded very briskly till towards night, when becoming very insolent, they were all turned out of the ship.

On the 13th, Keite and his tribe came on board in the morning, and seemed much more desirous to trade than before, which Captain Porter was very glad to see. The chief mate and two of the ship's company, were then engaged in ripping the main-sail in pieces, on the quarter-deck; the second mate with two hands was repairing the top-sail; two on the starboard side of the main-deck, spinning spun yarn; two more on the forecastle, making sinnet; two more on the larboard side of the main-deck, running shot in the armorer's forge; the cooper was making tubs; the cook, and captain's steward in the galley, at their duty; and all hands, as usual, employed on the ship's duty; the armorer was in the steerage, and the boatswain in the cabin; Captain Porter, Mr. Ratstraw, his clerk, and Mr. Lyman Plummer, (nephew of Theodore Lyman, Esq. of Boston, ship owner,) were standing on the larboard side of the quarter-deck, abreast of the cabin hatchway.

The chief, Keite, stood leaning on the rail, and called Captain Porter to look at the skins that were in the canoe, alongside the ship; the captain accordingly went to look over the side, when the chief, with some more Indians, laid hold of him, and gave a shout. Immediately all the Indians alongside of the canoe, and those on board, armed with daggers, pistols, pikes, and other weapons, seized every man on deck, who were totally unprepared for so sudden an attack. A most dreadful and sanguinary contest immediately took place; when, after a short but bloody engagement of about five minutes, the deck was immediately cleared of them.

There were about two hundred Indians, it is supposed, on board at this time; they first daggered Captain Porter several times in the back, put him in a canoe alongside, and carried him on shore; and, as we were afterwards informed by Captain Smith, of the ship Mary, of Boston, who was informed by the New Hecta tribe, was by them tied to a tree, in which unhappy and miserable situation he languished fifteen days, refusing every species of nourishment offered him by these savages, occasioned by his grief at this unfortunate accident.

Previous to this fatal business, there were twenty-three hands on board; ten of whom were barbarously killed, and nine wounded. Among the killed were, Captain Oliver Porter, Mr. John Hill, chief mate; Daniel Gooding, second mate; John D. Katstraw, captain's clerk; Mr. Lyman Plummer, Peter Shooner, Luther Lapham, Samuel Lapham, seamen; Isaac Lammes, cooper; and John Williams, cook. Mr. Lyman Plummer survived about two hours after he was wounded. The cook, who was most shockingly cut and mangled, languished till about six o'clock the next morning.

Among the wounded were, Ebenezer Baker, seaman, most dangerously, with daggers, he having two stabs in his left thigh, one in his groin, one in his back, one in his breast, and one in his neck; Henry Thompson, seaman, very dangerously, with daggers, having one wound on the right side, one on the left shoulder, another on the left arm, and two or three smaller ones on the same arm, one on the right temple, and another on the left cheek; Ebenezer Williams, seaman, had three wounds in his thigh, with daggers, -- two on his back, and one on the right shoulder with a boarding-pike; Luke Bates, seamen, one wound on the right shoulder with a boarding-pike; Joseph Robinson, carpenter, wounded on the left breast; Thomas Edwards, steward, stabbed on the left shoulder; W. Walker had two stabs, with daggers, in his back.

After the deck was cleared of these sanguinary savages, several guns were fired at the village, the sails were loosened, stream-cable cut, and the ship put to sea. The same night they got under weigh, seven large war-canoes hove in sight, with about thirty Indians in each. In this deplorable condition, with only four or five hands on board capable of duty, the Atahualpa shaped her course for New Heita; but the wind chopping round, put about, and stood to the westward.

On the 17th, it was thought time to bury the dead, when, after having sewed them up, and got them ready for interment, prayers were read. They were then buried in Queen Charlotte's Sound.

It cannot be ascertained with any degree of accuracy, how many of the Indians were killed in this dreadful contest. It is supposed, however, that the number must have exceeded forty; for a large canoe being under the ship's bow, with about twenty Indians in her, who were cutting a cable, a swivel and several muskets were fired into her, and but one of the Indians reached the shore in safety.

During the conflict with the savages, there were two barrels of powder unheaded, and a loaded pistol prepared and given to a person who stood ready, should they get into the cabin, and secure to themselves the ship, to fire into it, and blow the whole up, preferring to die in that manner rather than fall into the hands of such merciless wretches.



Shipwreck Of The Blendenhall.


In the year 1821, the Blendenhall, free trader, bound from England for Bombay, partly laden with broad-cloths, was proceeding on her voyage with every prospect of a successful issue. While thus pursuing her way through the Atlantic, she was unfortunately driven from her course, by adverse winds and currents, more to the southward and westward than was required, and it became desirable to reach the island of Tristan d'Acunha, in order to ascertain and rectify the reckoning. This island, which is called after the Portuguese admiral who first discovered it, is one of a group of three, the others being the Inaccessible and Nightingale Islands, situated many hundreds of miles from any land, and in a south-westerly direction from the Cape of Good Hope. The shores are rugged and precipitous in the extreme, and form, perhaps, the most dangerous coast upon which any vessel could be driven.

It was while steering to reach this group of islands, that, one morning, a passenger on board the Blendenhall, who chanced to be upon deck earlier than usual, observed great quantities of sea-weed occasionally floating alongside. This excited some alarm, and a man was immediately sent aloft to keep a good look-out. The weather was then extremely hazy, though moderate; the weeds continued; all were on the alert; they shortened sail, and the boatswain piped for breakfast. In less than ten minutes, "breakers ahead!" startled every soul, and in a moment all were on deck. "Breakers starboard! breakers larboard! breakers all around," was the ominous cry a moment afterwards, and all was confusion. The words were scarcely uttered, when, and before the helm was up, the ill-fated ship struck, and after a few tremendous shocks against the sunken reef, she parted about mid-ship. Ropes and stays were cut away -- all rushed forward, as if instinctively, and had barely reached the forecastle, when the stern and quarter-deck broke asunder with a violent crash, and sunk to rise no more. Two of the seamen miserably perished -- the rest, including officers, passengers and crew, held on about the head and bows -- the struggle was for life!

At this moment, the Inaccessible Island, which till then had been veiled in thick clouds and mist, appeared frowning above the haze. The wreck was more than two miles from the frightful shore. The base of the island was still buried in impenetrable gloom. In this perilous extremity, one was for cutting away the anchor, which had been got up to the cat-head in time of need; another was for cutting down the foremast (the foretop-mast being already by the board.) The fog totally disappeared, and the black rocky island stood in all its rugged deformity before their eyes. Suddenly the sun broke out in full splendor, as if to expose more clearly to the view of the sufferers their dreadful predicament. Despair was in every bosom -- death, arrayed in all its terrors, seemed to hover over the wreck. But exertion was required, and every thing that human energy could devise was effected. The wreck, on which all eagerly clung, was fortunately drifted by the tide and wind between ledges of sunken rocks and thundering breakers, until, after the lapse of several hours, it entered the only spot on the island where a landing was possibly practicable, for all the other parts of the coast consisted of perpendicular cliffs of granite, rising from amidst the deafening surf to the height of twenty, forty, and sixty feet. As the shore was neared, a raft was prepared, and on this a few paddled for the cove. At last the wreck drove right in: ropes were instantly thrown out, and the crew and passengers, (except two who had been crushed in the wreck,) including three ladies and a female attendant, were snatched from the watery grave, which a few short hours before had appeared inevitable, and safely landed on the beach. Evening had now set in, and every effort was made to secure whatever could be saved from the wreck. Bales of cloth, cases of wine, a few boxes of cheese, some hams, the carcass of a milch cow that had been washed on shore, buckets, tubs, butts, a seaman's chest, (containing a tinder-box and needles and thread,) with a number of elegant mahogany turned bed-posts, and part of an investment for the India market, were got on shore. The rain poured down in torrents -- all hands were busily at work to procure shelter from the weather; and with the bed-posts and broad-cloths, and part of the foresail, as many tents were soon pitched as there were individuals on the island.

Drenched with the sea and with the rain, hungry, cold, and comfortless, thousands of miles from their native land, almost beyond expectation of human succor, hope nearly annihilated, -- the shipwrecked voyagers retired to their tents. In the morning the wreck had gone to pieces; and planks, and spars, and whatever had floated in, were eagerly dragged on shore. No sooner was the unfortunate ship broken up, than deeming themselves freed from the bonds of authority, many began to secure whatever came to land: and the captain, officers, passengers, and crew, were now reduced to the same level, and obliged to take their turn to fetch water, and explore the island for food. The work of exploring was soon over -- there was not a bird, nor a quadruped, nor a single tree to be seen. All was barren and desolate. The low parts were scattered over with stones and sand, and a few stunted weeds, rocks, ferns, and other plants. The top of the mountain was found to consist of a fragment of original table-land, very marshy, and full of deep sloughs, intersected with small rills of water, pure and pellucid as crystal, and a profusion of wild parsley and celery. The prospect was one dreary scene of destitution, without a single ray of hope to relieve the misery of the desponding crew. After some days, the dead cow, hams, and cheese, were consumed; and from one end of the island to the other, not a morsel of food could be seen. Even the celery began to fail. A few bottles of wine, which, for security had been secreted under ground, only remained. Famine now began to threaten. Every stone near the sea was examined for shell-fish, but in vain.

In this dreadful extremity, and while the half-famished seamen were at night squatting in sullen dejection round their fires, a large lot of sea-birds, allured by the flames, rushed into the midst of them, and were greedily laid hold of as fast as they could be seized. For several nights in succession, similar flocks came in; and by multiplying their fires a considerable supply was secured. These visits, however, ceased at length, and the wretched party were exposed again to the most severe privation. When their stock of wild fowl had been exhausted for more than two days, each began to fear they were now approaching that sad point of necessity, when, between death and casting lots who should be sacrificed to serve for food for the rest, no alternative remained. While horror at the bare contemplation of an extremity so repulsive occupied the thoughts of all, the horizon was observed to be suddenly obscured, and presently clouds of penguin alighted on the island. The low grounds were actually covered; and before the evening was dark, the sand could not be seen for the number of eggs, which, like a sheet of snow, lay on the surface of the earth. The penguins continued on the island four or five days, when, as if by signal, the whole took their flight, and were never seen again. A few were killed, but the flesh was so extremely rank and nauseous that it could not be eaten. The eggs were collected and dressed in all manner of ways, and supplied abundance of food for upwards of three weeks. At the expiration of that period, famine once more seemed inevitable; the third morning began to dawn upon the unfortunate company after their stock of eggs were exhausted; they had now been without food for more than forty hours, and were fainting and dejected; when, as though this desolate rock were really a land of miracles, a man came running up to the encampment with the unexpected and joyful tidings that "millions of sea-cows had come on shore." The crew climbed over the ledge of rocks that flanked their tents, and the sight of a shoal of manatees immediately beneath them gladdened their hearts. These came in with the flood, and were left in the puddles between the broken rocks of the cove. This supply continued for two or three weeks. The flesh was mere blubber, and quite unfit for food, for not a man could retain it on his stomach; but the liver was excellent, and on this they subsisted. In the meantime, the carpenter with his gang had constructed a boat, and four of the men had adventured in her for Tristan d'Acunha, in hopes of ultimately extricating their fellow-sufferers from their perilous situation. Unfortunately the boat was lost -- whether carried away by the violence of the currents that set in between the islands, or dashed to pieces against the breakers, was never known, for no vestige of the boat or crew was ever seen. Before the manatees, however, began to quit the shore, a second boat was launched; and in this an officer and some seamen made a second attempt, and happily succeeded in effecting a landing, after much labor, on the island, where they were received with much cordiality and humanity by Governor Glass -- a personage whom it will be necessary to describe.

Tristan d'Acunha is believed to have been uninhabited until 1811, when three Americans took up their residence upon it, for the purpose of cultivating vegetables, and selling the produce, particularly potatoes, to vessels which might touch there on their way to India, the Cape, or other parts in the southern ocean. These Americans remained its only inhabitants till 1816, when, on Bonaparte being sent to St. Helena, the British government deemed it expedient to garrison the island, and sent the Falmouth man-of-war with a colony of forty persons, which arrived in the month of August. At this time the chief of the American settlers was dead, and two only survived; but what finally became of these we are not informed. The British garrison was soon given up, the colony abandoned, and all returned to the Cape of Good Hope, except a person named Glass, a Scotchman, who had been corporal of artillery, and his wife, a Cape Creole. One or two other families afterwards joined them, and thus the foundation of a nation on a small scale was formed; Mr. Glass, with the title and character of governor, like a second Robinson Crusoe, being the undisputed chief and lawgiver of the whole. On being visited in 1825, by Mr. Augustus Earle, the little colony was found to be on the increase, a considerable number of children having been born since the period of settlement. The different families inhabited a small village, consisting of cottages covered with thatch made of the long grass of the island, and exhibiting an air of comfort, cleanliness, and plenty, truly English.

It was to this island that the boat's crew of the Blendenhall had bent their course, and its principal inhabitant, Governor Glass, showed them every mark of attention, not only on the score of humanity, but because they were fellow-subjects of the same power -- for, be it known, Glass did not lay claim to independent monarchy, but always prayed publicly for King George as his lawful sovereign. On learning the situation of the crew, on Inaccessible Island, he instantly launched his boat, and unawed by considerations of personal danger, hastened, at the risk of his life, to deliver his shipwrecked countrymen from the calamities they had so long endured. He made repeated trips, surmounted all difficulties, and fortunately succeeded in safely landing them on his own island, after they had been exposed for nearly three months to the horrors of a situation almost unparalleled in the recorded sufferings of seafaring men.

After being hospitably treated by Glass and his company for three months, the survivors obtained a passage to the Cape, all except a young sailor named White, who had formed an attachment to one of the servant girls on board, and who, in all the miseries which had been endured, had been her constant protector and companion; whilst gratitude on her part prevented her wishing to leave him. Both chose to remain, and were forthwith adopted as free citizens of the little community.



Shipwreck Of The Medusa.


On the 17th of June, 1816, the Medusa, French frigate, commanded by Captain Chaumareys, and accompanied by three smaller vessels, sailed from the island of Aix, for the coast of Africa, in order to take possession of some colonies. The first accident she encountered was off Cape Finisterre, when one of the crew fell into the sea; and from the apathy of his companions, their want of promptitude in manoeuvring, with the want of every precaution, he was left to perish. On the tenth day of sailing, there appeared an error of thirty leagues in the reckoning. On the 1st of July, they entered the tropics; and there, with a childish disregard to danger, and knowing that she was surrounded by all the unseen perils of the ocean, her crew performed the ceremony usual to the occasion, while the vessel was running headlong on destruction. The captain, presided over the disgraceful scene of merriment, leaving the ship to the command of a Mons. Richefort, who had passed the ten preceding years of his life in an English prison -- a few persons on board remonstrated in vain; though it was ascertained that they were on the banks of Arguise, she continued her course, and heaved the lead, without slackening the sail. Every thing denoted shallow water, but M. Richefort persisted in saying that they were in one hundred fathoms. At that very moment only six fathoms were found; and the vessel struck three times, being in about sixteen feet water, and the tide full flood. At ebb-tide, there remained but twelve feet water; and after some bungling manoeuvres, all hope of getting the ship off was abandoned.

When the frigate struck, she had on board six boats, of various capacities, all of which could not contain the crew and passengers; and a raft was constructed. A dreadful scene ensued. All scrambled out of the wreck without order or precaution. The first who reached the boats refused to admit any of their fellow-sufferers into them, though there was ample room for more. Some, apprehending that a plot had been formed to abandon them in the vessel, flew to arms. No one assisted his companions; and Captain Chaumareys stole out of a port-hole into his own boat, leaving a great part of the crew to shift for themselves. At length they put off to sea, intending to steer for the sandy coast of the desert, there to land, and thence to proceed with a caravan to the island of St. Louis.

The raft had been constructed without foresight or intelligence. It was about sixty-five feet long and twenty-five broad, but the only part which could be depended upon was the middle; and that was so small, that fifteen persons could not lie down upon it. Those who stood on the floor were in constant danger of slipping through between the planks; the sea flowed in on all its sides. When one hundred and fifty passengers who were destined to be its burden, were on board, they stood like a solid parallelogram, without a possibility of moving; and they were up to their waists in water. The original plan was, that as much provision as possible should be put upon this raft; that it should be taken in tow by the six boats; and that, at stated intervals, the crews should come on board to receive their rations. As they left the ship, M. Correard asked whether the charts, instruments, and sea-stores were on board; and was told by an officer, that nothing was wanting. "And who is to command us?" "I am to command you," answered he, "and will be with you in a moment." The officer with these words, the last in his mouth, went on board one of the boats, and returned no more.

The desperate squadron had only proceeded three leagues, when a faulty, if not treacherous manoeuvre, broke the tow-line which fastened the captain's boat to the raft; and this became the signal to all to let loose their cables. The weather was calm. The coast was known to be but twelve or fifteen leagues distant; and the land was in fact discovered by the boats on the very evening on which they abandoned the raft. They were not therefore driven to this measure by any new perils; and the cry of "Nous les abandonons!" which resounded throughout the line, was the yell of a spontaneous and instinctive impulse of cowardice, perfidy, and cruelty; and the impulse was as unanimous as it was diabolical. The raft was left to the mercy of the waves; one after another, the boats disappeared, and despair became general. Not one of the promised articles, no provisions, except a very few casks of wine, and some spoiled biscuit, sufficient for one single meal was found. A small pocket compass, which chance had discovered, their last guide in a trackless ocean, fell between the beams into the sea. As the crew had taken no nourishment since morning, some wine and biscuit were distributed; and this day, the first of thirteen on the raft, was the last on which they tasted any solid food -- except such as human nature shudders at. The only thing which kept them alive was the hope of revenge on those who had treacherously betrayed them.

The first night was stormy; and the waves, which had free access, committed dreadful ravages, and threatened worse. When day appeared, twelve miserable wretches were found crushed to death between the openings of the raft, and several more were missing; but the number could not be ascertained, as several soldiers had taken the billets of the dead, in order to obtain two, or even three rations. The second night was still more dreadful, and many were washed off; although the crew had so crowded together, that some were smothered by the mere pressure. To soothe their last moments, the soldiers drank immoderately; and one, who affected to rest himself upon the side, but was treacherously cutting the ropes, was thrown into the sea. Another whom M. Correard had snatched from the waves, turned traitor a second time, as soon as he had recovered his senses; but he too was killed. At length the revolted, who were chiefly soldiers, threw themselves upon their knees, and abjectly implored mercy. At midnight, however, they rebelled again. Those who had no arms, fought with their teeth, and thus many severe wounds were inflicted. One was most wantonly and dreadfully bitten above the heel, while his companions were beating him upon the head with their carbines, before throwing him into the sea. The raft was strewed with dead bodies, after innumerable instances of treachery and cruelty; and from sixty to sixty-five perished that night. The force and courage of the strongest began to yield to their misfortunes; and even the most resolute labored under mental derangement. In the conflict, the revolted had thrown two casks of wine, and all the remaining water, into the sea; and it became necessary to diminish each man's share.

A day of comparative tranquility succeeded. The survivors erected their mast again, which had been wantonly cut down in the battle of the night; and endeavored to catch some fish, but in vain. They were reduced to feed on the dead bodies of their companions. A third night followed, broken by the plaintive cries of wretches, exposed to every kind of suffering, ten or twelve of whom died of want, and awfully foretold the fate of the remainder. The following day was fine. Some flying fish were caught in the raft; which, mixed up with human flesh, afforded one scanty meal.

A new insurrection to destroy the raft, broke out on the fourth night; this too, was marked by perfidy, and ended in blood. Most of the rebels were thrown into the sea. The fifth morning mustered but thirty men alive; and these sick and wounded, with the skin of their lower extremities corroded by the salt water. Two soldiers were detected drinking the wine of the only remaining cask; they were instantly thrown into the sea. One boy died, and there remained only twenty-seven; of whom fifteen only seemed likely to live. A council of war, preceded by the most horrid despair, was held; as the weak consumed a part of the common store, they determined to throw them into the sea. This sentence was put into immediate execution! and all the arms on board, which now filled their minds with horror, were, with the exception of a single sabre, committed to the deep.

Distress and misery increased with an accelerated ratio; and even after the desperate measure of destroying their companions, and eating the most nauseous aliments, the surviving fifteen could not hope for more than a few days' existence. A butterfly lighted on their sail the ninth day, and though it was held to be a messenger of good, yet many a greedy eye was cast upon it. Some sea-fowl also appeared; but it was impossible to catch them. The misery of the survivors increased with a rapidity which cannot be described; they even stole from each other little goblets of urine which had been set to cool in the sea water, and were now considered a luxury. The most trifling article of food, a lemon, a small bottle of spirituous dentrifice, a little garlic, became causes of contention; and every daily distribution of wine awakened a spirit of selfishness and ferocity, which common sufferings and common interest could not subdue into more social feelings.

Three days more passed over in expressible anguish, when they constructed a smaller and more manageable raft, in the hope of directing it to the shore; but on trial it was found insufficient. On the seventeenth day, a brig was seen; which, after exciting the vicissitudes of hope and fear, proved to be the Argus, sent out in quest of the Medusa. The inhabitants of the raft were all received on board, and were again very nearly perishing, by a fire which broke out in the night. The six boats which had so cruelly cast them adrift, reached the coast of Africa in safety; and after many dangers among the Moors, the survivors arrived at St. Louis.

After this, a vessel was despatched to the wreck of the Medusa, to carry away the money and provisions; after beating about for eight days, she was forced to return. She again put to sea, but after being away five days, again came back. Ten days more were lost in repairing her; and she did not reach the spot till fifty-two days after the vessel had been lost; and dreadful to relate, three miserable sufferers were found on board. Sixty men had been abandoned there by their magnanimous countrymen. All these had been carried off except seventeen, some of whom were drunk, and others refused to leave the vessel. They remained at peace as long as their provisions lasted. Twelve embarked on board a raft, for Sahara, and were never more heard of. Another put to sea on a hen-coop, and sunk immediately. Four remained behind, one of whom, exhausted with hunger and fatigue, perished. The other three lived in separate corners of the wreck, and never met but to run at each other with drawn knives. They were put on board the vessel, with all that could be saved from the wreck of the Medusa.

The vessel was no sooner seen returning to St. Louis, than every heart beat high with joy, in the hope of recovering some property. The men and officers of the Medusa jumped on board, and asked if any thing had been saved. "Yes," was the reply, "but it is all ours now;" and the naked Frenchmen, whose calamities had found pity from the Moors of the desert, were now deliberately plundered by their own countrymen.

A fair was held in the town, which lasted eight days. The clothes, furniture, and necessary articles of life, belonging to the men and officers of the Medusa, were publicly sold before their faces. Such of the French as were able, proceeded to the camp at Daceard, and the sick remained at St. Louis. The French governor had promised them clothes and provisions, but sent none; and during five months, they owed their existence to strangers -- to the British.



Singular Loss Of The Ship Essex, Sunk By A Whale.


The ship Essex, Captain George Pollard, sailed from Nantucket, on the 12th of August, 1819, on a whaling voyage to the Pacific Ocean. Her crew consisted of twenty-one men, fourteen of whom were whites, mostly belonging to Nantucket, the remainder were blacks. On the 20th of November, 1820, in latitude 0° 40' S. longitude 119° W. a school of whales was discovered, and in pursuing them the mate's boat was stove, which obliged him to return to the ship, when they commenced repairing the damage. The captain and second mate were left with their boats pursuing the whales. During this interval the mate discovered a large spermaceti whale, near the ship, but, not suspecting the approach of any danger, it gave them no alarm, until they saw the whale coming with full speed towards them. In a moment they were astonished by a tremendous crash. The whale had struck the ship a little forward of the fore chains. It was some minutes before the crew recovered from their astonishment, so far as to examine whether any damage had been sustained. They then tried their pumps, and found that the ship was sinking. A signal was immediately set for the boats. The whale now appeared again making for the ship, and coming with great velocity, with the water foaming around him, he struck the ship a second blow, which nearly stove in her bows. There was now no hope of saving the ship, and the only course to be pursued was, to prepare to leave her with all possible haste. They collected a few things, hove them into the boat and shoved off. The ship immediately fell upon one side and sunk to the water's edge. When the captain's and second mate's boat arrived, such was the consternation, that for some time not a word was spoken. The danger of their situation at length aroused them, as from a terrific dream, to a no less terrific reality. They remained by the wreck two or three days, in which time they cut away the masts, which caused her to right a little. Holes were then cut in the deck, by which means they obtained about six hundred pounds of bread, and as much water as they could take, besides other articles likely to be of use to them. On the 22d of November, they left the ship, with as gloomy a prospect before them as can well be imagined. The nearest land was about one thousand miles to the windward of them; they were in open boats, weak and leaky, with a very small pittance of bread and water for support of so many men, during the time they must necessarily be at sea. Sails had been prepared for the boats, before leaving the ship, which proved of material benefit. Steering southerly by the wind, they hoped to fall in with some ship, but in this they were disappointed. After being in the boat twenty-eight days, experiencing many sufferings by gales of wind, want of water, and scanty provisions, they arrived at Duncie's Island, latitude 24° 40' S., longitude 124° 40' W., where they were disappointed in not finding a sufficiency of any kind of food for so large a company to subsist on. Their boats being very weak and leaky, they were hauled on shore and repaired. They found a gentle spring of fresh water, flowing out of a rock, at about half ebb of the tide, from which they filled their kegs. Three of the men chose to stay on the island, and take their chance for some vessel to take them off.

On the 27th of December, they left this island, and steered for Easter Island; but passed it far to the leeward. They then directed their course for Juan Fernandez, which was about twenty-five hundred miles east by south-east from them. On the 10th of January, 1821, Matthew P. Joy, the second mate, died, and his body was launched into the deep. His constitution was slender, and it was supposed that his sufferings, though great, were not the immediate cause of his death. On the 12th, the mate's boat separated from the other two, and did not fall in with them afterwards. The situation of the mate and his crew, became daily more and more distressing. The weather was mostly calm, the sun hot and scorching. They were growing weaker and weaker by want of food, and yet, such was their distance from land, that they were obliged to lessen their allowance nearly one half. On the 20th, a black man died.

On the 28th, they found, on calculation, that their allowance, only one and a half ounce of bread per day to a man, would be exhausted in fourteen days; and that this allowance was not sufficient to sustain life. They therefore determined to extend the indulgence, and take the consequence, whether to live or die. On the 8th of February, another of the crew died. From this time to the 17th, their sufferings were extreme. At seven o'clock, A.M. of that day, they were aroused from a lethargy by the cheering cry of the steersman, "there's a sail!" The boat was soon descried by the vessel, the brig Indian, Captain Grozier, of London, which took them on board, latitude 33° 45' S., longitude 81° 3' W. They were treated by Captain Grozier with all the care and tenderness which their weak condition required. On the same day they made Massafuero, and on the 25th, arrived at Valparaiso.

Captain Pollard and Charles Ramsdell, the only survivors in the captain's boat, were taken up on the 23d of February, 1821, by the ship Dauphin, of Nantucket, Captain Zimri Coffin, in latitude 37° S. off St. Mary's. The captain relates, that, after the mate's boat was separated from the others, they made what progress their weak condition would permit, towards the island of Juan Fernandez, but contrary winds and calm weather, together with the extreme debility of the crew, prevented their making much progress.

On the 29th of January, the second mate's boat separated from the captain's, in the night, at which time their provisions were totally exhausted, since which they have not been heard from.

We shall not attempt a sketch of the sufferings of the crews of these boats. Imagination may picture the horrors of their situation, and the extremes to which they were driven to sustain life, but no power of the imagination can heighten the dreadful reality.

The following is an account of the whole crew.

In the captain's boat but two survived, Captain Pollard and Charles Ramsdell. In the mate's boat three survived, Owen Chase, the mate, Benjamin Lawrence, and Thomas Nickerson. Left on Duncie's Island, and afterwards taken off, Seth Weeks, William Wright, and Thomas Chapple. One left the ship before the accident. In the second mate's boat, when separated from the captain's, three. Dead, nine, which added to the second mate's crew, doubtless lost, makes total deaths twelve.



Loss Of The Wellington.


We sailed from the Cove of Cork for St. Andrews, on the 6th of October, 1833. During a passage of sixty days, all of which time we struggled against adverse winds, nothing material occurred, save the shifting of our ballast, (limestone,) which caused some alarm; but the promptitude and alacrity of the crew soon set it all right. On reaching the ballast-ground, we discharged our ballast; and after we had repaired the rigging, we took in a cargo of deals. Here four of the men left us, and we had to wait for others to supply their place.

On the 23d of December we sailed on our return to Cork; mustering in all seventeen persons, including one male and one female passenger. With a fine stiff breeze down the bay, we soon lost sight of land, and nothing of note occurred till the 30th, when the wind got up from the north-west, and soon blew so heavy a gale, that we were obliged to take in every thing but a close-reefed main-topsail, under which we scudded till the 5th of January. All this time it blew a hurricane, principally from the north-west, but occasionally, after a short lull, flying round to the south-west, with a fury that nothing could resist. The sea threatened to overwhelm our little craft. It was several times proposed to lay her to; but the fatal opinion prevailed that she did better in scudding. On the night of the 6th, a tremendous sea struck her on the stern, stove in all the dead-lights, and washed them into the cabin, lifted the taffrail a foot or more out of its place, carried away the afterpart of the larboard bulwark, shattered the whole of the stern-frame, and washed one of the steersmen away from the wheel. The carpenter and crew with much labor secured the stern as well as they could for the night, and next morning the wind moderated a little, new dead-lights were put in, and the damages further repaired.

Every stitch of canvas, but the main-topsail, jib, and trysail, were split into ribbons, so that we became anxious to know how we should reach port when the gale subsided. But we were soon spared further care on that head. As the day closed in, the tempest resumed its fury, and by the following morning, (the 8th,) raged with such appalling violence, that we laid her too. From her straining, the brig had now began to make so much water, as to require all hands in succession at the pumps till the following morning at two, when the larboard watch went below, the watch on deck, by constant exertion, sufficing to keep her free.

At seven on the morning of the 9th, a tremendous sea broke over the starboard bow, overwhelming all, and sweeping caboose, boats, planks, casks, every thing before it, to the afterpart of the deck; even the starboard anchor was lifted on to the forecastle; and and the cook, who was in the galley, washed with all his culinary apparatus into the lee-scuppers, where he remained some time in a very perilous situation, jammed in amongst the loose spars and other portions of the wreck, until extricated by the watch on deck, who, being aft at the moment of the occurrence, escaped unhurt. Before we could recover from this shock, the watch below rushed on deck, with the appalling intelligence, that the water had found its way below, and was pouring in like a torrent We found that the coppers, forced along the deck with irresistible violence, had, by striking a stanchen fixed firmly in the deck, split the covering fore and aft, and let in the water. The captain thought it time to prepare for the worst. As the ship, from her buoyant cargo, could not sink, he ordered the crew to store the top with provisions. And as all exerted themselves with the energy of despair, two barrels of beef, some hams, pork, butter, cheese, and a large jar of brandy, were handed in a trice up from below, but not before the water had nearly filled the cabin, and forced those employed there to cease their operations, and with the two unfortunate passengers to fly to the deck. Fortunately for the latter, they knew not the full horror of our situation. The poor lady, whose name I have forgotten, young and delicate, already suffering from confinement below and sea sickness, pale and shivering, but patient and resigned, had but a short time taken her seat beside her fellow passenger on some planks near the taffrail, on which lay extended the unfortunate cook, unable to move from his bruises, when the vessel, a heavy lurch having shifted her cargo, was laid on her beam-ends, and the water rushing in, carried every thing off the deck -- provisions, stores, planks, all went adrift -- and with the latter, the poor lady, who, with the cook, floated away on them, without the possibility of our saving either of them. But such was the indescribable horror of those who were left, that had we been able to reason or reflect we might have envied our departed shipmates.

A few minutes before we went over, two of the crew, invalids, having gone to the maintop, one of them was forced into the belly of the main top-sail, and there found a watery grave. The rest of the crew, and the male passenger, got upon her side. In this hopeless situation, secured, and clinging to the channels and rigging, the sea every instant dashing over us, and threatening destruction, we remained some hours. Then the vessel once more righted, and we crawled on board. The deck having blown up, and the stern gone the same way, we had now the prospect of perishing with cold and hunger. For our ultimate preservation I conceive we were mainly indebted to the carpenter's having providentially retained his axe. With it, the foremast was cut away. While doing this, we found a piece of pork about four pounds weight; and even the possession of this morsel raised our drooping spirits. It would at least prolong existence a few hours, and in that interval, the gale might abate, some friendly sail heave in sight, and the elements relent. Such were our reflections. Oh, how our eye-balls strained, as, emerging from the trough of the sea on the crest of a liquid mountain, we gazed on the misty horizon, until, from time to time, we fancied, nay, felt assured, we saw the object of our search, but the evening closed in, and with it hope almost expired. That day, not a morsel passed our lips. The pork, our only supply, given in charge to the captain, it was thought prudent to husband as long as possible.

Meanwhile, with a top-gallant studding-sail remaining in the top, which was stretched over the mast-head, we contrived to procure a partial shelter from the inclemency of the weather. Under this, drenched as we were and shivering with cold, some of us crouched for the night; but others of the crew remained all that night in the rigging. In the morning we all -- fourteen in number -- mustered on deck, and received from the mate a small piece of pork, about two ounces, the remainder being put away, and reserved for the next day. This, and some water, the only article of which -- a cask had been discovered forward, well stowed away among the planks -- we had abundance, constituted our only meal that day. Somewhat refreshed, we all went to work, and as the studding-sail afforded but a scanty shelter, we fitted the trysail for this purpose; on opening which we found the cat drowned, and much as our stomachs might have revolted against such food on ordinary occasions, yet poor puss was instantly skinned and her carcass hung up in the maintop.

This night we were somewhat better lodged, and the following day, having received our scanty ration of pork, now nearly consumed, we got three swiftsures round the hull of the vessel, to prevent her from going to pieces. Foraging daily for food, we sought incessantly in every crevice, hole, and corner, but in vain. We were now approaching that state of suffering beyond which nature cannot carry us. With some, indeed, they were already past endurance; and one individual, who had left a wife and family dependent upon him for support in London, unable any longer to bear up against them, and the almost certain prospect of starvation, went down out of the top, and we saw him no more. Having eked out the pork until the fourth day, we commenced on the cat -- fortunately large and in good condition -- a mouthful of which, with some water, furnished our daily allowance.

Sickness and debility had now made such ravages among us all, that although we had a tolerable stock of water, we found great difficulty in procuring it. We had hitherto, in rotation, taken our turn to fill a small beaker at the cask, wedged in among the cargo of deals; but now, scarcely able to keep our feet along the planks, and still less so to haul the vessel up to the top, we were in danger of even this resource being cut off from us. In this manner, incredible as it may seem, we managed to keep body and soul together till the eleventh day; our only sustenance, the pork, the cat, water, and the bark of some young birch trees, which latter, in searching for a keg of tamarinds, which we had hoped to find, we had latterly come athwart.

On the twelfth morning, at daybreak, the hailing of some one from the deck electrified us all. Supposing, as we had missed none of our shipmates from the top, that it must be some boat or vessel, we all eagerly made a movement to answer our supposed deliverers, and such was our excitement that it well nigh upset what little reason we had left. We soon found out our mistake. We saw that one of the party was missing; and from this individual, whom we had found without shoes, hat, or jacket, had the voice proceeded.

Despair had now taken such complete hold, that, suspended between life and death, a torpor had seized us, and, resigned to our fate, we had scarcely sufficient energy to lift our heads, and exercise the only faculty on which depended our safety. The delirium of our unfortunate shipmate had, however, reanimated us, and by this means, through Providence, he was made instrumental to our deliverance. Not long after, one of the men suddenly exclaimed, "This is Sunday morning! -- The Lord will deliver us from our distress! -- at any rate I will take a look round." With this he arose, and having looked about him a few minutes, the cheering cry of "a sail!" announced the fulfilment of this singular prophecy. "Yes," he repeated in answer to our doubts, "a sail, and bearing right down upon us!"

We all eagerly got up, and looking in the direction indicated to us, the welcome certainty, that we were not cheated of our hopes almost turned our brains. The vessel, which proved to be a Boston brig, bound to London, ran down across our bows, hove too, sent the boats alongside, and by ten o'clock we were all safe on board. Singularly enough, our brig, which had been lying-to with her head to the northward and westward, since the commencement of our disasters, went about the evening previous to our quitting her as well as if she had been under sail, -- another providential occurrence, for had she remained with her head to the northward, we should have seen nothing of our deliverers. From the latter we experienced all the care and attention our deplorable condition required; and, with the exception of two of the party, who were frost-bitten, and who died two days after our quitting the wreck, we were soon restored to health, and reached St. Catherine's Dock on the 30th of the following month.



Loss Of The Abergavenny.


The Earl of Abergavenny, East Indiaman, left Portsmouth, in the beginning of February, 1805, with forty passengers, and property to the value of eighty-nine thousand pounds sterling on board. On the 5th of February, at ten A.M. when she was about ten leagues to the westward of Portland, the commodore gave a signal for her to bear up. At this time the wind was west south-west; she had the main top-mast struck, the fore and mizzen top-gallant mast on deck, and the jib-boom in. At three a pilot came on board, when they were about two leagues west from Portland; the cables were ranged and bitted, and the jib-boom got out. The wind suddenly died away as she crossed the Shangles, a shoal of rock and shingle, about two miles from the land; and a strong tide setting the ship to westward, drifted her into the breakers. A sea taking her on the larboard quarter brought her to, with her head to the northward, when she instantly struck the ground, at five in afternoon. All the reefs were let out, and the top-sails hoisted up, in the hope that the ship might shoot across the reef; the wind shifting meanwhile to north-west, she remained there two hours and a half, with four feet of water in the hold, the tide alternately setting her on, and the surf driving her back, beating all the while with such violent shocks, that the men for some time could scarcely stand upon the decks. At length, however, she was got off the rocks.

The pumps were kept constantly going, and for fifteen minutes after clearing the rocks, kept the water at four feet; but the leak gaining upon them, all sails were set, with the view of running for the nearest port. But the water now rose so fast, than she refused to answer the helm, and they resolved to run her on the first shore. The captain and officers still thought that she might be got off without material damage, and no signal guns of distress were fired for three quarters of an hour, though sensible of some danger, they kept silent, lest they should alarm the passengers. Soon however the peril appeared but too manifest; the carpenter announced that a leak was at the bottom of the chain-pumps, through which the water gushed so fast, that they could not stop it. Eleven feet of water were already in the hold, and the crew were set to bale at the fore scuttle and hatchway. Though they could not keep the water under, they still hoped to preserve her afloat, till she could be run upon Weymouth sand. The lashings of the boats were cut; but they could not get out the long-boat, without bending the mainsail aback, which would have retarded the vessel so much, as to deprive them of the chance of running her aground.

At six in the afternoon they gave up all hope of saving the vessel; other leaks had been sprung, and it became manifest, from the damage she had sustained that she must speedily go down. The captain and officers were still cool, and preserved perfect subordination. As night came on, and their situation became more terrible, several passengers insisted on being set on shore; and some small sloops being near, one of which sent off a skiff, two ladies, and three other passengers went away in her. More would have embarked had they not feared to encounter a tempestuous sea in so dark a night.

Several boats were heard at a short distance, about nine o'clock, but they rendered no assistance; being either engaged in plunder, or in rescuing some of those unfortunate individuals who hazarded themselves on pieces of wreck, to gain the land. Those on board baled and pumped without intermission; the cadets and passengers struggling with the rest. A midshipman was appointed to guard the spirit room. Some of the more disorderly sailors pressed upon him. "Give us some grog," they cried, "it will be all one an hour hence." "I know we must die," replied he, coolly, "but let us die like men;" and armed with a brace of pistols, he kept his post even while the ship was sinking.

At length the carpenter came up from below, and told those who worked at the pumps that he could do no more. Some gave themselves up to despair, others prayed; and some resolved not to perish without a struggle, committed themselves on pieces of the wreck to the waves. The chief mate came to the captain, and said, "We have done all we can, sir, the ship will sink in a moment;" to which the captain replied, "it cannot be helped -- God's will be done." The vessel gradually settled in the trough of the sea. The cries of the drowning rose above the sound of the waters, and were heard at a great distance. Some kept running about the deck as long as it kept above the waves. At eleven, when she went down, many hastened up the shrouds and masts. The captain was seen clinging to the ropes; the fourth mate tried to persuade him to exert himself, but he submitted without resistance to his fate.

The hull struck the ground, while part of the masts and rigging remained above water. On the last cast of the lead, eleven fathoms had been found, and about one hundred and eighty men still clung to the rigging. The night was dark and frosty, the sea incessantly breaking upon them. Shocking scenes occurred, in the attempts made by some to obtain places of greater safety. One seaman had ascended to a considerable height, and endeavored to climb yet higher; another seized hold of his leg; he drew his clasp-knife, and deliberately cut the miserable wretch's fingers asunder; he dropped and was killed by the fall. Many perished in the shrouds. A sergeant had secured his wife there; she lost her hold, and in her last struggle for life, bit a large piece from her husband's arm, which was dreadfully lacerated.

About an hour after she went down, the survivors were cheered by hearing the sound of vessels beating the waves at a distance; they hailed a sloop-rigged vessel, with two boats astern of her. Their voices must have been drowned by the waves. By twelve many more had perished. Some from cold and fatigue could no longer retain their hold; every instant those who still hung on, were shocked by the splash, which told that another of their number had yielded to his fate. In a short time, boats were again heard near them, but they did not, though repeatedly hailed, come near enough to take any on board; an act of cold and calculating timidity, which could not be justified by the excuse, that they feared lest all, eager to be saved, should have jumped down, and borne them to the bottom.

At length two sloops, which had heard the guns of distress, anchored close to the wreck, took off the survivors, twenty at a time, from the shrouds, and in the morning conveyed them to Weymouth; so far from crowding into the boats, they got off one by one, as called upon by those who commanded the boats. One still remained; the sixth mate ascended the mast and found him in a state of insensibility; he bore him down on his back, and with his burden reached the boat in safety; but the delivered person died the next day.

When the awful words were heard, "The ship must go down," three of the cadets went into the cabin, where they stood for a short time, looking at each other, without saying a word. At length one said, "Let us return to the deck;" two did so, but the other remained below. He opened his desk, took out his commission, his introductory letters, and some money, went on deck, but saw neither of his companions. Then looking forward, he saw the ship going down head foremost, and the sea rolling in an immense column along the deck. He tried to ascend the steps leading to the poop, but was launched among the waves encumbered by boots and a great coat, and unable to swim. Afterwards, finding himself on the opposite side, he conceived that when the stern of the ship sunk, he would be drawn into the vortex. While struggling to keep himself afloat, he seized something which frequently struck the back of his hand, and found it to be a rope hanging from the mizzen-shrouds. Trying to ascend several feet by it, he fell into the sea; but by a sudden lurch from the ship, he was thrown into the mizzen-shrouds, where he fixed himself as well as circumstances would allow.



Cruise Of The Saldanha And Talbot.

By One Of The Officers.


At midnight of Saturday, the 30th of November, 1811, with a fair wind and a smooth sea, we weighed from our station, in company with the Saldanha frigate, of thirty-eight guns, Captain Packenham, with a crew of three hundred men, on a cruise, as was intended, of twenty days -- the Saldanha taking a westerly course, while we stood in the opposite direction.

We had scarcely got out of the lock and cleared the heads, however, when we plunged at once into all the miseries of a gale of wind blowing from the west. During the three following days it continued to increase in violence, when the islands of Coll and Tiree became visible to us. As the wind had now chopped round more to the north, and continued unabated in violence, the danger of getting involved among the numerous small islands and rugged headlands, on the north-west coast of Inverness-shire, became evident. It was therefore deemed expedient to wear the ship round, and make a port with all expedition. With this view, and favored by the wind, a course was shaped for Lochswilly, and away we scudded under close-reefed foresail and main-topsail, followed by a tremendous sea, which threatened every moment to overwhelm us, and accompanied by piercing showers of hail, and a gale which blew with incredible fury. The same course was steered until next day about noon, when land was seen on the lee-bow. The weather being thick, some time elapsed before it could be distinctly made out, and it was then ascertained to be the island of North Arran, on the coast of Donegal, westward of Lochswilly. The ship was therefore hauled up some points, and we yet entertained hopes of reaching an anchorage before nightfall, when the weather gradually thickened, and the sea, now that we were upon the wind, broke over us in all directions. Its violence was such, that in a few minutes several of our ports were stove in, at which the water poured in in great abundance, until it was actually breast high on the lee-side of the main deck. Fortunately, but little got below, and the ship was relieved by taking in the foresail. But a dreadful addition was now made to the precariousness of our situation, by the cry of "land a-head!" which was seen from the forecastle, and must have been very near. Not a moment was now lost in wearing the ship round on the other tack, and making what little sail could be carried, to weather the land we had already passed. This soon proved, however, to be a forlorn prospect, for it was found that we should run our distance by ten o'clock. All the horrors of shipwreck now stared us in the face, aggravated tenfold by the darkness of the night, and the tremendous force of the wind, which now blew a hurricane. Mountains are insignificant when speaking of the sea that kept pace with it; its violence was awful beyond description, and it frequently broke over all the poor little ship, that shivered and groaned, but behaved admirably.

The force of the sea may be guessed from the fact of the sheet-anchor, nearly a ton and a half in weight, being actually lifted on board, to say nothing of the forechain-plates' board broken, both gangways torn away, quarter-galleries stove in, &c. In short, on getting into port, the vessel was found to be loosened through all her frame, and leaking at every seam. As far as depended on her good qualities, however, I felt assured at the time we were safe, for I had seen enough of the Talbot to be convinced we were in one of the finest sea-boats that ever swam. But what could all the skill of the ship builder avail in a situation like ours? With a night full fifteen hours long before us, and knowing that we were fast driving on the land, anxiety and dread were on every face, and every mind felt the terrors of uncertainty and suspense. At length, about twelve o'clock, the dreadful truth was disclosed to us!

Judge of my sensation when I saw the frowning rocks of Arran, scarcely half a mile distant, on our lee-bow. To our inexpressible relief, and not less to our surprise, we fairly weathered all, and were congratulating each other on our escape, when on looking forward I imagined I saw breakers at no great distance on our lee; and this suspicion was soon confirmed, when the moon, which shone at intervals, suddenly broke out from behind a cloud, and presented to us a most terrific spectacle. At not more than a quarter of a mile's distance on our lee-beam, appeared a range of tremendous breakers, amongst which it seemed as if every sea would throw us. Their height, it may be guessed, was prodigious, when they could be clearly distinguished from the foaming waters of the surrounded ocean. It was a scene seldom to be witnessed, and never forgotten! "Lord have mercy on us!" was now on the lip of everyone -- destruction seemed inevitable. Captain Swaine, whose coolness I have never seen surpassed issued his orders clearly and collectedly when it was proposed as a last resource to drop the anchors, cut away the masts, and trust to the chance of riding out the gale. This scheme was actually determined on, and every thing was in readiness, but happily was deferred until an experiment was tried aloft In addition to the close-reefed main-topsail and foresail, the fore-topsail and trysail were now set, and the result was almost magical. With a few plunges we cleared not only the reef, but a huge rock upon which I could with ease have tossed a biscuit, and in a few minutes we were inexpressibly rejoiced to observe both far astern.

We had now miraculously escaped all but certain destruction a second time, but much was yet to be feared. We had still to pass Cape Jeller, and the moments dragged on in gloomy apprehension and anxious suspense. The ship carried sail most wonderfully, and we continued to go along at the rate of seven knots, shipping very heavy seas, and laboring much -- all with much solicitude looking out for daylight. The dawn at length appeared, and to our great joy we saw the land several miles astern, having passed the Cape and many other hidden dangers during the darkness.

Matters on the morning of the 5th, assumed a very different aspect from that which we had experienced for the last two days; the wind gradually subsided, and with it the sea, and a favorable breeze now springing up, we were enabled to make a good offing. Fortunately no accident of consequence occurred, although several of our people were severely bruised by falls. Poor fellows! they certainly suffered enough; not a dry stitch, not a dry hammock have they had since we sailed. Happily, however, their misfortunes are soon forgot in a dry shirt and a can of grog.

The most melancholy part of the narrative is still to be told. On coming up to our anchorage, we observed an unusual degree of curiosity and bustle in the fort; crowds of people were congregated on both sides, running to and fro, examining us through spy-glasses; in short, an extraordinary commotion was apparent. The meaning of all this was but too soon made known to us by a boat coming alongside, from which we learned that the unfortunate Saldanha had gone to pieces, and every man perished! Our own destruction had likewise been reckoned inevitable from the time of the discovery of the unhappy fate of our consort, five days beforehand; and hence the astonishment at our unexpected return. From all that could be learned concerning the dreadful catastrophe, I am inclined to believe that the Saldanha had been driven on the rocks about the time our doom appeared so certain in another quarter. Her lights were seen by the signal-tower at nine o'clock of that fearful Wednesday night, December 4th, after which it is supposed she went ashore on the rocks at a small bay called Ballymastaker, almost at the entrance of Lochswilly harbor.

Next morning the beach was strewed with fragments of the wreck, and upwards of two hundred of the bodies of the unfortunate sufferers were washed ashore. One man -- and one only -- out of the three hundred, was ascertained to have come ashore alive, but almost in a state of insensibility. Unhappily there was no person present to administer to his wants judiciously, and upon craving something to drink, about half a pint of whisky was given him by the people, which almost instantly killed him! Poor Pakenham's body was recognised amidst the others, and like these, stripped quite naked by the inhuman wretches, who flocked to the wreck as to a blessing! It is even suspected that he came on shore alive, but was stripped and left to perish. Nothing could equal the audacity of the plunderers, although a party of the Lanark militia was doing duty around the wreck. But this is an ungracious and revolting subject, which no one of proper feeling would wish to dwell upon. Still less am I inclined so describe the heart-rending scene at Buncrana, where the widows of many of the sufferers are residing. The surgeon's wife, a native of Halifax, has never spoken since the dreadful tidings arrived. Consolation is inadmissible, and no one has yet ventured to offer it.



Shipwreck Of The Nautilus.


The ship Nautilus, Captain Palmer, with important despatches for England, sailed from the Dardanelles, on the 30th of January, 1807. Passing through the islands which abound in the Greek Archipelago, she approached the Negropont, where the navigation became both intricate and dangerous. The wind blew fresh, and the night was dark and squally; the pilot, a Greek, advised them to lay-to till morning; at daylight she again went on her course, passing in the evening, Falconera and Anti-Milo. The pilot, who had never gone farther on this tack, here relinquished the management of the vessel to the captain, who, anxious to get on, resolved to proceed during the night, confidently expecting to clear the Archipelago by morning; he then went below, to take some rest, after marking out on the chest the course which he meant to steer.

The night was extremely dark, vivid lightning at times flashed through the horizon. The wind increased; and though the ship carried but little sail, she went at the rate of nine miles an hour, borne on by a high sea, which, with the brightness of the lightning, made the night appear awful. At half past two in the morning, they saw high land, which they took for the island of Cerigotto, and went confidently on, supposing that all danger was over. At half-past four, the man on the look-out, cried, "breakers a-head!" and instantly the vessel struck with a tremendous crash; the violence of the shock being such, that those below were thrown from their beds, and on coming on deck, were compelled to cling to the cordage. All was confusion and alarm; scarcely had part of the crew time to hurry on deck, before the ladder gave way, leaving numbers struggling with the water, which rushed in at the bottom. The captain and lieutenant endeavored to mitigate the fears of the people; and afterwards, going down to the cabin, burnt the papers and private signals. Meantime, every sea dashed the vessel against the rocks; and they were soon compelled to climb the rigging, where they remained an hour, the surge continually breaking upon them.

The lightning had ceased, but so dark was the night, that they could not see a ship's length before them; their only hope rested in the falling of the main mast, which they trusted would reach a small rock, which lay very near them. About half an hour before morning, the mast gave way, providentially falling towards the rock, and by means of it they were enabled to gain the land. In this hasty struggle to get to the rock, many accidents occurred; some were drowned, one man had his arm broke, and many were much hurt. The captain was the last man who left the vessel, refusing to quit it till all had gained the rock. All the boats but one had been staved in pieces; the jolly-boat indeed remained, but they could not haul it in. For a time the hull of the wreck sheltered them from the violence of the surf; but it soon broke up, and it became necessary to abandon the small rock on which they stood, and to wade to another somewhat larger. In their way they encountered many loose spars, dashing about in the channel; several in crossing were severely hurt by them. They felt grievously the loss of their shoes, for the sharp rocks tore their feet dreadfully, and their legs were covered with blood. In the morning they saw the sea covered with the fragments of the wreck, and many of their comrades floating about on spars and timbers, to whom they could not give any assistance.

They saw that they were cast away on a coral rock almost on a level with the sea, about four hundred yards long, and three hundred broad. They were at least twelve miles from the nearest islands, which were afterwards found to be those of Cerigotto and Pera. In case any vessel should pass by, they hoisted a signal of distress on a long pole. The weather was very cold, and the day before they were wrecked, the deck had been covered with ice; with much difficulty they managed to kindle a fire, by means of a flint and some powder. They erected a small tent, composed of pieces of canvas and boards, and were thus enabled to dry their few clothes. The night was dreary and comfortless; but they consoled themselves with the hope that their fire might be descried in the dark, and taken for a signal of distress. Next day they were delighted at the approach of a small whale-boat, manned by ten of their comrades. When the vessel was wrecked, these men had lowered themselves into the water, and had reached the island of Pera, but finding no fresh water, were compelled to depart; and noticing the fire were enabled to join their shipmates. But the waves ran so high that the boat could not come to the shore, and some of those on the land endeavored to reach it. One of the seamen called to Captain Palmer, inviting him to come to them, but he steadily refused, saying, "No, Smith, save your unfortunate shipmates; never mind me." After some consultation, they resolved to take the Greek pilot on board, intending to go to Cerigotto, where, he assured them, were a few families of fishermen, who might perhaps be able to afford them some relief.

After the boat departed, the wind increased; in about two hours a fearful storm came on. The waves mounted up, and extinguished their fire; they swept over nearly the whole of the rock, compelling them to flee for refuge to the highest part. Thus did nearly ninety pass a night of the utmost horror; being compelled, lest they should be washed off, to fasten a rope round the summit of a rock, and to clasp each other. Their fatigue had been so great that several of them became delirious, and lost their hold. They were also in constant terror of the wind veering more to the north, in which case the waves would have dashed over their position.

They now began to sink under their hardships, and many had suffered deplorably. One had been so dashed against the rocks as to be nearly scalped, exhibiting a dreadful spectacle; he lingered out the night, but expired next morning. They were ill prepared to sustain famine, and they were almost hopeless of escape. They dreaded lest the storm should come on before the boat could have reached the island, for on her safety their own depended. In the midst of these horrors the daylight broke, and they saw the bodies of their departed shipmates, some still writhing in the agonies of death. The sea had broken over them all night, and some, among whom was the carpenter, had perished from cold.

Soon after, a vessel approached, and their hearts beat high with the hope of deliverance. All her sails were set, and she came down before the wind, steering right for the rock. They made repeated signals of distress, and the vessel hove to, and hoisted out her boat. They hastily prepared rafts to carry them through the surf, confident that the boat was provided with supplies to relieve them. The boat came within pistol-shot, full of men dressed in the European fashion. But what were their indignation and grief, when the person who steered, after gazing at them a few minutes, waved his hat, and then rowed off to the ship! Their misery was increased by seeing the crew of the stranger-vessel employed in collecting the floating fragments of the wreck. After this grievous disappointment, their only hopes lay in the return of the boat. They looked in vain; not a glimpse of her was to be seen. A raging thirst tormented them; and some, in spite of warning, drank salt water; raging madness soon followed, and their agonies were terminated by death. Another awful night was passed by them. To preserve themselves from the cold, they huddled close together, and covered themselves with their few remaining rags. They were haunted by the ravings of those who had drunk the sea-water, whom they tried in vain to pacify.

About twelve o'clock, the crew of the whale-boat hailed them; they cried out in their agony for water. They could not procure it, for those in the boat had none but earthen vessels, which could not be conveyed through the surf. They were assured that they would be taken off by a fishing vessel next morning; but there seemed to be little chance of their surviving till then.

In the morning, the sun for the first time shone upon the rock. They waited hour after hour, but there was no appearance either of the boat or the vessel. Famine consumed them; but they looked with loathing on the only means of appeasing it. When, however, the day wore on, after praying for forgiveness of the sinful act, they were compelled to feed on one of their number who had died the preceding night. Several expired towards evening; among whom were the captain and first lieutenant. During the night, some thought of constructing a raft which might carry them to Cerigotto. The wind seemed favorable; and to perish in the waters seemed preferable to remaining to die a lingering death from hunger and thirst. At daylight, as fast as their feeble strength permitted, they prepared to put their plan in execution, by lashing together a number of larger spars. Scarcely had they launched it, when it was destroyed. Five, rendered desperate, embarked on a few spars hastily lashed together, which gave them scarcely room to stand; they were soon carried away by unknown currents, and were no more heard of.

In the afternoon the whale-boat came again in sight. The crew told them that they had experienced great difficulty in persuading the Greek fishermen of Cerigotto to venture to put to sea, because of the stormy weather; but they gave them hopes, that if the weather moderated, the boats would come next day. Before they had done speaking, twelve men plunged from the rock into the sea, and nearly reached the boat; two were taken in, one was drowned, and the rest were so fortunate as to recover their former station.

As the day wore on, their weakness increased. One of the survivors described himself as feeling the approach of annihilation; his sight failed, and his senses were confused; his strength was exhausted; he looked towards the setting sun, expecting never to see it rise again. Suddenly the approach of the boats was announced; and from the depth of despair, they rose to the very summit of joy. Their parched frames were refreshed with copious draughts of water.

Immediate preparations were made for departure. Of one hundred and twenty-two persons on board the Nautilus, when she struck, fifty-eight had perished. Eighteen were drowned when she was wrecked, five were lost in the small boat, and thirty-four died of famine. About fifty now embarked in four fishing vessels, and landed the same evening at Cerigotto; making sixty-four in all, including those saved in the whale-boat. During their six days sojourn on the rock, they had nothing to subsist on, save human flesh.

They landed at a small creek. The Greeks received them with great hospitality, but had not skill to cure their wounds, and had no bandages but those procured by tearing up their own shirts. Wishing to procure some medical assistance, they desired to reach Cerigo, an island twenty miles distant, on which an English vice-consul resided. Fourteen days elapsed before they could set sail. They bade adieu to these kind preservers, and in six or eight hours reached Cerigo, where all possible help was afforded them. Thence they were conveyed by a Russian ship to Corfu; where they arrived on the 2d of March, 1807, about two months after their melancholy disaster.



Gallant Exploits Of Commodore Decatur.


Decatur is one of the most illustrious names in the naval annals of America. Among the many officers who have borne this name, none was more celebrated and admired in his life time and none more deeply lamented at his untimely decease than Commodore Stephen Decatur.

His life was a series of heroic actions. But of these perhaps the most remarkable of all is that which is recorded in the following language of his biographer -- the burning of the frigate Philadelphia.

Decatur had been sent out from the United States, in the Argus, to join Commodore Preble's squadron before Tripoli. He exchanged this vessel with Lieutenant Hull for the Enterprise.

After making that exchange, he proceeded to Syracuse, where the squadron was to rendezvous. On his arrival at that port, he was informed of the fate of the frigate Philadelphia, which had run aground on the Barbary coast, and fallen into the hands of the Tripolitans. The idea immediately presented itself to his mind of attempting her recapture or destruction. On Commodore Preble's arrival, a few days afterwards, he proposed to him a plan for the purpose, and volunteered his services to execute it. The wary mind of that veteran officer at first disapproved of an enterprise so full of peril; but the risks and difficulties that surrounded it, only stimulated the ardour of Decatur, and imparted to it an air of adventure, fascinating to his youthful imagination.

The consent of the commodore having been obtained, Lieutenant Decatur selected for the expedition a ketch (the Intrepid) which he had captured a few weeks before from the enemy, and manned her with seventy volunteers, chiefly from his own crew. He sailed from Syracuse on the 3d of February, 1804, accompanied by the United States brig Syren, Lieutenant Stewart, who was to aid with his boats, and to receive the crew of the ketch, in case it should be found expedient to use her as a fire ship.

After fifteen days of very tempestuous weather, they arrived at the harbor of Tripoli, a little before sunset. It had been arranged between Lieutenants Decatur and Stewart, that the ketch should enter the harbor about ten o'clock that night, attended by the boats of the Syren. On arriving off the harbor, the Syren, in consequence of a change of wind, had been thrown six or eight miles without the Intrepid. The wind at this time was fair, but fast declining, and Lieutenant Decatur apprehended that, should he wait for the Syren's boats to come up, it might be fatal to the enterprise, as they could not remain longer on the coast, their provisions being nearly exhausted. For these reasons he determined to venture into the harbor alone, which he did about eight o'clock.

An idea may be formed of the extreme hazard of the enterprise from the situation of the frigate. She was moored within half gunshot of the bashaw's castle, and of the principal battery. Two of the enemy's cruisers lay within two cables' length, on the starboard quarter, and their gunboats within half gunshot, on the starboard bow. All the guns of the frigate were mounted and loaded. Such were the immediate perils that our hero ventured to encounter with a single ketch, beside the other dangers that abound in a strongly fortified harbor.

Although from the entrance to the place where the frigate lay, was only three miles, yet, in consequence of the lightness of the wind, they did not get within hail of her until eleven o'clock. When they had approached within two hundred yards, they were hailed and ordered to anchor, or they would be fired into. Lieutenant Decatur ordered a Maltese pilot, who was on board the ketch, to answer that they had lost their anchors in a gale of wind on the coast, and, therefore, could not comply with their request. By this time it had become perfectly calm, and they were about fifty yards from the frigate. Lieutenant Decatur ordered a small boat that was alongside of the ketch, to take a rope and make it fast to the frigate's fore-chains. This being done, they began to warp the ketch alongside. It was not until this moment that the enemy suspected the character of their visitor, and great confusion immediately ensued. This enabled our adventurers to get alongside of the frigate, when Decatur immediately sprang aboard, followed by Mr. Charles Morris, midshipman. These two were nearly a minute on deck, before their companions could succeed in mounting the side. Fortunately, the Turks had not sufficiently recovered from their surprise to take advantage of this delay. They were crowded together on the quarterdeck, perfectly astonished and aghast, without making any attempt to oppose the assailing party. As soon as a sufficient number of men had gained the deck to form a front equal to that of the enemy, they rushed in upon them. The Turks stood the assault for a short time, and were completely overpowered. About twenty were killed on the spot, many jumped overboard, and the rest flew to the maindeck, whither they were pursued and driven to the hold.

After entire possession had been gained of the ship, and every thing prepared to set fire to her, a number of launches were seen rowing about the harbor. This determined Lieutenant Decatur to remain on board the frigate, from whence a better defence could be made than from on board the ketch. The enemy had already commenced firing on them from their batteries and castle, and from two corsairs that were lying near. Perceiving that the launches did not attempt to approach, he ordered the ship should be set on fire, which was done, at the same time, in different parts. As soon as this was done, they left her; and such was the rapidity of the flames, that it was with the utmost difficulty they preserved the ketch. At this critical moment a most propitious breeze sprang up, blowing directly out of the harbor, which, in a few moments, carried them out of reach of the enemy's guns, and they made good their retreat without the loss of a single man, and with but four wounded.

For this gallant and romantic achievement, Lieutenant Decatur was promoted to the rank of post captain, there being at that time no intermediate grade. This promotion was peculiarly gratifying to him, insomuch as it was done with the consent of the officers over whose heads he was raised.

In the ensuing spring, it being determined to make an attack upon Tripoli, Commodore Preble obtained from the King of Naples, the loan of six gunboats and two bombards, which he formed into two divisions, and gave the command of one of them to Captain Decatur, the other to Lieutenant Somers. The squadron sailed from Syracuse, consisting of the frigate Constitution, the brig Syren, the schooners Nautilus and Vixen, and the gunboats.

Having arrived on the coast of Barbary, they were for some days prevented from making the attack, by adverse wind and weather. At length on the morning of the 3d of August, the weather being favorable, the signal was made from the commodore's ship to prepare for action, the light vessels towing the gunboats to windward. At nine o'clock, the signal was given for bombarding the enemy's vessels and the town.

The gunboats were cast off, and advanced in a line ahead, led on by Captain Decatur, and covered by the frigate Constitution, and the brigs and schooners.

The enemy's gunboats were moored along the harbor under the batteries and within musket shot. Their sails had been taken from them, and they were ordered to sink, rather than abandon their position. They were aided and covered, likewise, by a brig of sixteen, and a schooner of ten guns.

Before entering into close action, Captain Decatur went alongside each of his boats, and ordered them to unship their bowsprits and follow him, as it was his intention to board the enemy's boats.

Lieutenant James Decatur commanded one of the boats belonging to Commodore Preble's division, but, being farther to windward than the rest of his division, he joined and took orders from his brother.

When Captain Decatur, who was in the leading boat, came within range of the fire from the batteries, a heavy fire was opened upon him from them and the gunboats. He returned the fire, and continued advancing, until he came in contact with the boats. At this time, Commodore Preble seeing Decatur advancing nearer than he thought prudent, ordered the signal to be made for a retreat, but it was found that in making out the signals for the boats, the one for a retreat had been omitted.

The enemy's boats had about forty men each; ours an equal number, twenty-seven of whom were Americans, and thirteen Neapolitans.

Decatur, on boarding the enemy, was instantly followed by his countrymen, but the Neapolitans remained behind. The Turks did not sustain the combat hand to hand, with that firmness they had obtained a reputation for. In ten minutes the deck was cleared. Eight of them sought refuge in the hold, and, of the rest, some fell on the deck, and others jumped into the sea. Only three of the Americans were wounded.

As Decatur was about to proceed out with his prize, the boat which had been commanded by his brother, came under his stern, and the men informed him that they had engaged and captured one of the enemy; but that her commander, after surrendering, had treacherously shot Lieutenant James Decatur, and pushed off with the boat, and was then making for the harbor.

The feelings of the gallant Decatur, on receiving this intelligence, may be more easily imagined than described. Every consideration of prudence and safety was lost in his eagerness to punish so dastardly an act, and to revenge the death of a brother so basely murdered. He pushed within the enemy's line with his single boat, and having succeeded in getting alongside of the retreating foe, boarded her at the head of eleven men, who were all the Americans he had left. The fate of this contest was extremely doubtful for about twenty minutes. All the Americans, except four, were now severely wounded. Decatur singled out the commander as the peculiar object of his vengeance. The Turk was armed with an espontoon, Decatur with a cutlass; in attempting to cut off the head of the weapon, his sword struck on the iron, and broke off close to the hilt. The Turk, at this moment, made a push, which slightly wounded him in the right arm and breast. He immediately seized the spear, and closed with him. A fierce struggle ensued, and both fell, Decatur uppermost. By this time the Turk had drawn a dagger from his belt, and was about to plunge it into the body of his foe, when Decatur caught his arm, and shot him with a pistol, which he drew from his pocket. During the time they were struggling on the deck, the crews rushed to aid their commanders, and a most sanguinary scene took place, insomuch that when Decatur had despatched his adversary, it was with the utmost difficulty he could extricate himself from the killed and wounded that had fallen around him.

It is with no common feeling of admiration that we record an instance of heroic courage, and loyal self-devotion, on the part of a common sailor.

During the early part of Decatur's struggle with the Turk, he was assailed in the rear by one of the enemy, who had just aimed a blow at his head which must have proved fatal; at this fearful juncture, a noble-hearted tar, who had been so badly wounded as to lose the use of his hands, seeing no other means of saving his commander, rushed between him and the uplifted sabre, and received the blow on his own head, which fractured his skull. We love to pause and honor great actions in humble life, because they speak well for human nature. Men of rank and station in society, often do gallant deeds, in a manner from necessity. Their conspicuous station obliges them to do so, or their eagerness for glory urges them on; but an act like this we have mentioned, so desperate, yet so disinterested, done by an obscure, unambitious individual, a poor sailor, can spring from nothing but nobleness of soul. We are happy to add that this generous fellow survived, and long after received a pension from government.

Decatur succeeded in getting, with both his prizes, to the squadron, and the next day received the highest commendation, in a general order, from Commodore Preble. When that able officer was superseded in the command of the squadron, he gave the Constitution to Captain Decatur, who had some time before received his commission. From that ship he was removed to the Congress, and returned home in her, when peace was concluded in Tripoli.



Exploits Of Commodore Hull.


Commodore Hull became a sailor when he was only eight years old. He distinguished himself greatly in the naval war with France, and in the war with Tripoli, especially at the capture of Derne, in Africa.

At the commencement of the war of 1812, Hull having been advanced in the meantime to the rank of captain, was placed in command of the frigate Constitution, in which he was destined to perform those brilliant actions which have rendered him one of the most celebrated heroes of our navy. His first exploit was the escape of the Constitution from a British squadron, which is justly regarded as one of the most remarkable recorded in naval history. The account of it contained in the official letter of Captain Hull has all the interest of a romance. It is as follows:


"SIR: -- In pursuance of your orders of the 3d instant, I left Annapolis on the 5th instant, and the capes on the 12th, of which I advised you by the pilot who brought the ship to sea.

For several days after we got out, the wind was light and ahead, which, with a strong southerly current, prevented our making much way to the northward. On the 17th, at two P.M., being in twenty-two fathoms water off Egg Harbor, four sail of ships were discovered from the masthead, to the northward and in shore of us, apparently ships of war. The wind being very light all sail was made in chase of them, to ascertain whether they were the enemy's ships, or our squadron having got out of New York, waiting the arrival of the Constitution, the latter of which I had reason to believe was the case.

At four in the afternoon, a ship was seen from the masthead, bearing about north-east, standing in for us under all sail, which she continued so to do until sundown, at which time she was too far off to distinguish signals, and the ships in shore only to be seen from the tops; they were standing off to the southward and eastward. As we could not ascertain before dark what the ship in the offing was, I determined to stand for her, and get near enough to make the night signal.

At ten in the evening, being within six or eight miles of the strange sail, the private signal was made, and kept up nearly one hour, but finding she could not answer it, I concluded she and the ships in shore were enemy.

I immediately hauled off to the southward and eastward, and made all sail, having determined to lie off till daylight to see what they were. The ship that we had been chasing hauled off after us, showing a light, and occasionally making signals, supposed to be for the ships in shore.

On the 18th, at daylight, or a little before it was quite light, saw two sail under our lee, which proved to be frigates of the enemy's. One frigate astern within about five or six miles, and a line of battle ship, a frigate, a brig, and a schooner, about ten or twelve miles directly astern, all in chase of us, with a fine breeze, and coming up fast, it being nearly calm where we were. Soon after sunrise, the wind entirely left us, and the ship would not steer, but fell round off with her head towards the two ships under our lee. The boats were instantly hoisted out, and sent ahead to tow the ship's head around, and to endeavor to get her farther from the enemy, being then within five miles of three heavy frigates. The boats of the enemy were got out and sent ahead to tow, by which, with the light air that remained with them, they came up very fast. Finding the enemy gaining on us, and but little chance of escaping from them, I ordered two of the guns on the gun deck to be ran out at the cabin windows for stern guns on the gun deck, and hoisted one of the twenty-four pounders off the gun deck, and ran that, with the forecastle gun, an eighteen pounder, out at the ports on the quarter deck, and cleared the ship for action, being determined they should not get her without resistance on our part, notwithstanding their force and the situation we were placed in.

At about seven, in the morning, the ship nearest us approaching within gunshot, and directly astern, I ordered one of the stern guns fired, to see if we could reach her, to endeavor to disable her masts; found the shot fell a little short, would not fire any more.

At eight, four of the enemy's ships nearly within gunshot, some of them having six or eight boats ahead towing, with all their oars and sweeps out, to row them up with us, which they were fast doing. It now appeared that we must be taken, and that our escape was impossible -- four heavy ships nearly within gunshot, and coming up fast, and not the least hope of a breeze to give us a chance of getting off by out sailing them.

In this situation, finding ourselves in only twenty-four fathoms water, by the suggestion of that valuable officer, Lieutenant Morris, I determined to try and warp the ship ahead, by carrying out anchors and warping her up to them; three or four hundred fathoms of rope was instantly got up, and two anchors got ready and sent ahead, by which means we began to gain ahead of the enemy; they, however, soon saw our boats carrying out the anchors, and adopted the same plan, under very advantageous circumstances, as all the boats from the ships furthermost off were sent to tow and warp up those nearest to us, by which means they again came up, so that at nine, the ship nearest us began to fire her bow guns, which we instantly returned by our stern guns in the cabin and on the quarter deck. All the shot from the enemy fell short; but we have reason to believe that some of ours went on board her, as we could not see them strike the water. Soon after nine, a second frigate passed under our lee, and opened her broadside, but finding her shot fall short, discontinued her fire; but continued, as did all the rest of them, to make all possible exertion to get up with us. From nine to twelve, all hands were employed in warping the ship ahead, and in starting some of the water in the main hold to lighten her, which, with the help of a light air, we rather gained of the enemy, or, at least, held our own. About two, in the afternoon, all the boats from the line of battle ship and some of the frigates were sent to the frigate nearest us, to endeavor to tow her up, but a light breeze sprung up, which enabled us to hold way with her, notwithstanding they had eight or ten boats ahead, and all her sails furled to tow her to windward. The wind continued light until eleven at night, and the boats were kept ahead towing and warping to keep out of reach of the enemy, three of the frigates being very near us; at eleven, we got a light breeze from the southward, the boats came along side and were hoisted up, the ship having too much way to keep them ahead, the enemy still in chase and very near.

On the 19th, at daylight, passed within gunshot of one of the frigates, but she did not fire on us, perhaps, for fear of becalming her, as the wind was light; soon after passing us she tacked, and stood after us -- at this time six sail were in sight, under all sail after us. At nine in the morning, saw a strange sail, on our weather beam, supposed to be an American merchant ship; the instant the frigate nearest us saw her, she hoisted American colors, as did all the squadron, in hopes to decoy her down; I immediately hoisted the English colors, that she might not be deceived; she soon hauled her wind, and, as is to be hoped, made her escape. All this day the wind increased gradually, and we gained on the enemy, in the course of the day, six or eight miles; they, however, continued chasing all night under a press of sail.

On the 20th, at daylight in the morning, only three of them could be seen from the masthead, the nearest of which was about twelve miles off, directly astern. All hands were set at work wetting the sails, from the royals down, with the engines and fire buckets, and we soon found that we left the enemy very fast. At a quarter past eight, the enemy finding that they were fast dropping astern, gave over chase, and hauled their wind to the northward, probably for the station off New York. At half past eight, saw a sail ahead, gave chase after her under all sail. At nine, saw another strange sail under our lee bow, we soon spoke the first sail discovered, and found her to be an American brig from St. Domingo, bound to Portland; I directed the captain how to steer to avoid the enemy, and made sail for the vessel to leeward; on coming up with her, she proved to be an American brig from St. Bartholomew's, bound to Philadelphia; but, on being informed of war, he bore up for Charleston, South Carolina. Finding the ship so far to the southward and eastward, and the enemy's squadron stationed off New York, which would make it impossible to get in there, I determined to make for Boston, to receive your farther orders, and I hope my having done so will meet your approbation. My wish to explain to you as clearly as possible why your orders have not been executed, and the length of time the enemy were in chase of us, with various other circumstances, have caused me to make this communication much longer than I could have wished, yet I cannot in justice to the brave officers and crew under my command, close it without expressing to you the confidence I have in them, and assuring you that their conduct while under the guns of the enemy was such as might have been expected from American officers and seamen. I have the honor to be, with very great respect, sir, your obedient humble servant,

Isaac Hull."

Hull's Victory

Such is Captain Hull's modest account of this truly brilliant exploit. Sailing on a cruise immediately after this, with the same frigate, officers, and crew, on the 19th of August he fell in with His Britannic Majesty's ship Guerriere, rated at thirty-eight guns, and carrying fifty, commanded by Captain Dacres, who, sometime before, had politely endorsed on the register of an American ship an invitation to Captain Hull to give him a meeting of this kind.


At half past three, P.M., Captain Hull made out his antagonist to be a frigate, and continued the chase till he was within about three miles, when he cleared for action; the chase backed her main-topsail and waited for him to come down. As soon as the Constitution was ready, Hull bore down to bring the enemy to close action immediately; but, on coming within gunshot, the Guerriere gave a broadside and filled away and wore, giving a broadside on the other tack; but without effect, her shot falling short. She then continued wearing and manoeuvring for about three quarters of an hour to get a raking position, -- but, finding she could not, she bore up and ran under her topsails and jib, with the wind on the quarter. During this time, the Constitution, not having fired a single broadside, the impatience of the officers and men to engage was excessive. Nothing but the most rigid discipline could have restrained them. Hull, however, was preparing to decide the contest in a summary method of his own. He now made sail to bring the Constitution up with her antagonist, and at five minutes before six P.M., being alongside within half pistol shot, he commenced a heavy fire from all his guns, double shotted with round and grape; and so well directed, and so well kept up was the fire, that in sixteen minutes the mizzenmast of the Guerriere went by the board, and her mainyard in the slings, and the hull, rigging, and sails were completely torn to pieces. The fire was kept up for fifteen minutes longer, when the main and foremast went, taking with them every spar except the bowsprit, and leaving the Guerriere a complete wreck. On seeing this Hull ordered the firing to cease, having brought his enemy in thirty minutes after he was fairly alongside to such a condition, that a few more broadsides must have carried her down.

The prize being so shattered that she was not worth bringing into port, after removing the prisoners to the Constitution, she was set on fire and blown up. In the action, the Constitution lost seven killed, and seven wounded; the Guerriere, fifteen killed, sixty-two wounded -- including the captain and several officers, and twenty-four missing.

The news of this victory was received in the United States with the greatest joy and exultation. All parties united in celebrating it, and the citizens and public authorities vied with each other in bestowing marks of approbation upon Captain Hull and his gallant officers and crew.



Exploits Of Commodore Barney.


This gentleman was one of the old fashioned commodores, a capital sailor, an intrepid warrior, and a thorough going patriot. He was born in Baltimore, in 1759. He entered the marine early in life. At the age of sixteen he served in the expedition of Commodore Hopkins to the Bahama Islands, and continued in active service through the whole revolutionary war.

In 1780 he was captured by a British seventy-four, when taking a prize into port and sent with other prisoners to England. On the passage, the prisoners -- amounting to about sixty -- were confined in the most loathsome of dungeons, without light or pure air, and with a scanty supply of provisions.

They thought when they arrived at Plymouth, that their privations were at an end; but they were only removed to another prison-ship, which, although dirty and crowded, was, in some measure, better than the one they had left. From this, contrary to expectation, as soon as they were so much recovered as to be able to walk, they were brought on shore and confined in Mill prison, where they met the anxious faces of several hundred American prisoners, who had undergone the same privations as themselves.

This prison was surrounded by two strong walls, twenty feet apart, and was guarded by numerous sentries. There were small gates in the walls, and these were placed opposite each other, the inner one generally remaining open. The prisoners were allowed the privilege of the yard nearly all day, and this set the inventive mind of Barney upon the scheme, which, in the end, terminated in his liberty; not, however, without infinite danger and trouble. He set about finding out some small chance which might afford the least hope of release; and having discovered one of the sentries that had served in the United States, and remembered the kindness with which he had been there treated, Barney and he formed the means of escape. It was arranged that Barney should affect to have hurt his foot and obtain a pair of crutches, and thus lull suspicion.

On the 18th of May, 1781, he habited himself in the undress uniform of a British officer, the whole covered with a old greatcoat, and, by the aid of the sentinel, cleared the prison; when he threw off the coat, and soon arrived at the house of a well known friend to the American cause, in Plymouth. That he might not be soon missed, he got a lad, who, after answering to his own name, was to get out, and answer to Barney's, in the yard, which little stratagem succeeded admirably. When Barney arrived at the friend's house, he made preparations to leave as soon as possible, well knowing that if any of the British were detected harboring him, they would be convicted of high treason. In the evening, therefore, he departed to the house of his friend's father, at a considerable distance, where he would be safer. On arriving there, he was surprised to find two of his old friends -- Americans -- who had been, for some time, anxiously waiting for an opportunity of returning home, and now thought that the time had arrived.

Lieutenant Barney determined to sail for the French coast, and, for this purpose, he and the two gentlemen purchased a small fishing vessel, and habiting themselves in some fishermen's old apparel, they set sail on their intended voyage. Admiral Digby's fleet lay at the mouth of the river, and our adventurers had to pass through the midst of them, and then run the chance of capture by the numerous British cruisers, which continually ply about the channel. This was a daring undertaking, as the fleet, he thought, had doubtless received notice of his escape, and the enemy would be rigid in their search. He, therefore, determined to act with coolness, and, if intercepted, to give such answers to the questions put to him, as might best lull suspicion. If he was detected, he would pay for the attempt with his life.

He knew that if his escape was detected, it would be immediately communicated to the fleet, and thus lessen his chances; especially as the least unusual appearance in his assumed character, would excite immediate suspicion. Even should he be able to pass through the fleet, the British channel abounded with the English cruisers, which were quite adept in the art of picking up stragglers. With these dangers painted in lively colors before his eyes, he preserved his usual self-possession, and inspired with confidence his companions, who had never handled a rope, and relied exclusively upon his daring.

By sunrise, the next morning, they were "under way," the two gentlemen remaining below, and Lieutenant Barney and the servant being the only ones on deck, to avoid suspicion. With a good breeze, and a favorable tide, it was not long before they were in the midst of the hostile fleet, which seemed to take no notice of them. Their hearts beat quick when they were thus hanging between life and death; but as soon as the last of the enemy was passed, they declared themselves safe through that portion of the ordeal.

But what attempt ever ended to the satisfaction of the undertaker? Before the enemy were clear out of sight, the practised eye of Barney caught a sail which he knew to be bearing down upon him. He saw that resistance was out of the question; but that if he managed the affair adroitly he might escape. It was now that he was called upon to exercise that firmness of mind, coolness and contempt of danger, and quickness of resource in time of need, that ever distinguished his character, and showed him to be a man of no ordinary talents. In less than an hour the privateer -- for such she was -- came alongside, and sent an officer to see "what he wanted steering for a hostile coast." The first questions that were put, and answered unhesitatingly, were -- what he had on board? and where he was bound? Of course he had nothing on board, and his destination was France -- on business of importance from the ministry; at the same time untying the rope that bound the old coat around him, and displaying the British half uniform. The officer touched his hat, begged pardon, and said he would go on board and report to the commanding officer.

The result of the interview was that Barney was made a prisoner once more, and ordered with a prize-master to Plymouth. But being forced by stress of weather into a small bay, near Plymouth, he contrived to escape from his captors, and find his way to the mansion of the venerable clergyman, at Plymouth. Deeming it unsafe to remain there, lest he might be discovered, after a few days he set out at midnight in a postchaise for Exeter, and from thence by stages to Bristol, where he had a letter of credit to an American gentleman.

Here he remained for three weeks, and from thence he went to London, directed to a countryman, who received him kindly, and offered his services towards effecting his final escape. After remaining here for six weeks, he found an opportunity of sailing for France; and after an extremely boisterous and squally passage, reached Ostend, from whence he soon found his way to Amsterdam, where he seized the opportunity of paying his respects to Mr. John Adams, then Minister Plenipotentiary from the United States to Holland. Through the courtesy of this gentleman, he obtained a passage to his own country, and, after some adventures, reached Philadelphia, on the 21st of March, 1782.

But he was not long allowed to enjoy the pleasure which he expected, after such a trial of danger and fatigue. In less than a week after he arrived at Philadelphia, he was offered the command of the Hyder Ally, of sixteen guns, fitted out by the state authorities of Pennsylvania, to repress the enemy's privateers, with which the Delaware river abounded.

On the 8th of April, 1782, he entered upon his destined service, which was to convoy a fleet of merchantmen to the capes, and to protect them from the "refugee boats," with which the river abounded. While waiting at the capes, he was assailed by two ships and a brig belong to the enemy, who, finding him unsupported, commenced a furious attack, which he sustained with great coolness, while his convoy were safely retiring up the river. The brig came up first, and gave him a broadside as she was passing; but kept her course up the bay after the convoy, while Barney waited for the ship, which was coming up rapidly. Having approached within pistol shot, the Hyder Ally poured a broadside into her, which somewhat staggered the enemy, who thought Barney would "strike his colors." The enemy seemed disposed to board, and was ranging alongside of him, when he ordered the quarter-master, in a loud voice, to "port the helm!" -- having previously given him secret instructions to put the helm hard a-starboard, which latter order was obeyed; by this manoeuvre the enemy's jib-boom caught in the fore-rigging of the Hyder Ally, thus giving her a raking position, which Captain Barney knew how to improve. The firing on both sides was tremendous; -- an idea of it may be obtained from the fact, that more than twenty broadsides were fired in twenty-six minutes! In the mizzen staystail of the General Monk there were afterwards counted, three hundred and sixty-five shot-holes. During the whole of this short but glorious battle, Captain Barney was stationed upon the quarterdeck, exposed to the fire of the enemy's musketry, which was excessively annoying, and began to be felt by the men, insomuch that Captain Barney ordered a body of riflemen, whom he had on board, to direct their fire into the enemy's top, which immediately had the desired effect.

The capture of the General Monk was one of the most brilliant achievements in naval history. The General Monk mounted eighteen guns, and had one hundred and thirty-six men, and lost twenty men killed, and thirty-three wounded. The Hyder Ally had sixteen guns, and one hundred and ten men, and lost four men killed, and eleven wounded.

All the officers of the General Monk were wounded except one. The captain himself was severely wounded. The brig which accompanied the enemy ran ashore to avoid capture. Captain Barney now followed his convoy up to Philadelphia. After a short visit to his family, he returned to his command, where he soon captured the "Hook-'em-snivy" -- a refugee schooner, which had done a great deal of mischief on the Delaware river.

These captures struck such terror among the privateers, that they began to disperse to more profitable grounds. In consequence of the glorious actions, Captain Barney was presented with a gold-hilted sword, in the name of the state.

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The Life Of A Fox

By

Thomas Smith



A faithful history of the life even of a Fox may be not without its interest, for, to the wise, nothing in nature is mean, and truth is never insignificant. I was prompted to write this account of myself by overhearing one day, as I lay in a covert by the roadside, the following remarks by one of a party who were passing by on their return home from hunting a fox, which, as it appeared, the hounds had failed to kill.

"Well, I'd give a good deal to know what became of our fox, -- how was it he could have beaten us? There is nothing I should like better than to invite to supper all the foxes that have escaped from packs by which they have been respectively hunted to-day, and then persuade them to declare to what cause they owed their escape. To tempt them there should be rabbits at top, rabbits at bottom and sides, rabbits curried, fricasseed, and rabbits dressed in every imaginable way, by the best French cook."

The thought pleased me, and resolving to gratify my own curiosity, I invited all of my friends who had at any time beaten some pack of repute.

It was a fine moonlight night, in the middle of summer, when ten of my guests, besides an interloper, a stranger to us all, arrived at the place appointed, beneath an old oak tree in the New Forest.

For the foundation of my feast, nothing could be better than the bill of fare projected by the hospitable hunter; but as I knew that my friends would prefer everything au naturel, I dispensed with the services of M. Soyer, and merely added, for the sake of variety, some fine rats and mice, a profusion of beetles, and a bird or two for the few whose taste might be depraved enough to choose them. Our repast being over, it was agreed, that for our mutual instruction and entertainment, each in his turn should with scrupulous fidelity relate by what arts and stratagems, or by what effort of strength and courage, he had eluded and baffled those ruthless disturbers of our repose, the huntsman and his hounds. I was first called on to tell the story of my life, and thus began.


Wily's Story


I am descended from the ancient family of the Wilys, and was born on the 25th day of March, in the year  --  -- . Within three or four weeks from that day of the year every fox of us in this country is probably brought forth; and it seems especially designed that the female should thus produce her only litter in the year at a season when our favourite food, young rabbits, are most abundant. The spot in which I first drew breath was a breeding-earth, carefully chosen by my mother, in a well-known covert, called Park Coppice, situated in the centre of the Hampshire Hunt. It was not until the tenth day after my birth that I first saw light, or acquired sufficient strength to crawl with safety to any little distance round our nest. Had I earlier possessed the use of sight, I might have strayed beyond my warm shelter, and for want of sufficient strength to return to it, have perished with cold. Thus Nature goes on to care for us. I had two brothers and two sisters, and we all throve and grew rapidly with the nourishment of our mother's milk alone, until we were six weeks old, when she began to supply us with other food, such as rabbits, and rats and mice, which she tore to pieces and divided amongst us in equal shares, not however so much to our satisfaction as to prevent our snarling and quarrelling with each other thus early over our meals. That part of the earth where we lodged was between two and three feet square, with several passages just large enough for our mother to crawl along; several of these crossed each other, and of two that terminated outwards one only was used by our mother, who stopped up the other for times of emergency. In these several passages we daily amused ourselves with chasing each other round and round. On one occasion we were interrupted in the midst of our gambols by the sudden entrance of our mother, who seized us with her sharp teeth, and carried us to the back of the earth. It seemed that she had been watching outside, for immediately after this we were alarmed by a sound hitherto unheard by us. It was the voice of a man crying out, "Eloo in, Viper! fetch 'em out! hie in there, hie in!" The light was instantly shut out by the intrusion of a dog in a low and narrow part of the passage, which compelled him to crawl along with his head to the bottom. Our mother waited for him, where she had the advantage of higher space, and as he approached with his head thus low, she fixed her teeth across the upper part of his nose and pinned him to the bottom of the passage, where she held him so that he could not bite her, which he would have done had she attacked him after he had got beyond the lower part, when he might have raised his head up.[1] Whilst bleeding and howling with agony, he drew her backwards to the opening, where she let him go. It was in vain that the man tried to make him go in again, and so he left the place, declaring his conviction that there were cubs within, and that he would have them out another day. He was, however, disappointed, for our mother that night took us one by one to a large earth in a neighbouring wood. We were now two months old, and ceased to draw our mother's milk, which we no longer needed, as we were able to kill a rabbit or pluck the feathers of a fowl when she brought it to us, as well as she. Some of these feathers, which in our frolics we had carried to the mouth of the earth, once betrayed us to a couple of poachers, who had been lurking about the wood, and who noticing them, procured a long stick and thrust it into the earth, nearly breaking the ribs of one of my brothers. When they pulled it out again, they found the end of it covered with his hairs. This satisfied them, and leaving us scrambling and huddling together up to the back of the earth, they went away, resolving to come back next day with tools to unearth us, and expecting, as they said, to sell us for half-a-guinea apiece.

"'Twas a 'nation pity," added one of them, "we hadn't brought my little terrier, Vick; she would have fetched 'em out alive in her mouth, without our having the trouble of digging, though they was as big as the old 'un."

"Mind," said the other, "we beant seen, or else the squire will gie us notice to keep off."

Their intentions were defeated; for our mother, who had been all the time watching their goings on, anxiously waited for their departure, and no sooner had night set in than she again removed us to a gorse-covert hard by, and placed us in a nicely-sheltered spot, where she herself had often lain before. Here we were safe from poaching kidnappers, as it would have been impossible for them to find us without being found out themselves whilst searching for us. Let every mother lay up her cubs in gorse, or close and thick coverts, rather than in large earths, which are sure to be well known to the fox-taker. We were now three months old, and living upon young rabbits and mice, with which such coverts abound, feeding also upon other food, such as black beetles; rabbits, however, were our favourite food, and if we could find them, we cared for little else. They are fruitful breeders, particularly at this season of the year; and a female has been known to carry two distinct broods of young at the same time, and to bring them forth three weeks after one another. This astonishing fact I have witnessed myself, and I have heard that the same thing has occurred with the female hare. The usual time of bearing is twenty-eight days. We now began to venture out of the covert at night-fall, or even before, being warned by our mother, whenever there was danger, with a peculiar noise that she made, like "keck, keck"; which we no sooner heard than we were out of sight in the covert, where we stayed until all was still again.

As we grew older we grew more bold and more cunning; and being four months old, ventured farther abroad, even in the day-time, entering the fields of standing corn, until it was cut down, when the deeds we did there were suddenly brought to light.

"Why, John," says the farmer, "there must be some young foxes hereabouts; look at the rabbits' feet lying about; and what's the meaning of all these white feathers? This comes of not locking up the fowls o' nights. Never blame the foxes, poor craturs; but just go to the kennel, and tell Foster, the huntsman, as soon as the corn is off, to bring his hounds."

"Very well, sir."

"But mind, he ain't to kill more than one of 'em, or else be hanged if ever I takes care of another litter."

All this was explained to me afterwards, for at the time I did not understand much about it. I only knew that the speaker was a very nice sort of man, and never doubted that he meant everything that is pleasant; although I must say that his outward looks, the first time I saw him, did not at all take my fancy. There appeared to me something so ungainly and unnatural -- something so very absurd, to see an animal reared up on end, and walking about on his hind legs; to say nothing of what seemed his hide which hung about him in such a loose and uncouth fashion, as if nature had been sick of her job, and refused to finish it.

A few evenings after this I was crossing a field, and watching some young rabbits, with which I longed to become more nearly acquainted, when suddenly a large black dog and an ugly beast called a gamekeeper, jumped over a hedge. I immediately lay flat on the ground, hoping that I should not be seen; when, however, I found them coming within a few yards of me, I started off, closely pursued by the villainous dog, and seeing that I should soon be overtaken, turned round, and slipt away between his legs. I then made towards the hedge, and the dog springing after me, I suddenly turned round again, when he, trying to do the same, tumbled heels over head, and nearly broke his precious neck. My comfort was to think that he was certainly born to be hanged, for he followed me again as if nothing was the matter, and soon overtaking me, wearied as I was with the sport (I think they call it), he seized me by the back of the neck, and jogged away with me in his mouth to his master, who clapped me into his enormous pocket, and carried me home. I was kept there in a dark and dirty place, where all sorts of animals had been kept before. There I remained, who by nature am the cleanliest of animals, with my hairs all clotted with mire and filthy moisture, and should certainly have perished of a certain loathsome sickness, had not another gamekeeper luckily seen me, and told my owner the certain consequence of keeping me so. I was then taken out and put into a hamper out of doors, ready to be carried by the night-coach to London for sale. After trying in vain to gnaw a hole for my escape, I set about making all the noise I could, which, the night being still, reached the ears of my mother, who quickly came and helped me with her teeth to finish the work which I had begun, and so I got out and away.

Having thus suffered for my boldness, I scarcely ever ventured out of the covert till dark, or nearly so; generally, indeed, I remained in my kennel the whole of the day, unless I had not been fortunate in procuring food the night before. I have seen a female fox, when she had young ones, moving about earlier in the afternoon; otherwise it is contrary to our habits to do so. Night is more dear to us than day, and the tempest suits our plans; for man is then disposed to keep quiet, and we venture more boldly to approach his dwellings in search of stray poultry, which are to be found abroad, not having been driven into the hen-roost, owing to the neglect of their owners.

I resolved to accompany my mother in future as much as possible in her excursions, that I might profit by her prudence and observe her ways. She seldom went abroad till night, though sometimes she would venture in the dusk of evening. Upon one occasion I was much amused with an example of her engaging tricks. It was a bright moonlight night when I saw her go into a field, in which many rabbits and hares were feeding. On first seeing her, some of them ran away for a few yards, some sat up on their hind legs and gazed at her, and some squatted close to the ground. My mother at first trotted on gently, as if not observing them; she then lay down and rolled on her back, then got up and shook herself; and so she went on till the simple creatures, cheated by a show of simplicity, and never dreaming she could be bent on anything beyond such harmless diversion, fell to feeding again, when she quietly leaped amongst them and carried off an easy prey.

We were now fully able to gain our own subsistence, but not the less would she watch over our safety. One of my brothers having found a piece of raw meat had begun to devour it, which she observing ran forwards, and as if in anger drove him away from it. He became sick and lost all his hairs, owing to poison, which I afterwards learnt had been put in the meat. It was fortunate for us that we had left the breeding-earth, for we must otherwise have all been infected with the same noisome disease, the mange. By first smelling it, and then turning away, she taught us in future to avoid anything of the kind that had been touched by the human hand. Thus when we happened to be smelling with our noses to a bait covered over with leaves, moss, grass, or fine earth, she would caution us to let it alone by her manner of looking about, as if she were alarmed and expected to see our enemy the keeper. Sometimes the iron trap would be seen; and then she would lead us to look at and smell it. Our noses, however, would not always be a safeguard, for after the trap has been laid some days, particularly if washed by rain, the taint of the evil hand would be gone, and though we ourselves, thanks to the watchfulness of our mother, escaped the danger, hundreds of others, led on by hunger, have fallen into the snare, losing either leg or toes. Baits for catching stoats and weasels, set upon a stick some fourteen inches above the ground, we carried away without mischief from the trap below. At about six months old we were three parts grown, I and my brothers being something larger than our sisters, whose heads were thinner and more pointed. The white tip of the brush was not, let me remark, peculiar to either sex of us. I and one of my brothers, and also one of my sisters, had it whilst the other sister and the other brother were altogether without it, not having a single white hair. That brother has been known to profit by the exemption, when on being viewed in the spring of the year the hounds have been stopped with the remark, "It's a vixen; there is no white on her brush." I have since observed that old male foxes are of a much lighter colour on the back than are the old female ones, which are commonly of a dark reddish brown; and so it was with my parents. Our sire never helped to furnish us with food, although I have reason to think that I often saw him prowling about with my mother at night; instances, however, have been known where the sire has discharged such an office after the young had lost their mother. For a few weeks we went on living a rollicking kind of life, and fancied ourselves masters of the coverts.

There was a coppice of no more than two years' growth, which enabled me to enjoy the beams of the sun as I lay in my kennel. This kind of shelter we all of us choose, especially when there are no trees of a large growth to be dripping down upon us in wet weather. Here as I lay one morning, early in October, I was roused from a sound sleep by the noise of voices, and of dogs rushing towards me. Away I ran, and had not gone above twenty yards before I heard the report of a gun, and instantly received a smart blow on my side, which nearly knocked me down, breaking however none of my bones, and causing only a little pain and loss of blood. "Ponto! -- curse that dog; he's after him," cried a voice, when the dog turned back, or else he must certainly have caught me, as I had only power to run a short distance into some thick bushes, where I lay down and listened to the following rebuke.

"You young rascal, how dared you to shoot at a fox -- here, too, above all places? Don't you know that this is the very centre of the hunt? Had you killed him, you would have been a lost man, an outcast from the society of all good people, a branded vulpicide. Who do you think that has the slightest regard for his own character would have received you after that?"

"I really," replied the offending youth, "mistook him for a hare."

"Yes, and if you had killed such a hare, you should have eaten him, and without currant jelly too."

Now, if an humble individual of a fox may venture to give an opinion upon such a momentous question, I will say that the practice of destroying our breed for the purpose of preserving the quantity of game, is, where it prevails, equally selfish and short-sighted. For every fox thus destroyed hundreds of men are deprived of a day's sport, and sometimes more than that; and if none of us were spared, those hundreds of hunters would become so many keen shooters -- how could the game preserver then keep up his stock as he did before? And where would the wealthy capitalist rent his manor? After this unlucky adventure I resolved in future to sleep with one eye open, and not without reason. I had scarcely recovered from the injuries which I had suffered, and had just settled in my kennel one morning about daybreak, coiling myself up for the usual snooze all day, and sticking my nose into the upper part of the root of my brush -- the reason by the bye why the hairs there are generally seen to be standing on end or turned backwards -- when I was startled by the voice of John Foster, whose name has been mentioned before: "Eloo in; e-dhoick, e-dhoick, in-hoick, in-hoick." Disturbed by the unaccustomed sounds, I rose upon my fore-legs, and pricking up my ears listened for a moment or two, when I heard the rustling of the hounds running straight towards me, being led on by the scent that was left in the track of my feet, which parts, especially when heated by running, seem to leave more scent than any other part of the body. Thus the same organ becomes at once the means of inviting pursuit, and of escaping it. Off I went -- the awful tongue of an old hound ringing in my ear, and having about it surely some charm; for no sooner had he opened than a score or two others of the pack came rushing from all sides towards him, and then such a horrible din as there was behind me. I ran -- I flew, I knew not whither -- I crossed a road in the wood -- and then such frantic screaming and shouting -- "Tally-ho! tally-ho!" mixed with the blast of Foster's horn, that I was almost mad with fright, and must have fallen a victim to my savage pursuers, had not my brothers and sisters been disturbed by the clamour, and consequently been the cause of the pack being divided into several parts, thus enabling me to steal away towards the opposite side of the wood, where I remained. My state was such that I could not be still, as I ought, and I kept moving backwards and forwards and away from the cry of the hounds, which at times hunted us in several packs, then all together as they crossed each other, and then again separated. This had gone on for nearly half an hour when, to my great joy, they all went away with a frightful yell, leaving the wood and me miles behind them. I was congratulating myself on my escape, and listening to hear if they were returning, when I was startled by the sound of steps approaching, and a panting, as of some animal in distress; it was one of my brothers, evidently more beaten and terrified than myself, and who, on hearing something move and not knowing it was I, ran back out of sight in a moment, and I saw no more of him then. I remained where I was hidden until I had partly recovered from my fears, and not hearing the noise of hounds, had crept into some thick bushes, where I lay quiet, when to my horror I again heard the halloo of the huntsman, who seemed to be taking the hounds round the wood, with now and then the tongue of a single hound; then, all on a sudden the deep voice of Sawyer, the whipper-in, calling, "Tally-ho! there he goes; 'tis a mangy cub!" In a minute every hound was after him, and in full cry for a quarter of an hour; suddenly the noise ceased, and the fatal halloo, "Whoop!" was often repeated by the men with "Tear him, boys; whoop! whoop!" And that was the end of my poor, mangy brother. They then, not having seen any other of us for some time, thought we were gone to ground, and went away. Happy was I to hear that horn, which had before caused me such terror, calling away the hounds, that, to judge from their loud breathing as they passed near me, were not loath to go, for it was nearly ten o'clock, and the heat most oppressive. They were mistaken in thinking we were all gone away, although my brother and sisters had taken advantage of the hounds running in the open, and had gone across to the gorse-covert, from which my unfortunate brother just killed had often, in consequence of his mangy state, been driven by our mother. Again we had to thank that mother for our safety, for at the time when we were all nearly dead with toil and alarm, it seems she took an opportunity of running across the wood in front of the hounds, which soon got on her scent, and followed her as she led them away for some miles out of the covert. The huntsman then, convinced that they had got on an old fox, as soon as the men could stop the hounds, immediately brought them back to the covert where they had left us, hoping to kill one of us young ones.

It was not till some time after this memorable day that we ventured to take up our quarters in the wood again. Our mother thought it right to take us away to a covert about two miles distant, where, as the hounds only hunted cubs at this early part of the season, there were no young foxes; consequently, for that time, we were left undisturbed, and soon began to feel as much at home as in the covert which we had left. Had it not been for the shooters who frequently came with their spaniels, we should have even preferred it; and they so frequently moved us that we soon took little notice of them, except by going from one part of the wood to the other. Indeed, we were rather benefited by them than otherwise, for we occasionally picked up a wounded or dead bird, hare, or rabbit, and after eating as much as we could, we always buried the remainder, scratching a hole in the ground with our claws, and covering it over with earth. Even this made us enemies; for when by accident the dogs smelt it, and drew it out, the keepers immediately told their master that if they were not allowed to kill the foxes, there would not be a head of game left.

Constant disturbance after this induced us to return to the strong gorse where we had previously been, and which was nearly impenetrable by shooters; but we had not been here more than a few days, when, about ten o'clock in the morning, towards the end of October, I was again alarmed by hearing Foster the huntsman's now well-known voice: "Sawyer, get round the other side of the covert; if an old fox breaks away, let him go, stop the hounds, and clap them back into the covert again, and then they will get settled to a cub. In-hoick! e-dhoick! e-dhoick!" I listened with breathless fear, and soon heard the rustling of hounds on every side of me, then a solitary slight whimpering, and Foster's cheer, "Have at him, Truemaid; hoick! hoick!" These sounds, frightful in my ears, sent every hound to the same spot; and I started from my kennel, and got as fast as I could to the other side of the gorse. I soon gladly returned, and meeting an old dog-fox that at first I mistook for a hound, dashed away on one side before the pack had crossed my line. They ran by me, and continued following the old fox, till I heard "Tally-ho! gone away"; with a smacking of whips, and "Hoick back, hoick back"; then for a few minutes all silent; and then again the same terrible tongues drove me from my quarters. They were not in pursuit of me in particular, but running after either my mother or one of the rest or all of us, divided as they were into different lots. One of these at last got fast on my track, and away I went straight to the earth where we were born; but to my surprise and disappointment I found it stopped up with a bundle of sticks, and covered over with fresh earth; for it was not in that state when I passed by it the night before. I waited for a few moments, and tried to scratch an opening; but hearing the hounds hunting towards me, I returned to the gorse, where they shortly followed me. Owing to my being smaller than they were, I could easily run a good pace in it, where they were obliged to go slowly; and running in the most unfrequented tracks, I contrived to keep out of their way. At times they were all quite silent, and could not hunt my scent at all, owing probably to the ground and covert where the hounds had been running so often being stained. This dreadful state of things went on for a length of time, till at last I heard them halloo "Tally-ho! tally-ho! gone away." Shortly after this the hounds left the covert, hunting after the fox which was seen to go away, and which again happened to be our mother. The men soon found out their mistake; and as they were some time absent, they must have had difficulty in stopping them, which at first I heard them trying to do.

Meanwhile I had been flattering myself that I was safe, and that once more I had escaped; but quickly I heard them coming back very quietly, as if intending again to hunt me. Previously to this I had found a rabbits' burrow, into which I crept. I was luckily, as it happened, too much distressed and too heated to remain there, and left it, and went to the opposite side of the covert. At this time a cold storm of wind and rain came on, notwithstanding which an old hound or two got on my line of scent, and hunted it back the contrary way to that which I had gone, till they came to the rabbit burrow, where they stopped, and began baying and scratching with their feet at the entrance.

There can be little doubt that hounds have a language well understood by each other, and I never can forget the noise made by the whole pack as they all immediately came to the spot; the men hallooed "Whoop! whoop! have at him, my lads"; and one was ordered to fetch a terrier, and tools for digging. During the time they were at this, I stole away from the covert in another direction, and so saved my life. It seems they soon found out that I had left the earth, tried the covert over again, and then went home, vowing my destruction another day.

This was warning enough to prevent my remaining longer in or near this covert for the present. Venturing farther abroad, I returned to that in which I had been disturbed by the shooters, and there frequently picked up more wounded birds; I also found, in a field close by, part of a dead sheep, which a shepherd had left for his dog. Some of this I took away and buried. I was returning for another bit, when the rough dog, which had just arrived, suspecting that I had purloined his meat, flew at me the instant he saw me with such fury that he knocked me over and over again without getting hold of me. He then turned, and was in the act of securing me with his teeth, when I gripped one of his legs and bit it through; the pain which he suffered prevented him from more than mumbling me with his teeth; so I got off, and made the best of my way to the covert that evening.

I felt next day that, bruised as I was, I could not have escaped for ten minutes from a pack of hounds had they found me; I therefore lost no time in reaching a main earth, into which I got before the earth-stopper had put to; but I had scarcely done so when he came at daylight, and to my great dismay stopped it up. I remained there all day and till late at night, and no one came to open it, and had I not contrived to scratch my way out, I know not how long I might have remained there, for I have reason to know that many of us are stopped up in rocky earths and drains for weeks, and starved to death, owing to the forgetfulness or sheer cruelty of the stoppers. I have heard such sad tales as -- but just now it would interrupt my story to tell them.

It so happened, my friends, that for some time I was not hunted by hounds, and contrived to extend my rambles till I was acquainted with a great part of the country. Occasionally lying in my kennel, if in an open covert, and hearing a pack of hounds in full cry near, I moved off in an opposite direction, but sometimes not without being seen by some of the wide and skirting hunters, who lost their day's sport in riding after me and hallooing "Tally-ho!" but I always kept quiet in my kennel when I heard hounds in full cry if I happened to be in a strong gorse-covert. Thus passed off the greater part of the first winter of my life.

On one occasion I was lying in rather an exposed place by the side of a pit, in the middle of a field, when I saw a man pass by on horseback, who, on seeing me, stopped, and after looking a short time, rode on. Till the noise of his horse's feet was out of hearing I listened, and then stole away, which was most fortunate, for in the course of a few hours the hounds were brought to the pit, the man having told the huntsman where he had seen me, as he thought, asleep; though we foxes, however it may seem, are seldom otherwise than wide awake.

When the month of February arrived, I showed my gallantry by going and visiting an interesting young friend of mine of the other sex in a large covert some distance off, and there, to my chagrin, I met no less than three rivals.

One morning we were surprised by hearing the voice of Foster, drawing the covert with his hounds, and giving his peculiar "E-dhoick! e-dhoick! kille-kid-hoick (probably for Eloo-in-hoick)!" It seems that none of us felt very comfortable or much at home here, and all must have left our kennel about the same time; for the hounds were soon divided into several packs and running in full cry in different directions. Fortunately, those that were following me were stopped; at which I rejoiced not a little, having travelled twenty miles the night before, besides my wanderings in and about the covert. These travellings and wanderings are the cause why so many more of us dog-foxes are killed by hounds in the month of February than in any other three months of the year. Two dog-foxes which had come from a great distance were killed by the hounds that day. I had had reason to be jealous of them, as they had for the last week or two been tracing and retracing the woods in pursuit of a female incessantly each night, until daylight appeared, when they were obliged through fatigue to retire to their kennels.

I recollect hearing, as I lay that day in a piece of thick gorse, the following proof of the patience and good temper of Sawyer, the whipper-in. The hounds had followed a fox into a wood close by, having hunted him some time in close pursuit, when a jovial sort of person, who constantly rode after these hounds, saw a fresh fox -- being no other than myself -- and began hallooing to the full extent of his voice. Sawyer immediately rode up to him, and addressed him thus: "Now, pray Mr. W --  -- , don't ye halloo so, don't ye halloo; 'tis a fresh fox!" But still the person continued as loud as ever. The same entreaty was repeated again and again, and still he would halloo. At last Sawyer gave it up as a forlorn hope, and left him, just remarking, "Well, I never see'd such an uneasy creature as you be in all my life." He then followed the pack, which had by that time left the cover in pursuit of the first fox, which they had been running all the time. Yet we foxes have reason to know that a more determined and ardent enemy to us in the shape of a whipper-in than this man never lived. It fortunately happened for me that the weather now became very dry; for I was not unfrequently disturbed by these hounds, and though the scent was not very good in this plough country, I was at times much more distressed after being hunted than on former occasions, and was often nearly beaten; for it is not in our nature to be moving in the heat of the day, and not being so much inured to it as the hounds were, I expected to fall a prey to their able huntsman, who, when his hounds would not hunt me, appeared to know where I was gone to; and very often, when all was silent and I thought myself safe, brought them on without hunting, and crossing the line I had come; so that against him and his clever whipper-in, I had, notwithstanding the dry weather, enough to do to save my life.

On one occasion I had a most severe day's work, for the scent was remarkably good. I was lying quiet in my kennel, very unwilling to move, though I heard the hounds running a fox close to me, which they very soon lost, as they could not, or would not, hunt it. I thought this very strange, as by the use of my nose I knew it to be a good scenting day. It turned out that the fox was a vixen, which had just laid up her cubs; the effect of which generally is, that the scent becomes so different that hounds, old ones particularly, appear to know it, as if by intuition, and will not hunt it. As I had not had more notice of their approach I thought my best chance of escape was to be perfectly still, -- a plan often adopted by me since on a good scenting day; but it was of no use, for the huntsman almost rode upon me in drawing the cover, and I was obliged to fly when the hounds were close to me; however, after a long run, I most luckily escaped.

The breeding season for game now came on, and being still young I frequently was near being tempted to seize an old bird as she sat on her eggs, but the difference in the scent of the bird prevented me. At length, when I had been prowling about near a farmyard in which poultry were kept, one night that I had not met with other food, I pounced on a hen which was sitting in a hedge, but the state she was in gave such an unpleasant taste to her flesh, that after eating a little I left it, and have never since touched a bird of any sort when sitting. She has at that time, indeed, but little flesh on her bones, and I believe that no old fox will take one for his own eating, although a female may sometimes carry one off, when hard pressed for food for her young. The same instinct which prevents hounds from hunting a fox with young, thus prevents much destruction of birds when sitting. It seems like a design of nature to save the race of birds that have their nests on the ground from being entirely destroyed by ourselves, or by vermin, such as stoats and weasels.

Rabbits are too often the perquisites of the gamekeeper, and the iron traps which he sets with the pretence of catching them are the destruction of hundreds of us. This might be prevented if the master would only insist on these traps not being employed at all, and compel the use of the wire snare, and of ferrets to get the rabbits out of their burrows.

Having by this time learnt from my mother all that she could teach me, I followed her example in many things. Amongst them I remarked, that on a wet and windy night she almost always chose, for various reasons, to lie in a gorse-covert. It is generally dry and without droppings from trees; it is also more quiet and freer from the roaring of the wind than when near to them. Besides this, we are not so liable to be disturbed by the shooters, and though we should be so, are out of sight. We are also there out of sight of some of our troublesome feathered neighbours, the crows, magpies, and jays, who would betray us when moving abroad during the daytime. They are always moving with the first appearance of daylight, and we are glad to get out of their sight as soon as we can and go into our kennel, lest they should betray us to the keepers, who are also often abroad at that time. The worst is, that at times, when we think we have got away from hounds which are hunting us, these birds, by making a noise and darting down almost upon us, as they continue to do where we run along, point out to the hunters exactly where we are.

It has often happened that I have been betrayed by an old cock pheasant. No bird has a quicker eye than he has, and directly he saw me he would begin kuckupping, and continue to make this noise as long as I remained near him, obliging me to move away.

My life during the summer months was one of almost uninterrupted pleasure. Naturally fixing my headquarters near the part of the country where I was bred, I would often ramble by night a great distance, and frequently remarked with surprise, as I crossed any line that I had taken when hunted, the wonderful straightness with which I had pursued it, as it was often in a direction where there were no large woods or earths; but I recollected that I had the wind for my only guide, and went as if blown forward by it; so that I could hear whether the hounds were following me at a greater distance than if I had gone against it; and besides this, it was more difficult for them to smell the scent which was lodged on the ground over which I had run, when blown away from their noses, than when blown towards them.

One circumstance occurred to check my joy, namely, the loss of my other brother, who had accompanied me in one of my midnight rambles into the adjoining country near Hambledon; and (for though so long ago as 1828, I well remember it) we had been induced to swim across some water to an island situated in Rookesbury Park, belonging to Mr. Garnier, on which it so happened there was a nest of young swans; and although we did not venture to touch them, the old ones were so angry with us for our intrusion, that when we attempted to quit the island they would not allow us to do so, but continued swimming backwards and forwards to show their anger. At length, as daylight was appearing, my poor brother was rash enough to make a sally, and had nearly swum across to the land, when, overtaking him, they commenced an attack, and by flapping their wings against his head, and keeping him under water, speedily drowned him, just as a man came up to see what they were about.

They seemed to exult in their prowess, and whilst they were proudly throwing back their heads, and rowing in triumph round their victim, I took an opportunity of crossing the water on another side and escaped, resolving never in swimming to encounter the same risk again. Nothing worth relating occurred until towards the beginning of the following winter. It is true that I was often induced to move and to quit the wood in which I lay, owing to my being disturbed by the hounds; but as they never followed me far, and were stopped by the whipper-in when I left the covert, it was evident they came on purpose to hunt young cubs; I therefore took care to retire to a gorse-covert near Sutton Common, where none were bred, much to the regret of the owner, a Rev. Baronet, who is one of our greatest friends, as no keeper of his would dare to destroy a fox without pain of losing his place. Here I remained quiet for some months, till one morning I was waked by the noise of Foster the huntsman; and shortly afterwards the whimpering of a hound told me that he was on the scent left by my footsteps on my way to my kennel, although it was where I had passed before day, and several hours had gone by. I was led by the wind that day to take them over a country seldom if ever gone over by them before, namely, Wolmer Forest, crossing one or two rivers, from extreme dread of this huntsman and his powerful pack. Whether it was the water or the fences that stopped him, I cannot say, but I suspect it was the latter; although a few years before nothing could have done it. The hounds were at times running without him, and it was in consequence of that, I think, that I eventually beat him and escaped. In the course of a few days I returned to the same covert, and had not been there more than fourteen more when this man's awful voice startled me again.

I was soon prepared for another run with a north-east wind, which might have led me to take the same line as before, but that I heard Sawyer the whipper-in exclaim, "'Tis our old fox, and he went through the same holes that he did the last time we found him." He gave the view-halloo directly afterwards. I felt certain that they came again thus soon determined if possible to kill me; and though frightened a little, I took care to keep on without stopping to listen, as I had done before; so that I kept a good distance ahead of them, and continued my best pace for many miles, crossing Wolmer Forest into Sussex. I no longer heard the hounds following me, and being much distressed with fatigue, ran forward to very short distances, and then turned either to the right or to the left, in order to baffle my pursuers. At length I came opposite to some buildings, and seeing a large pile of wood, crept in amongst it and lay down. After listening for some time, I heard the cry of a few hounds not far off; but the noise ceased just about the spot where I turned down the road, and all was silent for some time. At last I heard the voice of Sawyer the whipper-in, saying he must take the hounds home to the kennel if his horse would enable him; but that the huntsman's and the other whipper-in's horses were both done; and so they were, for they never lived to reach their stable.

Having again escaped from that clever huntsman Foster and his pack, I determined at first to remain in this part of Sussex. It was hunted by Colonel Wyndham, whose hounds I soon had reason to know were not less fatal than those by which I had lately been so severely hunted. They seemed to me to be quicker in their work, and to keep closer to me when it was a good scenting day; although when it happened to be otherwise they could not hunt me so long or so far as the other pack had done. Once or twice when I was nearly tired they left me, owing to the scent being bad, and went to find another fox, when I believe that Foster and his pack would have gone on longer, if not killed me. The pace they obliged me to go, when hunting me over the hills, was terribly fast, and very probably the cause of their not making so much cry when in pursuit. Indeed they ran almost mute, and at times got very near to me before I was aware of their approach.

This I found was too dangerous a country for me to remain in; and so, when on another occasion they found me, I ran into the Hambledon country, not far from Stanstead Forest, where I fortunately escaped, and finding myself in a wild part near Highdown Wood, did not venture to return, feeling sure that with the Colonel's quick pack and blood-like horses, if they found me on a good scenting day I must be beaten by them. However, here was in store for me as great a trial of my powers; for it seemed that Mr. Osbaldiston's hounds were just come for this part of the season to hunt the country. One morning I heard Sebright's voice cheering on his pack, which, with a burning scent, were running a fox like lightning. Suddenly there was an awful silence; then Dick Buxton's screech, and the "Whoop!" soon followed. For a minute or two only I heard a noise, as if hounds were quarrelling, and that no sooner ended than Sebright saying, "Now, Mr. Smith, this is the first real good scenting day we have had." I could stop no longer, but stole away, hoping not to be seen; but, my friends, fancy my horror when, on stealing from the gorse on the open down, and thinking that the rising ground would screen me, I saw this famed pack and first-rate huntsman within two hundred yards of me. I stopped for an instant, but scorned to return into the gorse, so took away across the hilly downs near Hog's Lodge, and crossed the Petersfield road to Portsmouth, over the open down for two miles, with the pack viewing me the whole time, except a moment or two when I was rounding the tops of the hills, then again they saw, and swung after me down the steep sides of the hills. I cleared the first fence adjoining the down, and had scarcely got fifty yards when I saw the whole pack flying over it after me, and at the next fence I turned short to the right as soon as I had cleared it. They were driven a little beyond it before they turned, which gave me a trifling advantage. I now continued to gain ground in advance of the pack, and though they never once were at fault, or lost the scent for a minute, and went on several miles across open downs into Sussex, still I kept on, determined to save my life.

I had gone full nine miles as straight as I could go, and had just turned for the first time to the right, and was ascending the top of the highest point of the down, when, to my great joy, I saw the hounds stopping and trying in vain to recover the scent, which was destroyed by my having run through a large flock of sheep. They now could not hunt the scent a step farther, though on the middle of an open down; and such was the disappointment and chagrin occasioned by it to Sebright, that he was heard by a friend of mine to say, that if the squire would give him a thousand a year, he would not stop to hunt a country, where the scent was so soon entirely lost; and that, until this occurred, nothing in the world would have made him believe that any fox could have run straight away from such a pack as his, under such apparently favourable circumstances.

I remained till the following season in this part of the country, in a covert belonging to Sir J. Jervoise, called the Markwells, when I was first roused from my slumber by the voice of another huntsman, Mr. Smith,[2] who at that time hunted his own hounds, known as the Hambeldon pack. It was about one o'clock in the afternoon, in the month of December, and fortunately I prepared myself for a day's work, for sure enough I had it. When I first broke covert I took the open, and in running had the wind in my face for about two miles, then finding the new pack pressing close to my heels, I turned short back with the wind, which, most fortunately, as it appeared to me, was now blowing in a direction straight to a large earth that I had formerly discovered at Grafham Hill in Sussex. The pace had blown the hounds, and the great change, by turning back and down the wind, caused them to stop for a minute or two; and although I soon heard them again hunting me, at a pace not quite so fast, their perseverance induced me to keep on straight forward. I had already gone for about ten or twelve miles, when, crossing a grass field near some buildings, I was startled at hearing the noise of other hounds close by. It was the pack in Colonel Wyndham's kennel. A view-halloo, which came from one of his men, made me continue to get on as fast as I could, and by the time it was nearly dark I fortunately reached the large earth at Grafham Hill. I had not been there for more than a few minutes when, lying with my head near the entrance of the earth in order to breathe more freely, I heard the hounds come up to the spot and try to get in, on which I retreated, but no farther than I was obliged to do, according to the plan I always adopted when distressed or nearly run down.

The distance I had run, straight ahead from where I started, was found to be twenty-seven miles. One of the four or five men who came in said that they must have changed their fox when the hounds ran through these large coverts. The reply was that it was scarcely possible, as they never once broke out of the road and rides, within which the fox had kept during the whole time.

It was now dark, and the hounds had full forty miles to return to their own kennel. I had reason, however, to know that they stopped that night half way, at the Drove Kennel; for during the night I had returned back as far as I could to the place whence I came, and intended to remain there; but all the middle of the next day I heard the sound of the horn which I had so often heard during the severe run I had had the day before, and which it appears was blown with the hope of its being heard by two hounds that were missed the night before, having come to the earth and remained some time after the pack had gone away. On hearing the horn I soon left my kennel, and, though very stiff, was obliged to make the best use of my legs that I could; for the pack, on their way home, crossed the line I had taken in the night, and were soon heard running in full cry after me. Glad was I to hear Mr. Smith order his men to stop them; for I must speedily have fallen to them had they only been aware of my weakness. One curious fact remains to be told, namely, that the two hounds remained for three days in the part near where they were left at the earth, and found their way back to the kennel on the fourth day afterwards. Now it is true that we foxes easily retrace our way on all occasions, but it must be recollected that we are often led straight by having in view some point, a main earth, for instance; when that is not the case, on being pursued by the hounds and guided by the wind, we notice the different points as we pass, and choose that line in which it appears least likely for us to be viewed; we thereby without difficulty retrace our line the same night, at least for some distance, unless too exhausted to travel more than necessary to procure food, when we remain near where the hounds have left us. I have done this for a short time, when the coverts and country to which I belonged have been much disturbed by the hounds; but invariably returned the same night. Now the hound has enough to do when hunting us without taking notice of the country which he passes over; and we must not assume to ourselves greater sagacity than belongs to him, for I believe that we are but varieties of the same kind. I observe amongst our party one who may have something to say upon that subject presently.

I underwent another severe day's work in the same country with another pack of hounds. In consequence of finding plenty of rabbits in a covert near the Waterloo Inn, I remained there for some time, and my peace was undisturbed, until I was roused one morning by the strange but fine voice of Mr. King's huntsman, Squire. After running round the covert a few times, I found that his quick pack were not to be trifled with; I therefore went straight away in the direction of Sussex. They still pressed me on through the large coverts there, and I left them in a wood, their huntsman and his master, Mr. King, imagining that I had gone to ground in a wood in Colonel Wyndham's country -- a mistake which happened in consequence of my having crept into an earth that I remembered to have seen there, but which, when I found that it was merely a rabbit earth, I left, and went on. The hounds stopped there, but it was soon discovered that they would not lie, and the delay caused my escape, for I must otherwise have been killed. It was a terribly severe day, for I had been hunted by them more than twenty miles from the place where they found me. A great part of the country I ran across was the same that I had gone over in the previous year when hunted by Mr. Smith's pack, though the distance was not so far by some miles. The great difference I observed in these two packs was that the present one were rather faster, and could not be heard so plainly when running: this was in some measure made up for by Squire's voice, which I so often heard to cry "Whoop!"

I was afraid to remain in these parts, so travelled westward, until I reached a wood by the sea-side near Southampton, and there, owing to the scarcity of rabbits, was obliged to seek other food, often consisting of dead fish, which I found on the shore. I had more than once a narrow escape from being shot by sailors, as they passed by in a boat at moonlight, and was induced to leave this part also. Following the sea-shore I crossed the Itchen Bridge, for I had not forgotten my escape from the swans, and would never trust myself again in water when it could be avoided, and by degrees, as the spring came on, I got into the New Forest. Fortunately for me the system of hunting in that part until near the middle of May was discontinued by Mr. Codrington, who then hunted it. He was an excellent sportsman; and would never take an unfair advantage of us, but left all to his hounds.

Although I had escaped during the winter months from other good packs, it was doubtful that I could have escaped at this season, when the weather is sometimes very hot; for although, as I have observed before, the heat affects the hounds, it is more usual for them to be moving about in it than it is for us, and they therefore suffer from it less.

I passed this summer most agreeably, living much on beetles, with which the forest abounds, occasionally visiting the sea-shore to seek for dead fish, and getting a fair supply of rabbits. The old rabbits frequently laid up their young in the open parts of a country, in the middle of fields, or any where far from hedges, probably to be more out of the way of stoats and weasels. The number of nests of young rabbits that a single one of us destroys is so enormous that it would seem to many quite incredible. I got well acquainted with the purlieus of the forest in my frequent travels; in spite of which my feet were never tired by treading on hard flints, as they used to be in upper Hampshire; and, strange as it may appear, in that flinty country I do not recollect ever having had them cut or made sore by them, even when I was pursued by the hounds; probably in some measure owing to our quickness of sight, and to our not having to hunt a scent, so that our attention is not diverted. I believe I owed to these very flints the salvation of my life, as they obliged the hounds to go more slowly over them, and thus afforded me more time.

The autumn had nearly passed, and being undisturbed by hounds, I flattered myself that I was safe; but my dream soon vanished; for it appeared that the only reason why they had not disturbed me was, that they are not allowed to hunt in the forest so early as is done in other countries. I was soon alarmed by hearing at intervals Mr. Codrington's deep voice, so unlike the style of the huntsmen by whom I had been hunted in other parts. The hounds appeared to understand it well enough, and as they soon spread through the covert adjoining that where I lay, I stole away to some distance, where I remained within hearing of them. It was a long time before they left the first covert, as it happened to be one in which I had been moving about when searching for food, and consequently these well-nosed hounds got on my scent, there called "the drag." This fine old huntsman believing that a fox was near, persevered for an unusual length of time in trying to find one, and owing to one or two hounds occasionally throwing their tongues, waited in an agony of expectation. At length being led to the covert which I had just left, they soon got on the line which I had taken when I came from my kennel two hours before, and which they had great difficulty in hunting. By this time I thought it right to leave the wood where I had stopped. A man saw me go away, and hallooed loudly, but still the hounds were not allowed to be brought on; and they continued a walking pace until they got to the spot where I had waited, at the extremity of the wood, and where, though at some distance, I heard the cry of the hounds following me too closely to be despised by me as they had hitherto been. It seemed that they were left entirely to themselves, for I heard no men's voices cheering them on, as in other countries when running in the same way. As they continued without any stopping, I resorted to the only means then in my power, and ran through a herd of deer, with which the forest abounds. This plan succeeded, and probably saved my life; for when the deer heard the hounds coming towards them in full cry, they came straight after me in the line I had run, and so spoilt the scent which I had left.

I well recollect, a short time after this, overhearing, as I lay in my kennel, the following conversation between two men as they rode by: "What a pity it is that Mr. Codrington is so silent when his hounds are hunting their fox." "Well, I don't know that; for suppose now you saw some weasels hunting a rabbit, do you think they would hunt it better if some fellow was to keep on hallooing to them?" No reply followed the question, although I anxiously waited to hear one. As far as I was concerned, I regretted that more noise was not made, as it would have assisted me, and not the hounds. The silent system is, at all events, a most dangerous one for the fox before he is found. I have had some narrow escapes from these very hounds being brought to a small covert or bog in this forest so silently that they surrounded me before I was aware, and I have with difficulty got away from them. Indeed, many female foxes have thus been killed heavy with cub, and in that state incapable of great exertion. Had these females heard the huntsman's voice in time they might have moved and run to earth, or shown in what state they were, so that the hounds might have been stopped in time to save their lives. As to the system of not assisting the hounds, I am sure that every fox will agree with me in approving it. Give me plenty of roads and dry fallows, or a few deer or sheep, and even when the scent is good I shall not fear to be killed by an unassisted pack. Without such impediments a pack so educated would be the most dangerous of all, and even with them, if in the hands of a judicious huntsman.

This pack was (alas! that I should say was, for he is no more,) hunted by a kind-hearted and excellent man, who has been heard to say, at a moment when his hounds were running very hard, and going like Leicestershire -- he being nearly twenty stone -- "I hope I shall not see them any more till they have killed." Notwithstanding the system just described, as many of my friends have fallen victims to this pack as to any in this part of the country. Nevertheless here I shall remain for the present, and not go away until I am fairly driven.

I now, my friends, conclude for the present the history of my life, only omitting such important events as may happen to come out in the course of your own stories; for I must now call upon you to tell us what you have to say of yourselves.

But hold hard there. Who or what art thou, half-bred thing, that durst be showing thy ill-breeding with feigning to sleep, or with eating rabbit, when thou shouldst have listened to the words of thy betters? Cock-tail, speak.

"Call me Cock-tail, half-bred, ill-bred, mongrel cur; but know that I claim kindred with your noble selves."

All. "Audacious dog-face!"

"Honour ye the Cock-tail! Cock-tail had a grandfather!"

All. "Impossible! Never!"

"Listen, then, to facts; facts are stubborn things, and if my story do not please, it may at least surprise you."


Cock-Tail's Story


It is known, I believe, that half-bred animals do not reproduce their kind, and if it were otherwise innumerable would be such kinds. My mother's father was a fox. Her mother was a well-bred terrier in colour much like your own. She belonged to a man who lived near Harborough, in Leicestershire, and was valuable to him for her extraordinary talent in killing rats and mice, as well as for the use which he occasionally made of her in poaching at night. Wishing to procure a mixed breed between her and a fox, he took her one night, at a particular period of the spring, to a certain spot in a wood which he knew to be much frequented by foxes, and having fastened her against a tree, left her there till morning. On the following night he removed her to a short distance from the spot where she was left the night before. After doing the same for several nights he took her home, and in nine weeks after that she produced four young ones, all of which are now living, and much like a fox. My father was a brown terrier, and my mother may be seen at any time, as she is fastened up by a chain in the inn-yard at Market Harborough. The hair on her back and sides is thick, and stands nearly upright like that of a fox. The hairs upon the upper side of the tail are not so long and full as those of a fox, but the under part and the sides are the same; the tips of them are black. Her legs and feet are black, and the latter are round like yours, with a little tan-colour behind the knee-joint. Her ears are pointed, and when she is at rest laid back, but when she is roused pricked up like your own. All these properties you may behold in me, but not exactly in an equal degree. The most remarkable difference between ourselves and you is this, that neither my mother nor myself are endued with the strong odour peculiar to the fox. My mother has never been let loose by the consent of her keepers, even in the inn-yard; but having once got loose by accident, when about two years old, she ran away a long distance, and being followed into a yard was there secured again. It was observed when running that she carried her tail level as I do, like a fox; sometimes it was crooked, but never upright. It was not so much curled as mine is.

I lived with my mother, and when I was two years old, a master of fox-hounds happening to hear of us, came to see us; and after making many inquiries, persuaded my owner to let him take me away with him. I was then placed under the care of the old feeder of hounds, with orders that I should be allowed to run about in the house, with his children for companions. I was shown to every one as a curious animal, and became a great favourite, but all attempts to tame me failed, and I never would let a stranger touch me. My master took me out with his dogs when he went to shoot rabbits, but found me wholly useless. The sound of the gun and the barking of the dogs frightened me so much that I always ran away into the nearest hedge or wood to hide myself; and I felt that my fate was sealed when I heard the old feeder say to my master one day, "Now, sir, I am sure that this here 'vulp'" (for so I was called) "will never be no use at all; for he is as wild and timorous now he is two years old as ever he was. We can't get un to do anything like the terriers; he frisks about like an eel, so as we can't touch un at times." Finding that I had no friend to say a good word for me I absconded, and when seen at a distance have often been mistaken for a fox, and scared by the cry of "Tally-ho! tally-ho!" and the hounds following me. That they never caught me I suppose may be attributed to my not having the fox's strong scent.

"Thy story is marvellous; but I must doubt its truth until I see thy mother. I fear that thou art like other vain creatures, who, knowing their own unworthiness, would fain connect themselves with those who are in any way excellent, but beware of betraying us."

"Ha! is it so? I am off."

"He is gone, and grins defiance! This mongrel will think nothing of destroying us by the dozen; but he may suffer for it yet.

"And now, my friends, as we have heard the mongrel's account of himself, let us hear Craven's story. Open thy lips and throw thy tongue freely; tell us how many times thou hast beaten these vexatious hounds, and be not chary of thy experience."


Craven's Story


It is unnecessary to enter into the ordinary details of my life after having heard our friend who invited us here. Consequently my story will be a short one. I was born and bred in Savernake Forest, in the Craven Hunt, where my father and mother had been considered to be of some importance, having often beaten a famous pack of hounds in that country. To the best of my recollection, the first pack of hounds by which I was hunted belonged to Mr. I. Ward; from them I had many narrow escapes, which I now, having since been hunted by other hounds, set down to their immense size, for although they could and did hunt me in an extraordinary manner, and pursued me closely in the flat country and in the forest, yet I found that I left them far behind when running over the flinty hills which separate that country from Mr. Ashton Smith's. Their steady style of hunting made it difficult to shake them off elsewhere. I once overheard a man remark to their master that they were larger than any that he had ever seen, especially as to their heads. The reply at first surprised me. "Yes, I like them large, for when once they get them down in hunting they are so heavy that they cannot get them up again." After being hunted by them under his direction, I was hunted by them when they belonged to Mr. Horlock, from whom also I have had some narrow escapes, principally by running through large woods, where they soon changed me for another fox. I recollect once, when lying in a small covert near Benham Park, I was startled by hearing the cry of another but smaller pack of hounds, as I could distinguish them to be by the sound of their tongues. Shortly afterwards I saw a fox pass near me much distressed, and very soon the fatal "whoop" was heard. It afterwards appeared that this gentleman's brother had permission to try whether he could kill with his small pack a fox which had more than once beaten the large one. The following season I was surprised one morning by hearing voices of some different men with hounds, drawing the wood in which I lay. I soon moved and went away from the wood, but was seen by men, who commenced hallooing, "Gone away!" The hounds were then hunting another fox in the wood, where they continued all day without killing him. At length I was found by them where there was no other fox. They pursued me for many miles in a most extraordinary way, and such good hunting hounds they were, that had I not gone down a road where a flock of sheep had just gone before, unknown to the huntsmen, I must have been killed. They there came to a check, and as it was contrary to Mr. Wyndham's system to assist his hounds by holding them forward, they never got near me again that day. It was very like the system described by our friend in the New Forest.

The following year I was again surprised by hearing the voice of another strange huntsman, before I knew that hounds were just coming into the wood. However, this notice was sufficient to prepare me for a start. Soon after I had moved from my kennel, a single hound threw his tongue. Mr. Smith gave a very loud cheer, and every hound appeared at once to be running on the scent. This so frightened me that I lost no time in leaving the covert and taking my way straight to the forest, where other foxes were soon moved by hearing the hounds; I escaped this time also. Not feeling however quite safe, I resorted to a plan which had been adopted by other foxes before. I contrived to crawl up the side of a large oak tree, by means of some small branches which grew out of its trunk near the bottom, and the stems of ivy which covered it farther up. At a considerable distance from the ground I found a desirable spot to rest upon, where the large branches, about which was a thick patch of the ivy, divided. To this place I resorted every morning for a long time, and thence could frequently see the horrible hounds, myself lying, as I fancied, in certain safety. One day, however, as I turned my head towards where they were hunting a fox in the wood close by, my attention was so riveted that I did not observe a keeper, who in passing the tree on the other side had seen me and was proceeding towards the hounds just at the moment the fatal "whoop!" was heard, -- the hounds having killed the unfortunate fox which they had been hunting.

Soon afterwards the keeper told Lady Elizabeth Bruce where I was; it was also communicated to Mr. Smith, who said, that although the hounds had had a hard day's work, the fox should be dislodged from his extraordinary situation if her ladyship wished to see it done. To my horror, the keeper brought the hounds straight to my tree and pointed to the spot where I lay as close as I could. As soon as they were taken away to a considerable distance and out of sight, the keeper was desired to climb up the tree and bring me down. The horror of my situation may be easily conceived as I heard him ascending. I did not move until I saw his hand close to me; but as he was on the point of taking hold of me I sprang from my lofty nest. Fortunately dropping on some branches which projected about half way down, I broke the fall, which would have broken my neck, and fell to the ground, from which I rebounded, I think, some feet. Much shaken by the fall, but fortunately nothing worse, I soon was on my legs and away across the forest straight to the west woods, which were about three miles distant. When the hounds were only the distance of half a field they saw me enter this immense covert; but, as several foxes were soon moving, I escaped; and the hounds were kept running till it was nearly dark. I have since heard that the height from which I sprang to the ground was afterwards measured to decide a bet, and that it was proved to be exactly twenty-seven feet. It was a strange adventure, but can be attested by many who saw it; and with this I conclude my story.

Now for Northampton Pytchly. Thou art familiar with these things; thou hast, no doubt, thy story by heart, and canst go a slapping pace.


Pytchly's Story


Recollect that when the pace is good it cannot last long, and so with my story, for I remember but little of my very early days. I have had the good luck to escape from several packs of hounds which have hunted my country, and am now arrived at a venerable age; indeed, so far advanced in my teens that I began to believe myself to be the oldest fox in the country, until I saw one who is fastened up by a chain in the back-yard of the Peacock Inn, at Kettering. Having been there ever since he was a cub, he is known to be eighteen years old, and he is now full one-fourth shorter than when in his prime of life. It is not likely that foxes often attain to such an age, as before that they become infirm; and in countries where there are hounds become an easy prey to them, and where there are no hounds they are killed by the gamekeepers.

The first pack of hounds by which I was hunted belonged to Mr. Osbaldiston, and a most trimming pack they were; but luckily for me, when they were going their best pace in pursuit of me, they sometimes overran the scent, owing to their great courage, which, in the breeding of them, seemed to have been more attended to than the nose. They sometimes ran away for a little while even from all the fast riders. These, however, generally contrived to get up again to them, especially when at a check; but every moment's delay made more clear to all the necessity of having best noses.

It may appear strange that I should have escaped from the different packs, since the Squire's[3] left, in so fine a country as this to which I belong, especially when such expense has been incurred to procure a strong pack on purpose to destroy us; but, luckily for us, the hunters fell into the mistake of trying to make what they called a flying pack, and to this end getting rid of all those which they called slow hounds, many of which were such as would not go the pace without a good scent, as they would have them do. Such hounds were always drafted, although, when there was a good scent, this sort could puzzle even the fast riders to keep with them. Partly to this cause, then, I attribute my having lived to my great age. There are other reasons why fewer foxes are killed than formerly. In the first place, the country is overrun with drains, of which there are thousands unknown to the hunters, but known to us. When severely pressed by the hounds, I have often got into one of them, and it frequently happened to be in the middle of an open field, when hounds in chase of me have run over it, and owing to their mettle and to their being pressed by hard riders, they have been urged on beyond it, then held on forward in every way by the huntsman; and if, after this, the drain has been discovered, the scent, owing to the time lost, has been nearly gone. The entrance to drains is generally in a low part of the land, which is chilled by water upon it, and therefore may not hold a scent to discover that we have gone into one.

During the time that that fine old sportsman, Lord Spencer, hunted this country, there were nothing like so many of these drains as there are now, which may in some measure account for fewer foxes being killed at the present time than when Charles King hunted the hounds. I have heard my old granny say that the first thing his lordship thought of and wished to do, was to improve and strengthen his pack in every possible way. Of late, the pack has been thought to be of least consideration; and it would seem by the system adopted, that a fox is to be run down by men who can ride fast, and that whippers-in are nearly all that is wanted. For instance, when I have been pursued by the hounds, if I have run towards or through any covert, I have frequently been astonished, after passing through it, and almost before the hounds had arrived at it, to see one of the whippers-in riding beyond it, in order to see me go away, which he rarely or never could do; and if he did by accident get in time to see me at all, the consequence was, that when I saw him I went back again into the covert, and then, if there was any fresh fox or foxes in it, they were pretty sure to be changed and hunted, and I escaped. It generally happened that I had gone on through the covert before the whipper-in got round, in time to see, not me, but a fresh fox go away, to which he would probably halloo on the hounds, and, not knowing the difference, declare it was the hunted one.

I suppose you will now not wonder that I have lived to so great an age in this country. It is true I have had some narrow escapes within the last few seasons, particularly one in the year 1840, when I was found by the hounds then belonging to Mr. Smith, and in consequence of beating them, called the Hero of Waterloo. I attributed my escape to the system above described and adopted by the men on that occasion, when the hounds were hallooed on to a fresh fox, which the whipper-in Jones had viewed away on the farther side of Loalland Wood, at a time when the hounds were hunting my scent through it, I having gone through and away from it long before he got there. On looking back I witnessed, to my regret, Mr. Smith's displeasure at the system, which from that time he insisted should not be continued. However, I was, four days afterwards, lying in a small wood at Kelmarsh, when the hounds pursued a fox in full cry, and came straight towards where I lay. Just before they arrived I heard the following words addressed by Mr. Smith to his whipper-in: "Where are you riding to before the hounds, when they are running hard? Keep behind them in your place. If we cannot kill our fox without your acting thus, we had better have a pack of whippers-in, and no hounds at all." I never heard of or saw the same system again.

Many other changes took place, which, as being unlike what we had been used to, were by no means agreeable to us. One of them was the former way of giving up hunting a fox and going to find another. On some occasions, when I have been found and hunted by the hounds, and fancied that I was safe, as I had done on previous occasions whenever I could not hear them, I was surprised to hear them, after a short time, again hunting on the line I had come. I was once found by the hounds in a covert close to Fox Hall, and after they had pursued me closely for a few miles, I, in consequence of there being a line of dry fallows, left them far behind; so that I had given up all idea of being disturbed again by them that day, and stopped in Mr. Hope's plantation; I had been but a short time there when they again approached, but slowly, and I heard the following words addressed to Mr. Smith, who was hunting his hounds: "How much longer shall you go on with this cold scent? Don't you think you can find another fox?" The reply was, "I shall hunt this as long as a hound will own the scent. We shall get up to him by and by, and kill him too."

On hearing this it was time to be off. I was shortly after seen in the plantation, and hunted closely by the hounds, which, after another long check, again got on my scent in the wood where I was first found. They hunted me very fast across some of the finest grass country, and I was obliged to take refuge in a drain under a road leading to a field, where fortunately I found another fox, and succeeded in getting beyond him in his retreat. It often occurs that the fox which is hunted and frightened forces his way beyond the fresh one, and there remains during the operation of digging, and when the huntsmen come by, the fresh fox is drawn out and given to the hounds. Such was the case now, and so I escaped, for luckily it was getting late, and the hounds were taken away immediately without their discovering that I was left behind. I had time to remark that only one man, who was addressed as his Grace, was with the hounds at the finish, or indeed for a long time during the run, nearly all having left at the time of slow-hunting.

And now, my friends, I have done.

"Done! Tell us first what has become of our friend old King Stumpy. There is a rumour that he is dead, and I do not perceive any one here without a brush."

Alas! he is no more. He was captured, and massacred, and died an ignominious death. It happened last autumn that he was found as usual in Grafton Park one morning, as soon as it was light, by this new pack, when he had imprudently glutted himself, and was thinking again to save his life by immediately running into a drain, in which he had so often saved himself before after a severe day's hunting. He who had been king of the forest, and had for so many years fairly beaten his enemies, was now dug out and devoured by the hounds on the spot. Oh! the ruthless and unfeeling beasts! Yet, be it confessed, that we ourselves do sometimes dig out a mouse or so, but it is to eat him kindly, you know.

Here I intended to finish my story, but as I am expected to explain how I have escaped from every pack by which I have been hunted, I must add, that having for a long time had a wish to see that part of the Northampton country hunted till last year by the Duke of Grafton's hounds, in which the woods were of immense size, having heard that T. Carter and his killing pack had left the country, and thinking it would be a place of greater security for my old age, I went there last spring, but had not been long settled in Puckland's woods before I was disturbed by hearing another pack, which soon found me out, and pursued me for some time most closely, till at length they came to a check. When listening, I heard a person ride up and use these words to the huntsman: "Well, what are you going to do now? You had better be doing something; it's no use standing still." There was some reply which I could not hear. However, I discovered that the man addressed was Taylor the huntsman, and that the pack was the remainder of that by which I had first been hunted when it belonged to Mr. Osbaldiston. The only difference I could observe was, that they were not quite so powerful. That they were stout enough I had reason to know; for although I escaped after their hunting me for several hours in these large woods, they afterwards killed another fox without leaving the covert.

On another day, when I was lying in a large covert adjoining the Forest of Whittlebury, and the hounds had been drawing some distance beyond the spot where I lay, I thought that I could steal away unseen, and had nearly reached the outside of the wood when I was much annoyed by the noise of a jay, which kept flying above me as I went on. When I stopped I heard a man say, "There is a fox moving close to that jay, I'll be sworn; just look, you will see him cross that path directly." This talking frightened me from the spot, and on my going a little farther and crossing a path, another man exclaimed, "There he goes! it was a fox that jay was making such a noise about." He then gave a loud view-halloo; the hounds soon came up, and after running some time in the forest, I left them following another fox.

The little I had to say is said.

"Come, Dorset, fain would we hear thy story next. Our thoughts should be open as the heavens above, and free as the winds that follow us. We are brethren and fellows in our way of life, and thou may'st not doubt that we will judge thy deeds fairly but kindly."

"Justice, then, is fled to lowly beasts, for men have none of it. Listen to my story, friends; a plain and unvarnished one it is, and you shall have it freely and entirely."


Dorset's Story


I was born in Cranborne Chace, which is in Mr. Farquharson's hunt, and it was here that I first heard the sound of a huntsman's voice, the voice of old Ben Jennings; and melodious as it might have been considered by others, it was any thing but agreeable to my ear when he used it to cheer on his hounds, which appeared so well to understand it. It frequently was the cause of my leaving this large covert. I returned to it because the hounds were apt to get on the scent of another fox. The voice became at last so familiar to me that I heeded it not, but rather found amusement in it, taking little trouble to be out of hearing of it when the hounds were hunting me; but another season came, and great was the difference. I lay in a favourite covert called Short Wood, when I was startled by another voice instead of old Ben's, that of the new huntsman, Treadwell's, clear and beautiful -- not so powerful as that which I had been used to of late, nor was it vox et praeterea nihil; for his system was one which soon made me give up listening when the hounds were pursuing. I found that I had now no longer time to wait and hang about as I had done. I was obliged to get away as fast as I could, and had enough to do to escape from the new man, whose coolness and perseverance frightened me. My first escape was owing to an imperfect cast which he made when the hounds had come to a check in a field, where there was a flock of sheep, for instead of taking the hounds entirely round and close under the hedge, beginning at the left hand, he missed that corner for about fifty yards, where it happened that I had gone through the fence, and by the time he had taken them close all round every where else and held them on forward, time was lost, and the hounds got on the scent exactly opposite. Although it now became slow hunting, I did not feel safe until I heard him blow his horn to go home. I believe that this kind of mistake, or rather neglect, has been frequent on the part of other huntsmen by whom I have been hunted. Be that as it may, one or two escapes from this able man and his pack were sufficient to induce me to get quickly into another hunt out of his way. Those escapes may be attributed to the want of scent, and they will not seem surprising, if the time be calculated which was lost at every check, whilst I was going on without listening as the hare always does. Having stopped some little time in a strong covert of gorse in an open down, in Mr. Drax's country, south of Blandford, and close adjoining to Lord Portman's, I was one morning annoyed by hearing the voice of Mr. Drax's huntsman, John Last, who was drawing the covert with his hounds, by which I was shortly after surrounded. Being ignorant of the runs and tracks in the gorse, I was so pressed by them that I sprung upon the top of the gorse, and ran along it for a few yards, but the hallooing of the hunters soon frightened me down again. At length I went straight away across the down in view of all the hunters, and had not gone more than a hundred yards before a large man on a heavy gray horse rode between me and the covert, and began hallooing in the most frightful manner, at the same time waving his hat as if he was out of his mind: the consequence of which was, that the hounds, which were hunting me closely out of the covert, immediately they saw and heard him threw up their heads and ran wildly after him, expecting to see me, which fortunately they did not, as I had by that time just got beyond a small elevation in the down, which prevented the man also from seeing me. I turned directly to the left. He now found out the mischief he had done by causing the hounds to lift their heads, and galloped on still farther, hoping to get another view of me, but in vain, as I had sunk into a small valley, and he luckily turned the hounds in a direction opposite to that in which I had gone. The scene at this time defies description. "What are you at, you crazy old man? You have lost our fox!" and endless execrations were lavished on him. I believe this circumstance saved my life; for had it not occurred, the hounds would have had me in view for three miles across the downs, and although it was some little time before they got on my scent again, they came after me at a most terrific pace, which fortunately, however, was slackened on their crossing the road and having to climb over a wall into the grounds adjoining some immense woods, through the whole of which they hunted me again at a good pace, and straight on for nine or ten miles, till I was almost exhausted; luckily they were stopped when crossing a field where there was a flock of sheep, no one being there to assist them. Shortly I heard in a loud voice, "John! Where is John?" and finding that they were not likely to get much assistance from the huntsman, I quietly retraced my steps towards the place from which I started, but remained there for a short time only.

I was again lying one morning in a piece of gorse near the Down House, when I was waked by hearing what I thought was the whistle of the keeper, but which turned out to be that of Lord Portman's huntsman, whose hounds were all around me before I was aware. The men on horseback were scattered in all directions over the down, and it would have served them right if they had lost their day's sport, which they very nearly did, as I stole away to a large rabbit earth close by, into which I ran.

Unluckily some of the hounds got on my scent and hunted it up to the earth, where they marked it by stopping and baying. Shortly after this two or three of the hunters rode up, and I heard the following words: "Not worth saving: get him out and give him to the hounds; he can't run a yard." However, it was decided that I should have a chance, as they called it; and a pretty chance it was. I was dug out, put into a sack, and given to the whipper-in, with orders to turn me out on the down. Something was said about cutting my hamstrings, in order to lame me, and one wished to cut off my brush; and that it was not done was a great disappointment to the wretch. I was turned out at only about a hundred yards from the pack, but contrived to reach a hedge just as one of the leading hounds had got close to me, when I turned short to the left down the narrow ditch. The hounds all sprang over the fence, and then, not seeing me there, fortunately turned first to the right; and before they had found out that I had gone down the ditch I had got out on the other side again, and ran to a corner, when I turned through it again into another cross-hedge. By these means I got clear off before they had another sight of me, for they overran my line of scent a little when they got back on the down on my track. I well recollect hearing the huntsman calling loudly to the whipper-in to get on and head the fox from going to the woods; but he, poor thing, was in a state of too much excitement to understand what was meant, and even if he had understood, it would have been a fruitless attempt to stop me from making my point to reach a wood or place of safety on such an occasion, even if my first attempts had been prevented. I may flatter myself that a hundred witnesses are ready to pronounce it as clever an escape as was ever effected by a fox in similar circumstances. For the future they will not say that a fox cannot run, and condemn him to be given to the hounds, merely for running into an earth.

I now made the best of my way straight to the large woods which I had passed through when hunted by the other pack, and luckily made good use of my time, for they came after me as if their feet had been winged, neither road nor wall delaying them. I had enough to do to keep out of their way through these large woods, which they traversed nearly as fast as if in the open country. At the extremity of the woods, to my surprise, I met the noble master of the pack, who had succeeded in getting to that point before me, the result of which was that I turned back into the covert before he saw me, and caused a slight check, after which they again approached me, just as I had reached the wall which surrounded the wood, at the top of the hill looking into the vale, where I descended, and looking back saw the hounds for a short time again at a check, owing to that high ground being slightly covered with snow. I dreaded lest they should take the hounds on beyond the snow towards the vale where I was; but they soon turned back, and I heard no more. It was nearly three o'clock, which some think time to go homeward rather than from home, as would have been the case if they had followed me, when probably I should not have lived to tell my tale. The scent in the vale is always so much greater than on the hills from which they had hunted me, that I must have fallen a prey to this pack. Although we are endowed with so large a share of wisdom, it is not all-sufficient; or else we should be aware that when pursued by hounds and nearly beaten by them, it must be all but certain death to us to run from a bad scenting country into a good one.

Having now openly defeated the enemies who had conspired against me, I remained in the vale until I was tempted to move into a finer and fairer country. Great changes are going on in the hunting of the country which I left; and should we ever meet again there may be much for me to tell. For the present I have done.

"We now look to thee, Warwick, to give us something good; thy country has produced one of the most extraordinary men that ever lived. He knew all the wiles of the wiliest creature that walks the earth. Dost thou think that Shakespeare would have been a good huntsman?"

"By the faith of a fox I should have been most loath to try him. Did he possess the following qualities: boldness, perseverance, activity, enterprise, temper, and decision? Had he a keen perception of relative place? Had he a good eye and ear? If he had all these, and more, then might Shakespeare have been an immortal fox-hunter.

"It is little that I have seen in this country, and I have little to tell; but I will at once proceed and state to what cause I attribute my escape on one or two occasions lately."


Warwick's Story


In the month of March last I was lying in a strong gorse-covert, not far from Nuneham, when after hearing the voice of Stephens, the huntsman to the Atherstone[4] hounds, I heard the following remarks by one sportsman to another, both being on horseback and waiting close to where I was in my kennel.

"Well, I do hate that silent system; had Robert not been so sparing of his voice, or had he only given one blast of his horn when he began drawing the small spinney just now, the hounds would not have chopped that vixen in cub; for vixens in that state are unable to run far, and are unapt to move till pressed to do so by the approach of danger. She probably had been so much used to see the keeper and his dogs pass, that, not hearing the huntsman's voice or horn, she was taken by surprise when the hounds got round her; if she had moved before, she might have been seen, and the hounds stopped in time to save her. No doubt she had been there some weeks before, and, in consequence of having a good friend at the great house not being ever disturbed, she believed that she was safe."

I would not venture to listen any longer, for I heard the same hounds running another fox in the gorse close by me. It appeared that there was also another besides, making altogether three of us. Finding this to be the case, and thinking to be very cunning, I took an early opportunity of quitting the covert; and had scarcely got across two fields before I saw a multitude of men on horseback riding along the road in a parallel direction to that which I was going. They had seen me leave the covert without waiting for the hounds, which they ought to have known were running still after another fox; however, when they found that the hounds were not running after the same fox that they were themselves, they began hallooing, and the hounds were shortly afterwards brought and got on my scent. Of course I returned to the covert, for I had no notion of being thus hunted by men, and wished to let the gentlemen know that I would not go unless I chose to do so, let them halloo as they would. I therefore punished them by running for nearly three quarters of an hour longer in the covert. This brought them a little to their senses, and they gave me room to make another attempt. Not liking to remain in such close quarters with this sticking pack, I seized an opportunity, and went away on the side of the covert opposite to that which I had first attempted, and though I was viewed away by several men, it happened that they were able this time to hold their horses and their tongues until I had got fairly away, when they certainly did halloo, so that about half the pack came to them. The whipper-in was sent to stop them, and as soon as the huntsman had got a few more he also came to them; but not having quite three parts of the pack he did not go on with them, but stopped and blew his horn for the others which he had left. Some of them shortly after came, but seeing him stopping where he was, did not appear to be in any haste, possibly because they were aware that they had left a fox in the covert; but, from his stopping, it might not have appeared to them that a fox had gone on, or they would not have taken it so leisurely.

To this, then, do I attribute my escape; for, though they did hunt me for a mile or so, the time was lost, and so too, of course, the scent; this, added to the impatience shown by the men who were out, settled the business for me. An accident which had lately occurred to Stephen, the huntsman, by which his foot was injured, prevented him, I conclude, from being every moment close to the hounds, when these men were so anxious to get on, and the huntsman's presence was so absolutely necessary to prevent their doing mischief. However, I had no reason to regret it, for I went straight across a fine country; though it was reported that I had returned to the covert, which was not likely; I may add, on this occasion, that I went to the coverts at Comb, to which place they also came to find another fox. They did not cross the line I had come, but passed through part of a large covert where I had stopped, without drawing it, expecting to find a fox at the other end of it.

Seeing this, I slipped back behind them, and was stealing away, as I thought undiscovered (no uncommon thing for me to do), unluckily, a man in a red coat had stopped back, as if on purpose to see any fox that might be left behind; and as soon as I was out of sight he gave a loud view-halloo, by repeating which he brought the hounds after a short time on to the line of my scent. This caused me to lose no time, and having now a good start, I ran straight through all those large woods until I got to the end of that near the railway, when I turned to the right; and after stopping in an outside covert for some time, thinking that I had escaped, I heard the hounds hunting very slowly, till they were quite silent. But I was soon after surprised to hear the huntsman taking them across the wood where I was, and instantly left it in a direction opposite to that where I had seen all the hunters ride; consequently only a few followed with the hounds when they hunted me across the river and railway into the open, beyond Coventry. They ran me back to near the side of the river, when they were taken to the other side, which happening to be towards Leamington, I remained in that part, and had got so far as Ufton Wood. I was found there a few days afterwards by the new huntsman of the Warwickshire hounds and that pack. Having previously heard that they had learned much from Carter, the Duke of Grafton's late huntsman, under whom he had been whipper-in, and that he had been doing much mischief amongst us, I lost no time in leaving this large covert, and was soon followed by the pack, which hunted me at a fair pace, until they had followed me part of the way across a dry fallow field. As my good luck would have it, there was also another fallow in the direction which I had gone, straight beyond. It seems that Stephen, the huntsman, made one or two casts with his hounds across each of these fallow fields without success. In his anxiety not to lose, I suppose he forgot that if the hounds could not hunt scent over one fallow they could not over another. He omitted to hold the hounds on and across the next field of wheat beyond it, and took them back towards the covert where I came from, and thus it was that I escaped; for after some remark was made to him on the subject, he directly took the hounds back to the field beyond the fallow; they there got on my line of scent, and after hunting slowly for a couple of miles, fortunately for me gave it up; otherwise, the line I had taken was so good that I might have fallen a victim to this persevering and promising young huntsman. After a little more experience he will be a dangerous enemy of ours.

"Now, Chester, tell us how they go on in thy part of the world, and how thou hast contrived to escape from that famous hunting pack of hounds, which we are told belonged to the late Mr. Codrington. Tell us, moreover, is it a good huntsman they have to hunt them?"


Chester's Story


As foxes are scarce in our country, I alone could be found to travel here, and having been hunted only one season, I am, from my own experience, but ill qualified to reply to your question as to the huntsman. I have as yet escaped from being hunted by him, but I do hear that he is in all respects most excellent. Unfortunately for him, but fortunately for us, he was lately disabled by the fracture of a bone of his leg; and consequently could not come with the hounds when they hunted the last week in the Namptwich country. For reasons to be given hereafter, I had rarely lain in coverts of late, and had preferred lying in hedgerows. I happened, however, to be lying in a covert one day when I heard the voice of a man who was hunting hounds which turned out to be Mr. White's, and as they were close to me before I heard them, my only chance was to leave the covert immediately; but in the first field I was met by some men on horseback who frightened me back again. I was not seen by the hounds, which ran out of the wood on my scent as far as I had gone, but were turned back, not without a little loss of time, which was a favourable occurrence for me. I went straight through the wood and away on the opposite side, and soon found that they were after me. I kept on, but not in a straight line, which rather puzzled the gentleman who was hunting them. They came at length to a final check, and could hunt no farther. I thought that if Marden had been hunting them, there was one cast which he would have made, and that was to the left of the field where they lost the scent; for although each of the other sides were tried by casting the hounds that way twice over, they were never taken once round beyond the field to the left; and to this I attribute my escape, for I was nearly beaten, and it appeared that the pack which I found such difficulty in shaking off and defeating by turning so short as I had done during the run, was that which belonged to the late Mr. Codrington. It is stated that they killed every fox that they hunted during eight following weeks. They are said not to be compared for beauty to the former pack, which is reported to have been a magnificent one; but "handsome is that handsome does."

Now, my friends, I will tell you why I prefer hedgerows and out-of-the-way places to fix on for a kennel. Listen to a matter of fact, but a melancholy story of what took place in a part of the country where I was bred. It happened when in a favourite little covert near Namptwich that I was attracted by the scent of a bait which was placed under a large iron trap, carefully covered over with some light grass and moss; on attempting to remove these I unfortunately struck the trap, which went off and caught me by the foot. Need I describe the agony I endured, confined as I was by the mangled foot? Daylight appeared, when, nearly exhausted with pain, I made a desperate effort with my other forefoot, and succeeded in pulling out the peg that confined to the ground the chain of the trap, which I dragged away for some distance. I then lay down overcome with pain, and in this deplorable condition remained for two or three days and nights. The foot being now as it were benumbed and almost insensible, I in order to save my life fairly bit it off with my teeth, and thus released myself from the trap. Not long after this had occurred a more tragical affair took place in this very same covert. In the early part of the month of March in the present year 1843, I was lying, as was my custom, in a thick and broad hedge, when late in the day I was much frightened by the approach of the hounds, passing near me rather quickly to my great relief, for it appeared that they had not found a fox all day. They immediately begun drawing the covert, and shortly afterwards a fox was seen with an iron trap fast to his foreleg, which was broken above the knee. In the course of a few minutes the fatal "whoop" was heard, the signal of his death.

During the tumult which ensued amongst the gentlemen who had been hunting, an honest farmer, whose land surrounded the covert, came up and stated that a short time before he had found in a field close by a large trap exactly of the same sort, which had in it two of a fox's toes. They belonged to the foot which I parted with myself. It is impossible to describe the sensation created by this additional circumstance; but it caused amongst other remarks the following, which reached my ears: -- "These acts of shocking cruelty were scarcely ever heard of in this part, till game became an article of traffic to the landlord, and shooting on his land began to be let to strangers who have no interest whatever in the welfare of the country where it lies. Nothing conduces to that welfare more than brilliant sport afforded by a pack of hounds; as it leads others, as well as those who own estates, to become residents in the country. Noblemen and gentlemen have now lost their good old English feelings, and instead of inviting their friends for the sport, they let their shooting, or sell their game in the market. It frequently happens that the persons to whom the shooting is let are men who are engaged in business and reside in large towns. They are consequently ignorant of the tricks and cruelties of their keepers during their absence, and unaware of the disappointment these keepers create to hundreds of gentlemen who reside in the country, who keep large establishments of horses for the express purpose of hunting, and whose money might otherwise be spent in more questionable ways in town or elsewhere."

I have heard the following lines recited by one who said that they ought to be put up over the mantelpiece of every farmer in the kingdom: -- 

Attend, ye farmers, to this tale, And when ye mend the broken rail, Reflect with pleasure on a sport That lures your landlord from the court, To dwell and spend his rents among The country folk from whom they sprung; And should his steed with trampling feet Be urged across your tender wheat, That steed, perchance, by you was bred, And yours the corn by which he's fed, Ah! then restrain your rising ire, Nor rashly curse the hunting squire. -- WARBURTON.

"So, Devonian, tell us thy history, for methinks 'twill be something strange."


Devonian's Story


My story must needs be a short one. In my own country I am called "The Bold Dragoon," and as every name either has or ought to have a particular meaning, I am so called in consequence of having once been in the possession of a certain captain of dragoons who lived in the far West. These are my facts. I was born and bred in a wild part of Devonshire, and when a year old fell into the possession of a keeper. To state exactly how such a thing happened might sometimes be inconvenient, as in hunting countries a man scarcely dares to confess the crime of capturing a fox, for lucre at least. But here the keeper, thinking me remarkable for size and strength, carried me to Captain T --  -- ,[5] who sent me off immediately as a present to Mr. G. Templar, the master of a pack of small foxhounds at Stover in Devonshire, and I was carried into a dark and gloomy place, which had been at first intended for a large stable, and was above seventy feet in length, and nearly the same in breadth. Here I was let loose, and looking about me in my fright, what should I see but at least twenty other foxes, all coiled up in the snug holes which they had made for themselves. Besides these there were others out of sight. They all took much care to hide themselves when any man came in. As soon as he who had brought me there had left the place, they all came round me. I soon learnt for what purpose I was brought hither, for it appeared that each of them had been separately hunted by this gentleman's hounds, which he had brought under such command, that they scarcely ever killed the fox they hunted; for when hunting up to him, if a rider was near enough to make his voice heard, and he rated or spoke to them, they would only bay at him till he was again captured, placed in a bag, and carried home again.

It rarely happened that not the master nor huntsman, nor the reverend friend who called himself first whipper-in, were up at the time, as they were generally mounted on thorough-bred horses, which they well knew how to ride. For myself, it is a well-known fact that I have been turned out and hunted by these hounds eighteen times, though I have striven hard to get away. On no occasion was I injured by the hounds, and I must do my possessor justice by stating that he thoroughly understands the nature of all the animals that he had to manage.

The extraordinary distance which we ran, when hunted by these hounds, may be attributed to our perfect ignorance of the country where we were turned out, which also accounts for our not oftener running at once to the impracticable parts which abound here, and in which no horses could have followed the hounds. In consequence of our knowing none of the coverts, we often ran straight across Dartmoor, where the scent was so good that the pace at which we were followed by the hounds made it often most severe work for us; and it became almost a relief to be taken up and replaced in the bag, which was carried for that purpose, and reconveyed to our gloomy prison, where we were well supplied with rabbits and other food.

The various habits of our race were most apparent. Some would keep quiet in their kennels, which were holes made by them in the ground, or where loose stones had been removed from the bottom of the wall which surrounded our prison, watching what was going on; whilst others were constantly moving about, as if in search of some outlet for escape. One, whose activity was extraordinary, had chosen for his place of rest a hole in the wall, being the opening intended for a window, which had been stopped up on the outside. It was full eight feet from the ground, and it was surprising, even to us, to see him run, with the greatest ease, up the perpendicular wall, as he daily did, aided by the roughness of the surface alone.

It now remains for me to explain how I am here and at liberty. We were one day surprised by the entrance of our feeder, who brought in several hampers, in which we were all taken to be turned out in the adjoining woods, there to shift for ourselves.

So you see that although I cannot boast of having beaten a pack of hounds, according to the tenor of the invitation, I have run away from them altogether, and am here to do you service by proving the error of the arch enemy, in thinking it absolutely necessary for his hounds to devour the animal they have been hunting, that their ardour in the chase may be increased. I have been sorely hunted by them, my friends, and not until they had won the day, and run up to their object, did they relax -- not till then were they satisfied.

Again I would ask, why should our enemy wish to slaughter us when seeking refuge in an earth, up to which his hounds have hunted? seeing that those hounds so plainly show their contentment with having succeeded, and done all that was required of them.

All. "Bravo! bravo! well said, thou bold Dragoon!"

"Now, Berkshire, we pray thee tell us whether thou dost like a royal neighbourhood; whether thou art safer, and whether thy treatment there is preferable to our own. Tell us all that thou canst, as thou livest nearer to those parts than most of us do."


Berkshire's Story


On that score, my friends, I have not much to boast of; but having heard that the fair Queen had taken to herself a consort who rejoiced in the chase, I resolved to visit the royal forest. Soon I found that foxes here existed only in name. Some day in December I was lying in Windsor Forest about three o'clock in the afternoon, when I was disturbed by the voice of Sir J. Cope's huntsman, Shirley, who was taking the hounds through the forest to find a fox. Though so late, he was most persevering, and appeared determined to learn whether or not within the purlieus of the forest there was a fox left alive by the keepers. Seeing this, I lost no time; but when stealing away was viewed by some of the hunters. The hounds soon followed me, and though it was a bad scenting day, I narrowly escaped. I saw enough of them to convince me that they were not to be trifled with, and that a tolerable scent would tax all my powers to beat them.

It was some years ago that I was lying in a covert at Billingbeare, when I was startled by Shirley's voice. I soon got away from the covert, thinking that I was not seen, but I was mistaken. A view-halloo was given, and the hounds were soon on my scent. I went the best pace I could straight towards and through the large woods at Shottesbrook, and onwards in the direction of Maidenhead thicket, where I passed through the middle of a small village. As the hounds had not been seen or heard, no one was looking out, and consequently no one saw me, although I passed through a cottage garden; and it behoves me to state that I probably owed my safety to nothing more dignified than a pig-sty attached to that garden, and which neutralised the scent; for the hounds soon afterwards hunting so far, were unable to hunt farther. It was supposed by the huntsman that I had taken refuge in some of the buildings, and a search was made; when a sportsman who was present expressed his surprise to a gentleman well-known in the hunt that they did not first hold on the hounds beyond the village, and make that good first; they would then have seen whether I had gone on or not, and if not it would have been time to come back and try all those places. This hint was taken, but too late to gain by it, for the scent, which the hounds had got on again, was now so cold that they could hunt me but slowly, instead of going at the pace they had hitherto gone, and which must have been the death of me had it been continued but a short time longer. I went straight on for several miles, until I reached the Thames near Cookham. I did not like to cross it, and returned to Bisham Wood; by which time, owing to my stopping about in a part of the wood, the hounds had got very near to me, when it luckily grew nearly dark; and though I was seen by them at not more than five hundred yards' distance, they were stopped and taken home, and I narrowly escaped from one of the most dashing packs in the kingdom. It is to be hoped by us in this part that his Royal Highness Prince Albert will have his commands obeyed by the keepers in Windsor Forest, and that this pack of hounds will not be driven elsewhere to find a fox. I now remained for a short time in a very thick covert, called Pigeon-House Coppice, through which I passed when hunted by the hounds.

There is a tragical story connected with this covert. The hounds many years since had met, and the gentlemen were all assembled, when the keeper who had the care of the coverts made his appearance, and producing a sack in which there was a fox, told them that unless they gave him a certain sum of money for it to turn out and hunt, he would shoot him before their eyes. This atrocious threat made them all quite furious, and they refused to give him anything; on which this monster in the shape of man immediately laid the sack which contained the fox on the ground, and according to his threat shot him dead. The rage which was felt by all present it is impossible to describe. They did not put him in his own sack and throw him into a pond close by; but he was soundly horsewhipped and instantly discharged from his place.

A much better feeling towards us now exists in this part of the country, and I have no longer a dread of being shot. But it is my intention to return to my old country, near Billingbeare and Shottesbrook, as I hear that the keepers there receive strict orders never to destroy one of us. This is the more handsome on the part of the occupier of the latter place, as he is not a fox-hunter himself. No doubt I shall be suffered to lie in the coverts of the former, though I find much of my food at Shottesbrook, where the coverts are so thin and hollow that I could not remain there during the day without many chances of being disturbed by the keeper's dogs. I hope at some future time to be able to tell you that the breed of foxes in those parts, and in the royal purlieus, has so increased that it has been unnecessary for me to risk my life very often with Sir J. Cope's fine pack of hounds. It is reported that he intends to pay more frequent visits to these parts in future, in consequence of having given up the distant part of the country.

"And now, Sandy, tell us what is going on north of Tweed. Be there any hounds there? It is reported that foxes there are shot like rabbits. The mountains, it seems, are not to be rode over, and so no fox-hunting; is it so?"


Sandy's Story


Let me at once undeceive you upon one point. It is not the mountains there, but the hounds, that are hard to be rode over, and that on account of the scent. We have, however, noble lords and others who can and do keep with the hounds, except on the steepest parts of the Cheviots. In the next place, let me pray of you not to believe the slanderers who say that we are so unmercifully slaughtered. No, my friends, it is not so. We have patrons as good as, if not better, than you have in the South. One gentleman alone has lately raised, at his own expense, for our sole use, a series of coverts, which was the only thing required, as both sides of Tweed, Berwickshire, and Northumberland are as fine country as can be desired, and, unfortunately for us, as good scenting as any in the kingdom.

It is supposed that when people can fly thither by steam, it will become the Melton of the North; but I hope the idea will end, as it began, in smoke. You, my southern friends, appear to think that we do not go the very fast pace that you do, and that the hounds by which we are hunted are not equally as good as those in your country; but in this, too, you are much mistaken. So good is the scent there that, if it were not for the drains, which are now so general in the cultivated parts, the hounds, at the awful pace they go, would in a very short time kill nearly every one of us. Then the huntsmen are not to be despised; on the contrary, we have to contend with one who, with the following qualifications, is near perfection, -- the eye of an eagle, fine temper, boldness, enterprise, coolness, perseverance, intelligence, and, above all, decision. This is the rare man with whom, and with whose pack, we have to contend. I am proud to say that I have been hunted by, and escaped from him, on a good scenting day too, by taking refuge in the crevice of a rock, after one of the fastest runs possible for five miles. It began thus: -- One morning early last season, when lying in a covert called Bushen Glen, I was startled by hearing a man riding quickly by. He then suddenly stopped and addressed these few words to the whipper-in, who brought the hounds.

"How long have you been here?"

"Just come, my lord."

"Is Mr. Smith here?"

"Not yet, my lord."

"Well, I never was so thoroughly drenched; never rode twenty-four miles in such a deluge; so, by Jove, I can't wait. Give me my horse."

No sooner done, than "Cover hoick!" reached my astonished ears, and I instantly left my kennel prepared for a start. In a few minutes I was stealing away, and after clearing the wall and running in the open moor, I passed near the gentleman, I suppose, who was expected, and who, on seeing me, said not a word. I therefore, thinking I was unseen, did not turn back to the covert, but, laying my ears well back on my poll, took straight away across the moor, and just had a glimpse of the hounds and their noble huntsman, Lord Elcho,[6] topping the wall at the same time. My flight, however, was too rapid to allow time for much curiosity. This was enough to make me go my best pace straight across the moor for four miles, and then a mile or two beyond, over fields, till I reached a hanging covert on a steep by the side of the Whitadder River, at which time the hounds were not more than four hundred yards from me. Although they did not see me, they ran the whole way as if they really did.

Here, although there was soon another fox or two moving, they still went on with my scent; for with the most unerring judgment this huntsman kept the pack from changing, till at length I crossed the river and over the moor on the other side to a place of refuge, a crevice in a rock, for I could not go farther. The gentlemen rode up, and I heard these words: "Well, I never saw a finer run. During the first four miles the tail hounds never got to the head at all, though not one hundred yards behind those that were leading when they first started."

On other occasions I have saved my life in a similar way, but a circumstance occurred which almost made me resolve never again to resort to a drain. I was one night crossing a farm, not many miles from Dunse, when I heard cries as of a fox in distress, and on going to the spot whence the noise proceeded I discovered that two of my brethren were confined in a stone drain, where they had been several days without food, and were nearly starved. I used every exertion in my power to scratch away the stones which had been placed to stop up the entrance, in order to prevent a fox going into it, as Lord Elcho's hounds were to meet near it next day. Fortunately Mr. Wilson, the owner of the land, passed that way and saw that the ground and stones had been lately disturbed by me, when he removed them, and saw the two foxes, one of which was found dead shortly after. He ascertained that his man had stopped them in nine days before, and that he forgot to open the drain again.

I once crossed the Tweed at a dangerous part, thinking that I should, by so doing, leave the hounds and all behind. Not so; for the huntsman was not to be stopped, but swam his horse, as two or three others did, across the river, Treadwell, Mr. Robertson's[7] huntsman, taking the lead. Having thus crossed the river without gaining my point, and running in a ring of several miles, I recrossed the river at a spot where it was impossible for horses to cross; so that, being a long way round, the hounds were stopped, and it was agreed that I was drowned in the Tweed.

Having seen some part of the country on the English side of the Tweed, I determined to cross back to it; and after being there a short time only, and lying in a field of large turnips, not uncommon in this part, I was awakened by hearing a loud voice: "Treadwell, I wish you would draw the hounds through this turnip field. It is a very likely place to find a fox." This order was obeyed with the utmost silence; but fortunately, having had the previous notice, I was off and away as fast as my legs could carry me, and was not seen, owing to the height of the turnips, until I reached the next field. The hounds soon got on my scent, and pursued me closely for about twenty-five minutes, so extremely fast, that I began to think I had changed my country for the worse.

Independently of their great speed, I could not hear them, as I did those by which I had been hunted on the other side of Tweed. I reached in safety a small covert, in passing through which it appeared that the hounds got on the scent of another fox, which turned out to be a cub, and so I escaped; for although an old sportsman saw me after I left the covert going apparently much distressed, and evidently the hunted fox, yet the hounds were not allowed to be taken from that which they were running, which it appeared they some time afterwards killed, scarcely having left the covert.

I had one or two more escapes from this determined huntsman and his killing pack, which escapes I attributed to my good luck in having been hunted by them on bad scenting days, and also in taking refuge in drains. Learning that many of my friends had been killed by them, I was induced to move into Roxburghshire, the country hunted by the Duke of Buccleuch's hounds, and adjoining the two hunts before described to you. There I had not been long before I was found in a small covert by the Duke's pack, as Williamson the huntsman[8] calls it, though he seems to do just what he likes with it. Be that as it may, he knew pretty well where to find me, and it was done in a few minutes. The hills form a part of the country that he surpasses most men in riding across; and after running over them for some time towards the Cheviots, the blue tops of which seemed at the time to be higher than the clouds, the hounds came to a check, owing as it was thought, to my having overtaken some cattle, and to too much delay in holding on the hounds; and I escaped.

It appeared to me that these hounds had at the time rather too much flesh, though shortly afterwards the fault was mended; for I never was pressed more by any pack in my life. Every hound seemed to go as if he had the leading scent. All came nearly abreast for several fields, and they were close to me when I again took refuge in a drain. The extraordinary scent just described induces me to relate the events of that day from the beginning. A remark was made before the hounds had thrown off, by an old sportsman, as follows. It happened that several coverts were drawn by the hounds without their finding a fox, although it was notorious that foxes had been on every former day most abundant there; on hearing this the gentleman said, "I have often observed that on good scenting days foxes are not to be found, even where they are known to abound as they do here."

"How do you account for that?" was asked.

"Probably on these good scenting days foxes lie under ground, or in places not disturbed by hounds, for as they live by the use of their noses, they cannot but know their danger of being hunted on such days."

The hounds were taken on some distance towards another covert, but on passing by a small piece of gorse, not half an acre across, they were taken quietly to it, and in a short time killed a fox which had not moved from his kennel. This created some amusement at the expense of the gentleman who had stated his belief that it was a good scenting day, and some one said -- 

"Now, what do you think?"

"Why, that I am now more sure of it: for if this fox had moved under the circumstances when the hounds were so close to him, the scent being a good one, would have made it almost certain death; and so his best chance of escape was to lie still; but he has been too cunning."

Rather more than the hallooing usual when a dead fox is given to hounds took place; and the three men appeared to be trying who could oftenest repeat, "Tally-ho!" The hounds were again taken on towards the next large covert, and no sooner were they in it than they all threw their tongues and ran as if close to a fox, which was not the case, for it happened to be my own scent, and I having heard the dreadful hallooing before described, and knowing it to be a good scenting day, had moved away some time before the hounds had reached the covert, although the crash they made there seemed as if close to me. I then ran as described before, straight to a drain about three or four miles off; but although I had so good a start they nearly overtook me before I reached it. Waiting near the entrance I overheard the following remarks: -- 

"How very unlucky, just as the hounds were running into him. Such a swift pace they came, he could not have stood it five minutes longer." I then distinctly heard the gentleman alluded to before exclaim, "Well! I shall not be surprised if there are half a dozen foxes in this drain; somewhere they must be."

Then another voice, "Well, Will, what do you think now of Mr. Smith's foresay as to its being a good scenting day?"

"My lord, he was right; I never in all my life saw the hounds run so fast -- faster they could not go." He suddenly turned towards the man who ought to have stopped the drain. "Hoot, mon, how is this? The earth's open at yer vary ain door?"

"Will, where's the terrier?"

"Got none, my lord."

"Was ever the like? Seventeen years I have hunted with these hounds, and though every field in this country is full of drains, they have never had a terrier that was worth hanging. Jack, go and fetch the farmer's terrier; be off like a shot! How can they expect to save their poultry if they do not put gratings to their drains? Without them it is impossible for hounds to kill their foxes."

Having by this time recovered my breath, I began to move away from the entrance, when to my surprise I found that there were no less than three foxes in the drain beside myself. Having with great difficulty forced myself past the first I came against, and whilst waiting anxiously the result, we were all much frightened by suddenly seeing a glimpse of light some distance up the drain beyond us. The men had dug a hole through the top of the drain at that spot; and shortly after this we heard them trying to force a rough terrier of the real Makerston breed to enter; they at length succeeded, when he immediately came down straight towards us. Not a little alarmed, and each of us struggling and striving to get away first, out we all bolted, with the terrier close at our heels. The scene which followed it is almost impossible to describe. The first fox was pursued by the greatest number of hounds, and, as I came second, the next greatest number followed me; and so after us they came; but our sally was so sudden that we fortunately had gained the start of them by some ten or twenty yards.

I think I still hear the voice of old Will crying out, "Every hound has got a fox!" As I jumped over the fence, he was still holding his whip in the air, undecided which of the four lots (into which the hounds had divided) he should follow. So good was the scent on that day, that although only about four couples of hounds followed me, I went straight to another drain; and, strange to say, there found another of the same party as before, which accounted for the two first lots of hounds leaving a short time before they ran up to the earth. Here our lives were again in danger; and, hearing the men again digging at some distance, I profited by what had passed, and pushed beyond it. My unfortunate fellow was again forced out by the same terrier, and fell a victim to our foes; who, not suspecting that another fox was in the earth, again left me.

"Well, Will, do you recollect the foresay about there being half a dozen foxes in the last drain?"

"I do, my lord; and now the gentleman's foresays have all been fulfilled from beginning to end."

During the time they were waiting for the terrier at the last drain, and doubting whether he could be found, a farmer was filling in the stones at the entrance of the drain, and being asked what he was about, he answered, -- "Why, if the terrier don't come, we will starve the fox to death, which is easy to do in this drain. He has had mony fowls; about forty I ken."

"What's that?" said the Southron. "Pretty sort of encouragement for a gentleman to spend so much money in the country in keeping hounds. Why, the Duke pays more money to the farmers in one week than all the poultry in the hunt would sell for in a twelvemonth; to say nothing of all that is spent in it by the gentlemen who hunt. If there were no foxes there would be no hounds."

"Vary true, vary true," was the reply; "but Mr. Williamson is raather too closefisted when he pays a bittie o' the Duke's siller."

The worst part of the story, as relates to ourselves, remains to be told, namely, that when they left a hard bargain was going on for the purchase of the terrier which had driven us out of our retreat, and he was to be taken to the kennel for the same employment when required, which, sure enough, was often the case. Luckily for me he was not with the hounds a short time after, when I was again found by this pack, as I lay in a wood near Floors, belonging to the Duke of Roxburgh, who, though no fox-hunter, is one of our best friends, and gives his keepers strict orders never to destroy us. But for the absence of this terrier I must have been in jeopardy that day; for having heard the hounds running after another fox, I was just stepping away to a drain close to the Tweed, in a contrary direction, not before I was seen, and a few hounds got on my scent, which they followed until they reached the drain where I was. On being told of which, old Will, the huntsman, brought the rest of the hounds to the spot, determined to get me out. Tools were procured, and several attempts were made, but in vain. Some half-bred terriers were then sent for, but they would not venture near me, nor could they a second time be urged to go in. Other fruitless attempts were made, and a great part of the morning was lost in this way by a throng of hunters, and amongst them the noble master of the pack. Whilst this was going on, and they were looking at and admiring the beauties of the stately river, a large salmon leaped clean out of the water, as if on purpose to amuse or to tantalise them. Whereupon a gentleman present asked his Grace if it would give him pleasure to have a throw with a fly for such a fish. His fit reply might well be a source of satisfaction and pleasure to all who hunt in countries where his Grace has property.

"To tell the truth I care little for that kind of sport; but, as to the other, I am never perfectly happy unless I have on a red coat."

All at length left the place exceedingly annoyed that the terrier, the hero of the former day, had not been with them. Probably the bargain for him was not completed, and consequently I escaped.

Wishing to return to my old haunts, I had got as far as a covert called the Hirsel, belonging to Lord Home, where I had not been long when one day I heard two reports, which turned out to be from the keeper's gun, discharged at two innocent young fox-hound puppies, thus deliberately butchered for having strayed by chance from the hospitable home of the kind mistress whose pets they were, and whose gentle care and caresses they had so often enjoyed. You will not be surprised when I tell you that our race appears to be almost extinct about these woods.

After this tragical event I lost no time, but went to the farthest covert belonging to this estate, and nearly surrounded by Lord Elcho's country. I hoped to be there as far as possible from danger, and thought myself secure, as the outside covert was kept quiet, and scarcely disturbed even by the hounds of the Duke in whose hunt it is retained. It is suspected that the keeper kills all of us foxes that he can in that part, because no hounds hunt it enough. He says that all the foxes in Lord Elcho's country come there to be quiet. Be that as it may, the last time the hounds found me there they had before drawn all the other woods, and only found one fox, and that a mangy one. I was disturbed first by hearing Old Will cheering his hounds, as if he had just seen a fox, giving his cheer thus, "Hooi-here, here, here!" which, in any other country, would pass for a view-halloo.

After listening and expecting to hear the hounds in full cry, I found it was only his customary cry in drawing a whin covert, particularly when he wished his hounds to get into it. I noticed that they did not attend to the halloo so readily when a fox was really seen. Notwithstanding this, they understood their huntsman's system well enough to make it no safe thing to be hunted by them. I soon left the covert, and when they had pursued me for some miles, and were getting nearer to me, they suddenly came to a check; on looking back, I saw the huntsman almost immediately take them away beyond the next large field, rather to the left of where my line was hitherto pointing; I suppose either because there was a flock of sheep in that field, or because he thought I had gone to a covert in that direction. If the hounds had had their time, they would have hit off the scent to the right of the field. The upshot was, that I, thinking that they had given me up, took the first opportunity of getting out of sight, not because I was tired and beaten, as some suppose must always be the case when we seek such places of refuge; which they soon ascertained was the case, for nearly as soon as the hounds had hunted up to the drain on one side of the road, I started off on the other, and though they had as good a start with me as they could wish for, I contrived to run away from them, owing to the scent not being good enough for hounds to kill a stout fox without assistance; and probably to the huntsman repeating his former mistake in making an injudicious forward cast when not wanted. He did not now venture to hold the hounds forward and across the line I came, or else they would have got on the scent, as I returned nearly the same way, which was ascertained by a hunter on his return home, a man having seen me.

Having escaped from this lively pack of hounds, I did not venture to remain in this part, but at once took up my abode near Foulden, where I was again found by Lord Elcho and his pack, though I fancied I had selected an out-of-the-way spot near the river Whitadder, with which part I was well acquainted, as his lordship has reason to know and to regret. After they had hunted me some time, finding myself distressed, I was induced to return to my old haunts, creeping along a narrow track by the side of the steep and rocky bank which overhung the river, the height of which, where I passed, was nearly a hundred feet. Several of these high-couraged hounds in attempting to follow me lost their footing, fell to the bottom, and were killed. It was only strange that a single hound escaped; and though I certainly did not intend to assist in preventing their destruction, yet such happened to be the case; for having waited, when in my narrow track, for some time, and thinking myself safe, I heard the piercing cry of a hound, which I then believed was following me. I ran straight along the top of the precipice, and was seen by the whipper-in and some of the hounds, and the noise they instantly made by hallooing a view with all their might, assisted by his lordship blowing his horn, attracted the notice of the other hounds, or they would otherwise have followed on the line to certain destruction. I attribute my escape to the powerful effect this event had on the feelings of the owner of the pack. Lest I should again lead them back to the same spot, he immediately took them off my scent and sent them home, and I flattered myself that we should never again see these hounds run to find a fox in this part of the country; for the anguish created in his lordship's mind it is impossible for me to describe, although it may be easily imagined.

However, all my hopes of living a quiet life here were destroyed. A great friend of his Lordship's, and of ours, Mr. Wilkie of Foulden, near where this occurred, and on whose rabbits I sometimes subsisted, immediately took measures to prevent the same calamity from happening again; and although it was hitherto pronounced an impossibility, he has, as far as I at present can judge of it, succeeded. It was managed by cutting away my narrow track at the edge of the rock which overhung the river. To do this required much labour and risk; but it was effected by suspending a ladder, which was fastened by strong ropes to stakes driven in the ground some distance above. I need not say that I watched the work with no great satisfaction; and as I saw the foundation of my once favourite track fall into the river below, when they gradually broke it away, it made my heart ache, I felt that I must now either stay and be killed, or move into another country. I decided on the latter.

Although I vowed in an hour of distress, when first hunted by the hounds there, never to run the risk of them again if I escaped, I recrossed the Tweed into England, and have taken up my quarters on one of the highest parts of the Cheviot Hills, hoping to find a safe retreat from them. There are, however, dangers to be dreaded there, as well as in every country where hounds are not kept to hunt us; but the system of destruction to be dreaded by me is one that is adopted on mountainous parts alone. The shepherds of the mountains on certain days gather together against us, armed with guns, and aided by dogs of all sorts, from the greyhound to the collie. The sagacity and docility of the latter are very astonishing; but the sagacity of an old dog of the fox-hound sort is superior to that of every other. The collie dog is taught by man what to do, whilst the old fox-hound teaches his master. Had it not been for the sagacity of the hound, I should have been spared many a perilous run. The shepherds pretend that the breed of the mountain fox is of a different kind from our own, and that the head of the male is larger. For my own part, I believe the animals to be of the same kind as ourselves, and to be merely larger altogether; for I have sometimes met one in my rambles. Their superior size may be accounted for as follows: having been born or bred in the wholesome air upon the mountains, where food, such as rabbits, is probably scarce, they find and fatten upon sheep which from various accidents die there. Having once got a taste for such food, it is not surprising that they will take a lamb, or attack an old one which has fallen through illness or neglect. Anxious as I am to protect my own race, I cannot blame the shepherds for waging war against the transgressors; as it is known that when once a fox has taken to such a habit, he seldom gives it up but with his life. Felons are to be found everywhere; but, as to ourselves, the following facts will prove that the generality of us are not guilty of charges frequently laid upon us. On the first day of February last, being the last day of pheasant shooting, I was lying in a thick plantation, in the middle of a park at Ladykirk, on the other side of the Tweed, which covered a space of ground not more than a quarter of an acre, when a party were shooting not far off, and I suddenly heard one of them exclaim, "Look out, there goes a fox! he jumped up close by me. There he goes, straight away. I wish the hounds were here."

In the course of an hour after this, I was again startled by hearing, "Tally-ho! tally-ho! there goes another fox! Don't mistake him for a hare, and shoot him; he's close to you, in the clump between!" And then again the same loud voice, -- "There he goes, right across the park; what a fine fellow he is!"

It shortly afterwards became my turn to exhibit. They came to the clump where I was, and a man who went in beyond directly called out, "There goes a hen pheasant, there go two, three!" and so on. He had just cried out, "That makes thirteen hen pheasants!" when a spaniel rushed into the thick bushes, and obliged me to face the whole party. A glorious cheering they gave me; and when they had expressed their surprise and satisfaction, the keeper assured them of his belief, that there were as many pheasants left as had been there at the beginning of the season, excepting those that had been shot by sportsmen. Now if I, or any of us, were so much given to destroy game as we are reported to be, there would not have been a pheasant left alive in a week's time from the beginning of the season, whereas it was now nearly the end of it. This fortunately occurred in the presence of several persons, who saw all three of us. No less than five other foxes from the same park have been killed by Lord Elcho and his pack this season.

Hoping that I have given you all sufficient encouragement to induce you to make us a visit in the north, I conclude my story.


Conclusion


One more friend was about to begin his story. Whether he was from York, Lincoln, Nottingham, or Bedfordshire, was not ascertained, for on a sudden we were startled by the cawing of an old crow and the screams of a jay, which, added to the chatterings of a couple of magpies, warned us that daylight was appearing; and I was reluctantly obliged to request that his story might be deferred to some future time, should we ever meet again, when we might all have more to relate concerning the inexhaustible subject of our lives. Chanticleer now clapped admiring wings, and sang out a loud applause. This excited the particular notice of one of our party, who exclaimed, "I'll go round and have a sly bite at his tail, for 'tis a quiet retired place, and no one yet about."

"Take heed," said I, "that thou bring us not into trouble."

Soon afterwards we were again interrupted by the clamour of those tell-tale birds; for it seems that our friend was returning without his intended booty, having been seen by the keeper, who fast approached towards us. Therefore, hastily bidding adieu until we should meet again, we all returned to our favourite coverts.

<eob>

Ruth Fielding In The Red Cross

Or

Doing Her Best For Uncle Sam

By

Alice B. Emerson



Chapter I. Uncle Jabez Is Excited


"Oh! Not Tom?"

Ruth Fielding looked up from the box she was packing for the local Red Cross chapter, and, almost horrified, gazed into the black eyes of the girl who confronted her.

Helen Cameron's face was tragic in its expression. She had been crying. The closely written sheets of the letter in her hand were shaken, as were her shoulders, with the sobs she tried to suppress.

"It-it's written to father," Helen said. "He gave it to me to read. I wish Tom had never gone to Harvard. Those boys there are completely crazy! To think-at the end of his freshman year-to throw it all up and go to a training camp!"

"I guess Harvard isn't to blame," said Ruth practically. If she was deeply moved by what her chum had told her, she quickly recovered her self-control. "The boys are going from other colleges all over the land. Is Tom going to try for a commission?"

"Yes."

"What does your father say?"

"Why," cried the other girl as though that, too, had surprised and hurt her, "father cried 'Bully for Tom!' and then wiped his eyes on his handkerchief. What can men be made of, Ruth? He knows Tom may be killed, and yet he cheers for him."

Ruth Fielding smiled and suddenly hugged Helen. Ruth's smile was somewhat tremulous, but her chum did not observe this fact.

"I understand how your father feels, dear. Tom does not want to be drafted -- "

"He wouldn't be drafted. He is not old enough. And even if they automatically draft the boys as they become of age, it would be months before they reached Tom, and the war will be over by that time. But here he is throwing himself away -- "

"Oh, Helen! Not that!" cried Ruth. "Our soldiers will fight for us-for their country-for honor. And a man's life lost in such a cause is not thrown away."

"That's the way I feel," said Helen, more steadily. "Tom is my twin. You don't know what it means to have a twin brother, Ruth Fielding."

"That is true," sighed Ruth. "But I can imagine how you feel, dear. If you have hopes of the war's being over so quickly, then I should expect Tom back from training camp safe and sound, and with no chance of ever facing the enemy. Has he really gone?"

"Oh, yes," Helen told her despondently. "And lots of the boys who used to go to school with Tom at Seven Oaks. You know, all those jolly fellows who were at Snow Camp with us, and at Lighthouse Point, and on Cliff Island, and out West on Silver Ranch-and-and everywhere. Just to think! We may never see them again."

"Dear me, Helen," Ruth urged, "don't look upon the blackest side of the cloud. It's a long time before they go over there."

"We don't know how soon they will be in the trenches," said her friend hopelessly. "These boys going to war -- "

"And I wish I was young enough to go with 'em!" ejaculated a harsh voice, as the door of the back kitchen opened and the speaker stamped into the room. "Got that box ready to nail up, Niece Ruth? Ben's hitching up the mules, and I want to get to Cheslow before dark."

"Oh! Almost ready, Uncle Jabez," cried the girl of the Red Mill, as the gray old man approached.

He was lean and wiry and the dust of his mill seemed to have been so ground into his very skin that he was a regular "dusty miller." His features were as harsh as his voice, and he was seldom as excited as he seemed to be now.

"Who's going to war now?" he asked, turning to Helen.

"Poor-poor Tom!" burst out the black-eyed girl, and began to dabble her eyes again.

"What's the matter o' him?" demanded the old miller.

"He'll-he'll be shot-I know he'll be killed, and mangled horribly!"

"Fiddle-de-dee!" grunted Uncle Jabez, but his tone of voice was not as harsh as his words sounded. "I never got shot, nor mangled none to speak of, and I was fightin' and marchin' three endurin' years."

"You, Uncle Jabez?" cried Ruth.

"Yep. And I wish they'd take me again. I can go a-soldierin' as good as the next one. I'm tough and I'm wiry. They talk about this war bein' a dreadful war. Shucks! All wars air dreadful. They won't never have a battle over there that'll be as bad as the Wilderness-believe me! They may have more battles, but I went through some of the wust a man could ever experience."

"And-and you weren't shot?" gasped Helen.

"Not a bit. Three years of campaigning and never was scratched. Don't you look for Tom Cameron to be killed fust thing just because he's going to the wars. If more men didn't come back from the wars than git killed in 'em how d'ye s'pose this old world would have gone on rolling? Shucks!"

"I never knew you were a soldier, Uncle Jabez," Ruth Fielding said.

"Wal, I was. Shucks! I was something of a sharpshooter, too. And we old fellers-course I was nothin' but a boy, then-we could shoot. We'd l'arn't to shoot on the farm. Powder an' shot was hard to git and we l'arn't to make every bullet count. My old Betsey-didn't ye ever see my Civil War rifle?" he demanded of Ruth.

"You mean the old brown gun that hangs over your bed and that Aunt Alvirah is so much afraid of?"

"That's old Betsey. Sharpe's rifle. In them days it was jest about the last thing in weepons. I brung it home after the Grand Army of the Potomac was disbanded. Know how I did it? Government claimed all the guns; but I took old Betsey apart and me an' my mates hid the pieces away in our clothes, and so got her home. Then I assembled her again," and Uncle Jabez broke into a chuckle that was actually almost startling to the girls, for the miller seldom laughed.

"Say!" he exclaimed, in his strange excitement. "I'll show her to ye."

He hurried out of the room, evidently in search of "Old Betsey." Helen said to the miller's niece:

"Goodness, Ruth! what has happened to your Uncle Jabez?"

"Just what has happened to Tom-and your father," returned the girl of the Red Mill. "I've seen it coming on. Uncle Jabez has been getting more and more excited ever since war was declared. You know, when we came home from college a month ago and decided to remain here and help in the Red Cross work instead of finishing our sophomore year at Ardmore, my decision was really the first one I ever made that Uncle Jabez seemed to approve of immediately.

"He is thoroughly patriotic. When I told him I could study later-when the war was over-but that I must work for the soldiers now, he said I was a good girl. What do you think of that?"

"Cheslow is not doing its share," Helen said thoughtfully, her mind switched by Ruth's last words to the matter that had completely filled her own and her chum's thoughts for weeks. "The people are not awake. They do not know we are at war yet. They have not done half for the Red Cross that they should do."

"We'll make 'em!" declared Ruth Fielding. "We must get the women and girls to pull together."

"Say, Ruth! what do you think of that woman in black-you know, the widow, or whoever she is? Dresses in black altogether; but maybe it's because she thinks black becomes her," added Helen rather scornfully.

"Mrs. Mantel?" asked Ruth slowly. "I don't know what to think of her. She seems to be very anxious to help. Yet she does nothing really helpful-only talks."

"And some of her talk I'd rather not hear," said Helen sharply.

"I know what you mean," Ruth rejoined, nodding. "But so many people talk so doubtfully. They are unfamiliar with the history of the Red Cross and what it has done. Perhaps Mrs. Mantel means no harm."

At that moment Uncle Jabez reappeared with the heavy rifle in his hands. He was still chuckling.

"Calc'late I ain't heard Aunt Alvirah talk about this gun much of late. One spell-when fust she come here to the Red Mill to keep house for me-she didn't scurce dare to go into my room because of it. But, of course, 'twarn't ever loaded.

"I was some sharpshooter, gals," he added proudly, patting the stock of the heavy gun. "Here's a ca'tridge. I'm goin' to stick it in her an' you shall hear how she roars. Warn't no Maxim silencers, nor nothin' like that, when I used to pot the Johnny Rebs with Old Betsey."

He flung open the door into the back yard. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, having slipped in the greased cartridge.

"See that sassy jay atop o' that cherry tree? I bet I kin clutter him up a whole lot-an' he desarves it," said Uncle Jabez.

Just then the door into the other kitchen opened, and a little, crooked-backed old woman with a shawl around her shoulders and a cap atop of her thin hair appeared.

"Jabez Potter! What in creation you goin' to do with that awful gun?" she shrilled.

"I'm a-goin' to knock the topknot off'n that bluejay," chuckled Uncle Jabez.

"Stop! Don't! Gals!" cried the little old woman, hobbling down the two steps into the room. "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones! Gals! stop him! That gun can't shoot 'cause I went and plugged the barrel!"

At that moment Old Betsey went off with an awful roar.



Chapter II. The Call Of The Drum


There was a flash following the explosion, and Uncle Jabez staggered back from the doorway, his arm across his eyes, while the gun dropped with a crash to the porch. The girls, as well as Aunt Alvirah, shrieked.

"I vum!" ejaculated the miller. "Who done that? What's happened to Old Betsey?"

"Jabez Potter!" shrilled the little old woman, "didn't I tell you to git rid o' that gun long ago? Be you shot?"

"No," said the miller grimly. "I'm only scare't. Old Betsey never kicked like that afore."

Ruth was at his side patting his shoulder and looking at him anxiously.

"Shucks!" scoffed the miller. "I ain't dead yit. But what made that gun -- "

He stooped and picked it up. First he looked at the twisted hammer, then he turned it around and looked into the muzzle.

"For the good land o' liberty!" he yelled. "What's the meanin' of this? Who-who's gone and stuck up this here gun bar'l this a-way? I vum! It's ce-ment-sure's I'm a foot high."

"What did you want to tetch that gun for, Jabez Potter?" demanded Aunt Alvirah, easing herself into a low rocker. "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones! I allus warned you 'twould do some harm some day. That's why I plugged it up."

"You-you plugged it up?" gasped the miller. "Wha-what for I want to know?"

"So, if 'twas loaded, no bullet would get out and hurt anybody," declared the little old woman promptly. "Now, you kin get mad and use bad language, Jabez Potter, if you've a mind to. But I'd ruther go back to the poorhouse to live than stay under this ruff with that gun all ready to shoot with."

The miller was so thunderstruck for a moment that he could not reply. Ruth feared he might fly into a temper, for he was not a patient man. But, oddly enough, he never raged at the little old housekeeper.

"I vum!" he said at last. "Don't that beat all? An' ain't it like a woman? Stickin' up the muzzle of the gun so's it couldn't shoot-but would explode. Shucks!" He suddenly flung up both hands. "Can you beat 'em? You can't!"

Now that it was all over, and the accident had not caused any fatality, the two girls felt like laughing-a hysterical feeling perhaps. They got Aunt Alvirah into the larger kitchen and left Uncle Jabez to nail up the box that he was going to ship for Ruth to Red Cross headquarters.

The girl of the Red Mill had been gathering the knitted wear and comfort kits from the neighbors around to send on to the Red Cross headquarters, and, in the immediate vicinity of the Red Mill, she knew that the women and girls were doing a better work for the cause than in Cheslow itself.

The mill and the rambling old house that adjoined and belonged to Uncle Jabez Potter stood upon the bank of the Lumano River, and was as beautiful a spot as one might find in that part of the state. Ruth Fielding had always loved it since the first day her eyes had spied it, when as a little girl she had come to live with her cross and crotchety Uncle Jabez.

The miller was a miserly man, and, at first, Ruth had had no pleasant time as a dependent on her uncle. Had it not been for Aunt Alvirah Boggs, who was nobody's relative but everybody's aunt, and whom Uncle Jabez had taken from the poorhouse to keep house for him, the lonely little orphan girl would have been quite heartbroken.

With Aunt Alvirah's help and the consolation of her philosophy, as well as with the aid of the friendship of Helen and Tom Cameron, who were neighbors, Ruth Fielding began to be happy. And really unhappy thereafter she never could be, for something was always happening to her, and the active person is seldom if ever in the doldrums.

In the first volume of the series, "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill," these and others of Ruth's friends were introduced, and the girl began to develop that sturdy and independent character which has made her loved by so many. With Helen she went to Briarwood Hall to boarding school, and there her acquaintance rapidly widened. For some years her course is traced through several volumes, at school and during vacations at different places where exciting and most delightful adventures happen to Ruth and her friends.

In following volumes we meet Ruth Fielding at Snow Camp, at Lighthouse Point, at Silver Ranch, on Cliff Island, at Sunrise Farm, in a Gypsy camp, in Moving Pictures, down in Dixie, and, finally, she graduates from Briarwood Hall, and she and her chums enter Ardmore College. At the beginning of this, the thirteenth volume of the series, Ruth and Helen were quite grown up. Following their first year at Ardmore, Ruth had gone West to write and develop a moving picture for the Alectrion Film Corporation, in which she now owned an interest.

In "Ruth Fielding in the Saddle; or, College Girls in the Land of Gold," an account of this adventure is narrated, the trip occupying most of the first summer following Ruth's freshman year. Ruth's success as a writer of moving-picture scenarios of the better class had already become established. "The Forty-Niners" had become one of the most successful of the big scenarios shown during the winter just previous to the opening of our present story.

Ruth had made much money. Together with what she had made in selling a claim she had staked out at Freezeout, where the pictures were taken, her bank accounts and investments now ran well into five figures. She really did not want Uncle Jabez to know exactly how much she had made and had saved. Mr. Cameron, Helen's father, had her finances in charge, although the girl of the Red Mill was quite old enough, and quite wise enough, to attend to her own affairs.

Interest in Red Cross work had smitten Ruth and Helen and many of their associates at college. Not alone had the men's colleges become markedly empty during that previous winter; but the girls' schools and colleges were buzzing with excitement regarding the war and war work.

As soon as Congress declared a state of war with Germany, Ruth and Helen had hurried home. Cheslow, the nearest town, was an insular community, and many of the people in it were hard to awaken to the needs of the hour. Because of the peaceful and satisfied life the people led they could not understand what war really meant.

Cheslow and the vicinity of the Red Mill was not alone in this. Many, many communities were yet to be awakened.

Ruth bore these facts very much on her heart. She was doing all that she could to strike a note of alarm that should awaken Cheslow.

Despite Uncle Jabez Potter's patriotism, she would have been afraid to tell him just how much she had personally subscribed for the work of the Red Cross and for other war activities. And, likewise, in her heart was another secret-a longing to be doing something of moment for the cause. She wanted to really enlist for the war! She wished she might be "over there" in body, as well as in spirit.

Not only were the drums calling to Tom Cameron and his friends, and many, many other boys, but they were calling the girls to arms as well. Never before has war so soon and so suddenly offered womankind a chance to aid in an undying cause.

Yet Ruth did not neglect the small and seemingly unimportant duties right at hand. She was no dreamer or dallier. Having got off this big box of comforts for the boys at the front, the very next day she, with Helen, took up the effort already begun of a house-to-house campaign throughout Cheslow for Red Cross members, and to invite the feminine part of the community to aid in a big drive for knitted goods.

The Ladies' Aid Society of the Methodist Episcopal Church was meeting that day with Mrs. Curtis, the wife of the railroad station agent and the mother of one of Ruth's friends at boarding school. Mercy Curtis, having quite outgrown her childish ills, welcomed the friends when they rang the bell.

"Do come in and help me bear the chatter of this flock of starlings," Mercy said. "Glad to see you, girlies!" and she kissed both Ruth and Helen.

"But I am afraid I want to join the starlings, as you call them," Ruth said demurely; "and even add to their chatter. I came here for just that purpose."

"For just what purpose?" Mercy demanded.

"To talk to them. I knew the crowd would be here, and so I thought I could kill two birds with one stone."

"Two birds, only?" sniffed Mercy. "Kill 'em all, for all I care! I'll run and find you some stones."

"My ammunition are hard words only," laughed Ruth. "I want to tell them that they are not doing their share for the Red Cross."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mercy. "Humph! Well, Ruthie, you have come at an unseasonable time, I fear. Mrs. Mantel is here."

"Mrs. Mantel!" murmured Ruth.

"The woman in black!" exclaimed Helen. "Well, Mercy, what has she been saying?"

"Enough, I think," the other girl replied. "At least, I have an idea that most of the women in the Ladies' Aid believe that it is better to go on with the usual sewing and foreign and domestic mission work, and let the Red Cross strictly alone."



Chapter III. The Woman In Black


"Do you mean to say," demanded Helen Cameron, with some anger, "that they have no interest in the war, or in our boys who will soon begin to go over there? Impossible!"

"I repeat that," said Ruth. "'Impossible,' indeed."

"Oh, each may knit for her own kin or for other organizations," Mercy said. "I am repeating what I have just heard, that is all. Girls! I am just boiling!"

"I can imagine it," Helen said. "I am beginning to simmer myself."

"Wait. Let us be calm," urged Ruth, smiling as she laid off her things, preparatory to going into the large front room where Mrs. Curtis was entertaining the Ladies' Aid Society.

"Is it all because of that woman in black?" demanded Helen.

"Well, she has been pointing out that the Red Cross is a great money-making scheme, and that it really doesn't need our small contributions."

"And she is a member herself!" snapped Helen.

"Well, she joined, of course, because she did not want anybody to think she wasn't patriotic," scoffed Mercy. "That is the way she puts it. But you ought to hear the stories she has been telling these poor, simple women."

"Did you ever!" cried Helen angrily.

"It is well we came here," Ruth said firmly. "Let me into the lions' den, Mercy."

"I am afraid they are another breed of cats. There is little noble or lionlike about some of them."

Ruth and Helen were quite used to Mercy Curtis' sharp tongue. It was well known. But it was evident, too, that the girl had been roused to fury by what she had heard at the meeting of the Ladies' Aid Society.

The ladies of the church society were, for the most part, very good people indeed. But at this time the war was by no means popular in Cheslow (as it was not in many places) and the plague of pacifism, if not actually downright pro-German propaganda, was active and malignant.

When the door into the big front room was opened and the girls entered, Mrs. Curtis rose hastily to welcome Ruth and Helen warmly. The women were, for the most part, busily sewing. But, of course, that puts no brake upon the activities of the tongue. Indeed, the needle seems to be particularly helpful as an accompaniment to a "dish of gossip."

"I still think it is terrible," one woman was saying quite earnestly to another, who was one of the few idle women in the room, "if an organization like that cannot be trusted."

The idle woman was dressed plainly but elegantly in black, with just a touch of white at wrists and throat. She was a graceful woman, tall, not yet forty, and with a set smile on her face that might have been the outward sign of a sweet temperament, and then -- 

"Mrs. Mantel!" whispered Helen to Ruth. "I do not like her one bit. And nobody knows where she came from or who she is. Cheslow has only been her abiding place since we went to college last autumn."

"Sh!" whispered Ruth in return. "I am interested."

"Oh, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Crothers, that it may not be the organization's fault," purred the woman in black. "The objects of the Red Cross are very worthy. None more so. But in certain places-locally, you know-of course I don't mean here in Cheslow -- 

"Yet I could tell you of something that happened to me to-day. I was quite hurt-quite shocked, indeed. I saw on the street a sweater that I knitted myself last winter."

"Oh! On a soldier?" asked another of the women who heard. "How nice!"

"No, indeed. No soldier," said Mrs. Mantel quickly. "On a girl. Fancy! On a girl I had never seen before. And I gave that to the Red Cross with my own hands."

"Perhaps it belonged to the girl's brother," another of the women observed.

"Oh, no!" Mrs. Mantel was eager to say. "I asked her. Naturally I was curious-very curious. I said to her, 'Where did you get the sweater, my girl, if you will pardon my asking?' And she told me she bought it in a store here in Cheslow."

"Oh, my!" gasped another of the group.

"Do you mean to say the Red Cross sells the things people knit for them?" cried Mrs. Crothers.

"How horrid!" drawled another. "Well, you never can tell about these charitable organizations that are not connected with the church."

Ruth Fielding broke her silence and quite calmly asked:

"Will you tell me who the girl was and where she said she bought the sweater, Mrs. Mantel?"

"Oh, I never saw the girl before," said the lady in black.

"But she told you the name of the store where she said she purchased it?"

"No-o. What does it matter? I recognized my own sweater!" exclaimed the woman in black, with a toss of her head.

"Are you quite sure, Mrs. Mantel," pursued the girl of the Red Mill insistently but quite calmly, "that you could not have made a mistake?"

"Mistake? How?" snapped the other.

"Regarding the identity of the sweater."

"I tell you I recognized it. I know I knitted it. I certainly know my own work. And why should I be cross-questioned, please?"

"My name is Ruth Fielding," Ruth explained. "I happen to have at present a very deep interest in the Red Cross work-especially in our local chapter. Did you give your sweater to our local chapter?"

"Why-no. But what does that matter?" and the woman in black began to show anger. "Do you doubt my word?"

"You offer no corroborative evidence, and you make a very serious charge," Ruth said. "Don't be angry. If what you say is true, it is a terrible thing. Of course, there may be people using the name of the Red Cross who are neither patriotic nor honest. Let us run each of these seemingly wicked things down-if it is possible. Let us get at the truth."

"I have told you the truth, Miss Fielding. And I consider you insulting-most unladylike."

"Mrs. Mantel," said Ruth Fielding gravely, "whether I speak and act as a lady should make little material difference in the long run. But whether a great organization, which is working for the amelioration of suffering on the battle front and in our training camps, is maligned, is of very great moment, indeed.

"In my presence no such statement as you have just made can go unchallenged. You must help me prove, or disprove it. We must find the girl and discover just how she came by the sweater. If it had been stolen and given to her she would be very likely to tell you just what you say she did. But that does not prove the truth of her statement."

"Nor of mine, I suppose you would say!" cried Mrs. Mantel.

"Exactly. If you are fair-minded at all you will aid me in this investigation. For I purpose to take up every such calumny that I can and trace it to its source."

"Oh, Ruth, don't take it so seriously!" Mrs. Curtis murmured, and most of the women looked their displeasure. But Helen clapped her hands softly, saying:

"Bully for you, Ruthie!"

Mercy's eyes glowed with satisfaction.

Ruth became silent for a moment, for the woman in black evidently intended to give her no satisfaction. Mrs. Mantel continued to state, however, for all to hear:

"I certainly know my own knitting, and my own yarn. I have knitted enough of the sweaters according to the Red Cross pattern to sink a ship! I would know one of my sweaters half a block away at least."

Ruth had been watching the woman very keenly. Mrs. Mantel's hands were perfectly idle in her lap. They were very white and very well cared for. Ruth's vision came gradually to a focus upon those idle hands.

Then suddenly she turned to Mercy and whispered a question. Mercy nodded, but looked curiously at the girl of the Red Mill. When the latter explained further Mercy Curtis' eyes began to snap. She nodded again and went out of the room.

When she returned with a loosely wrapped bundle in her hands she moved around to where the woman in black was sitting. The conversation had now become general, and all were trying their best to get away from the previous topic of tart discussion.

"Mrs. Mantel," said Mercy very sweetly, "you must know a lot about knitting sweaters, you've made so many. Would you help me?"

"Help you do what, child?" asked the woman in black, rather startled.

"I am going to begin one," explained Mercy, "and I do wish, Mrs. Mantel, that you would show me how. I'm dreadfully ignorant about the whole thing, you know."

There was a sudden silence all over the room. Mrs. Mantel's ready tongue seemed stayed. The pallor of her face was apparent, as innocent-looking Mercy, with the yarn and needles held out to her, waited for an affirmative reply.



Chapter IV. "Can A Poilu Love A Fat Girl?"


The shocked silence continued for no more than a minute. Mrs. Mantel was a quick-witted woman, if she was nothing else commendable. But every member of the Ladies' Aid Society knew what Mercy Curtis' question meant.

"My dear child," said the woman in black, smiling her set smile but rising promptly, "I shall have to do that for you another day. Really I haven't the time just now to help you start any knitting. But later -- 

"I am sure you will forgive me for running away so early, Mrs. Curtis; but I have another engagement. And," she shot a malignant glance at Ruth Fielding, "I am not used to being taken to task upon any subject by these college-chits!"

She went out of the room in a manner that, had she been thirty years younger, could have been called "flounced"-head tossing and skirts swishing with resentment. Several of the women looked at the girl of the Red Mill askance, although they dared not criticize Mercy Curtis, for they knew her sharp tongue too well.

"Mrs. Pubsby," Ruth said quietly to the pleasant-faced, Quakerish-looking president of the society, "may I say a word to the ladies?"

"Of course you may, Ruthie," said the good woman comfortably. "I have known you ever since you came to Jabez Potter's, and I never knew you to say a dishonest or unkind word. You just get it off your mind. It'll do you good, child-and maybe do some of us good. I don't know but we're-just a mite-getting religiously selfish."

"I have no idea of trying to urge you ladies to give up any of your regular charities, or trying to undermine your interest in them. I merely hope you will broaden your interests enough to include the Red Cross work before it is too late."

"How too late?" asked Mrs. Crothers, rather snappishly. She had evidently been both disturbed and influenced by the woman in black.

"So that our boys-some of them your sons and relatives-will not get over to France before the Red Cross is ready to supply them with the comforts they may need next winter. It is not impossible that boys right from Cheslow will be over there before cold weather."

"The war will be over long before then, Ruthie," said Mrs. Pubsby complacently.

"I've heard Dr. Cummings, the pastor, say that he is told once in about so often that the devil is dead," Ruth said smiling. "But he is never going to believe it until he can personally help bury him. Our Government is going about this war as though it might last five years. Are we so much wiser than the men at the head of the nation-even if we have the vote?" she added, slyly.

"It does not matter whether the war will be ended in a few weeks, or in ten years. We should do our part in preparing for it. And the Red Cross is doing great and good work-and has been doing it for years and years. When people like the lady who has just gone out repeat and invent slanders against the Red Cross I must stand up and deny them. At least, such scandal-mongers should be made to prove their statements."

"Oh, Ruth Fielding! That is not a kind word," said Mrs. Crothers.

"Will you supply me with one that will satisfactorily take its place?" asked Ruth sweetly. "I do not wish to accuse Mrs. Mantel of actually prevaricating; but I do claim the right of asking her to prove her statements, and that she seems to decline to do.

"And I shall challenge every person I meet who utters such false and ridiculous stories about the Red Cross. It is an out-and-out pro-German propaganda."

"Why, Mrs. Mantel is a member of the Red Cross herself," said Mrs. Crothers sharply.

"She evidently is not loyal to her pledge then," Ruth replied with bluntness. "The lady is not a member of our local chapter, and I have failed yet to hear of her being engaged in any activity for the Red Cross.

"But I want you ladies-all of you-to take the Red Cross work to heart and to learn what the insignia stands for."

With that the earnest girl entered upon a brief but moving appeal for members to the local chapter, for funds, and for workers. As Helen said afterward, Ruth's "mouth was opened and she spake with the tongues of angels!"

At least, her words did not go for naught. Several dollar memberships were secured right there and then. And Mrs. Brooks and Mary Lardner promised a certain sum for the cause-both generous gifts. Best of all, Mrs. Pubsby said:

"I don't know about this being shown our duty by this wisp of a girl. But, ladies, she's right-I can feel it. And I always go by my feelings, whether it's in protracted meetings or in my rheumatic knee. I feel we must do our part.

"This gray woolen sock I'm knitting was for my Ezekiel. But my Ezey has got plenty socks. From now on I'm going to knit 'em for those poor soldiers who will like enough get their feet wet ditching over there in France, and will want plenty changes of socks."

So Ruth started something that afternoon, and she went on doing more and more. Cheslow began to awake slowly. The local chapter rooms began to hum with life for several hours every day and away into the evening.

In the Cameron car, which Helen drove so that a chauffeur could be relieved to go into the army, the two girls drove all about the countryside, interesting the scattered families in war work and picking up the knitted goods made in the farmhouses and villages.

In many places they had to combat the same sort of talk that the woman in black was giving forth. Ruth was patient, but very insistent that the Red Cross deserved no such criticism.

"Come into Cheslow and see what we are doing there at our local headquarters. I will take you in and bring you back. I'll take you to the county headquarters at Robinsburg. You will there hear men and women speak who know much more than I do about the work."

This was the way she pleaded for fairness and public interest, and a ride in a fine automobile was a temptation to many of the women and girls. An afternoon in the rooms of a live Red Cross chapter usually convinced and converted most of these "Doubting Thomasines," as Helen called them.

Working with wool and other goods was all right. But money was needed. A country-wide drive was organized, and Ruth was proud that she was appointed on the committee to conduct it. Mr. Cameron, who was a wealthy department store owner in the city, was made chairman of this special committee, and he put much faith in the ability of the girl of the Red Mill and his own daughter to assist materially in the campaign for funds.

"Get hold of every hardshell farmer in the county," he told the girls. "Begin with your Uncle Jabez, Ruthie. If he leads with a goodly sum many another old fellow who keeps his surplus cash in a stocking or in the broken teapot on the top cupboard shelf will come to time.

"The reason it is so hard to get contributions out of men like Jabez Potter," said Mr. Cameron with a chuckle, "is because nine times out of ten it means the giving up of actual money. They have their cash hid away. It isn't making them a penny, but they like to hoard it, and some of 'em actually worship it.

"And not to be wondered at. It comes hard. Their backs are bent and their fingers knotted from the toil of acquiring hard cash, dollar by dollar and cent by cent. It is much easier to write a check for a hundred dollars to give to a good cause than it is to dig right down into one's jeans and haul out a ten-dollar note."

Ruth knew just how hard this was going to be-to interest the purses of the farming community in the Red Cross drive. The farmers' wives and daughters were making their needles fly, but the men merely considered the work something like the usual yearly attempt to get funds out of them for foreign missions.

"I tell ye what, Niece Ruth, I got my doubts," grumbled Uncle Jabez, when she broached the subject of his giving generously to the cause. "I dunno about so much money being needed for what you're callin' the 'waste of war'!"

"If you read those statistics, compiled under the eyes of Government agents," she told him, "you must be convinced that it is already proved by what has happened in France and Belgium-and in other countries-during the three years of war, that all this money will be needed, and more."

"I dunno. Millions! Them is a power of dollars, Niece Ruth. You and lots of other folks air too willing to spend money that other folks have airned by the sweat of their brows."

He offered her a sum that she was really ashamed to put down at the top of her subscription paper. She went about her task in the hope that Uncle Jabez's purse and heart would both be opened for the cause.

Not that he was not patriotic. He was willing-indeed anxious-to go to the front and give his body for the cause of liberty. But Uncle Jabez seemed to love his dollars better than he did his body.

"Give him time, dearie, give him time," murmured Aunt Alvirah, rocking back and forth in her low chair. "The idea of giving up a dollar to Jabez Potter's mind is bigger than the shooting of a thousand men. Poor boys! Poor boys! How many of them may lack comforts and hospitals while the niggard people like Jabez Potter air wakin' up?"

Ruth's heart was very sore about the going over of the American expeditionary forces at this time, too. She said little to Helen about it, but the fact that Tom Cameron-her very oldest friend about the Red Mill and Cheslow-looked forward to going at the first moment possible, brought the war very close to the girl.

The feeling within her that she should go across to France and actually help in some way grew stronger and stronger as the days went by. Then came a letter from Jennie Stone.

"Heavy," as she had always been called in school and even in college, was such a fun-loving, light-hearted girl that it quite shocked both Ruth and Helen when they learned that she was already in real work for the poor poilus and was then about to sail for France.

Jennie Stone's people were wealthy, and her social acquaintances were, many of them, idle women and girls. But the war had awakened these drones, and with them the plump girl. An association for the establishment and upkeep of a convalescent home in France had been formed in Jennie's neighborhood, and Jennie, who had always been fond of cooking-both in the making of the dishes and the assimilation of the same-was actually going to work in the diet kitchen.

"And who knows," the letter ended in Heavy's characteristic way, "but that I shall fall in love with one of the blessés. What a sweet name for a wounded soldier! And, just tell me! Do you think it possible? Can a poilu love a fat girl?"



Chapter V. "The Boys Of The Draft"


"My goodness, Ruth Fielding!" demanded Helen, after reading the characteristic letter from Jennie Stone, "if she can go to France why can't we?"

Helen's changed attitude did not surprise her chum much. Ruth was quite used to Helen's vagaries. The latter was very apt to declare against a course of action, for herself or her friends, and then change over night.

The thought of her twin brother going to war had at first shocked and startled Helen. Now she added:

"For you know very well, Ruth Fielding, that Tom Cameron should not be allowed to go over there to France all alone."

"Goodness, Helen!" gasped the girl of the Red Mill, "you don't suppose that Tom is going to constitute an Army of Invasion in his own person, and attempt to whip the whole of Germany before the rest of Uncle Sam's boys jump in?"

"You may laugh!" cried Helen. "He's only a boy-and boys can't get along without somebody to look out for them. He never would change his flannels at the right time, or keep his feet dry."

"I know you have always felt the overwhelming responsibility of Tom's upbringing, even when he was at Seven Oaks and you and I were at Briarwood."

"Every boy needs the oversight of some feminine eye. And I expect he'll fall in love with the first French girl he meets over there unless I'm on the spot to warn him," Helen went on.

"They are most attractive, I believe," laughed Ruth cheerfully.

"'Chic,' as Madame Picolet used to say. You remember her, our French teacher at Briarwood?" Helen said.

"Poor little Picolet!" Ruth returned with some gravity. "Do you know she has been writing me?"

"Madame Picolet? You never said a word about it!"

"But you knew she returned to France soon after the war began?"

"Oh, yes. I knew that. But-but, to tell the truth, I hadn't thought of her at all for a long time. Why does she write to you?"

"For help," said Ruth quietly. "She has a work among soldiers' widows and orphans-a very worthy charity, indeed. I looked it up."

"And sent her money, I bet!" cried the vigorous Helen.

"Why-yes-what I felt I could spare," Ruth admitted.

"And never told any of us girls about it. Think! All the Briarwood girls who knew little Picolet!" Helen said with some heat. "Why shouldn't we have had a part in helping her, too?"

"My dear," said her chum seriously, "do you realize how little interest any of us felt in the war until this last winter? And now our own dear country is in it and we must think of our own boys who are going, rather than of the needs of the French, or the British, or even the Belgians."

"Oh, Ruth!" cried Helen suddenly, "perhaps Madame Picolet might help us to get over there."

"Over to France?"

"I mean to get into some work in France. She knows us. She may have some influence," said the eager Helen.

But Ruth slowly shook her head. "No," she said. "If I go over there it must be to work for our own boys. They are going. They will need us. I want to do my all for Uncle Sam-for these United States-and," she added, pointing to Uncle Jabez's flag upon the pole in front of the Red Mill farmhouse, "for the blessed old flag. I am sorry for the wounded of our allies; but the time has come now for us to think of the needs of our own soldiers first. They are going over. First our regular army and the guard; then the boys of the draft."

"Ah, yes! The boys of the draft," sighed Helen.

Suddenly Ruth seized her chum's wrist. "I've got it, Helen! That is it! 'The boys of the draft.'"

"Goodness! What's the matter with you now?" demanded Helen, wide-eyed.

"We will screen it. It will be great!" cried Ruth. "I'll go and see Mr. Hammond at once. I can write the scenario in a few days, and it will not take long to film it. The story of the draft, and what the Red Cross can and will do for the boys over there. Put it on the screen and show it wherever a Red Cross drive is made during the next few months. We'll do it, Helen!"

"Oh! Yes! We'll-do-it!" gasped her chum breathlessly. "You mean that you will do it and that I haven't the first idea of what it is you mean to do."

"Of course you have. A big film called 'The Boys of the Draft,' taking a green squad right through their training from the very first day they are in camp. Fake the French and war scenes, of course, but show the spectators just what may and will happen over there and what the Red Cross will do for the brave hearts who fight for the country."

Ruth was excited. No doubt of that. Her cheeks burned. Her eyes shone. She gestured vigorously.

"I know you don't see it as I do, honey," she added. "I can visualize the whole thing right now. And Helen!"

"Goodness, yes!" gasped Helen. "What now?"

"I'm going to make Uncle Jabez see it! You just see if I don't."



Chapter VI. The Patriotism Of The Purse


While she was yet at boarding school at Briarwood Hall Ruth had been successful in writing a scenario for the Alectrion Film Corporation. This is told of in "Ruth Fielding in Moving Pictures." Its production had been a matter to arouse both the interest and amazement of her friends. Mr. Hammond, the president of the film-producing company, considered her a genius in screen matters, and it was a fact that she had gained a very practical grasp of the whole moving picture business.

"The Heart of a Schoolgirl," which Ruth had written under spur of a great need at Briarwood Hall, had practically rebuilt one of the dormitories which had been destroyed by fire at a time when the insurance on that particular building had run out.

One of her romantic scenarios had been screened at the Red Mill and on the picturesque Lumano and along its banks. Then, less than a year before, "The Forty-Niners" had been made; and during the succeeding winter this picture had been shown all over the country and, as the theatrical people say, "had played to big business."

Ruth had bought stock in the corporation and was sometimes actually consulted now by Mr. Hammond and the heads of departments as to the policies of the concern. As the president of the corporation had already written her, the time was about ripe for another "big" film.

Ruth Fielding was expected to suggest the idea, at least, although the working out of the story would probably be left to the director in the field. He knew his people, his properties, and his locations. The bare skeleton of the story was what Mr. Hammond wanted.

Ruth's success in making virile "The Forty-Niners" urged Mr. Hammond to hope for something as good from her now. And, like most composers of every kind, the real inspiration for the new reel wonder had leaped to life on the instant in her brain.

The idea of "The Boys of the Draft" came from her talk with her chum, Helen Cameron. Helen had a limited amount of pride in Ruth's success on this occasion for, as she said, she had blunderingly "sicked Ruth on." But, oddly enough, Ruth Fielding's first interest in the success of the new picture was in what effect it might have upon Uncle Jabez Potter's purse.

The drive for Red Cross contributions was on now all over the country. That effort confined to the county in which Cheslow and the Red Mill were located had begun early; but it had gone stumblingly. Indeed, as Helen said, if it was a drive, it was about like driving home the cows!

Mr. Cameron had expected much of Ruth and his own daughter among the farming people; but they were actually behind the collectors who worked in the towns. It was at a time in the year when the men of the scattered communities were working hard out of doors; and it is difficult to interest farmers in anything but their crops during the growing season. Indeed, it is absolutely necessary that they should give their main attention to those crops if a good harvest is to be secured.

But Ruth felt that she was failing in this work for the Red Cross just because she could not interest her uncle, the old miller, sufficiently in the matter. If she could not get him enthused, how could she expect to obtain large contributions from strangers?

After seeing a screen production of Ruth's play of the old West Uncle Jabez had for the first time realized what a really wonderful thing the filming of such pictures was. He admitted that Ruth's time was not being thrown away.

Then, he respected the ability of anybody who could make money, and he saw this girl, whom he had "taken in out of charity" as he had more than once said, making more money in a given time-and making it more easily-than he did in his mill and through his mortgages and mining investments.

If Uncle Jabez did not actually bow down to the Golden Calf, he surely did think highly of financial success. And he had begun to realize that all this education Ruth had been getting (quite unnecessary he had first believed) had led her into a position where she was "making good."

Through this slant in Uncle Jabez's mind the girl began to hope that she might encourage him to do much more for the cause her heart was so set on than he seemed willing to do. Uncle Jabez was patriotic, but his patriotism had not as yet affected his pocket.

As soon as Uncle Jabez knew that Ruth contemplated helping to make another picture he showed interest. He wanted to know about it, and he figured with Aunt Alvirah "how much that gal might make out'n her idees."

"For goodness' sake, Jabez Potter!" exclaimed the little old woman, "ain't you got airy idee in your head 'cept money making?"

"I calc'late," said the miller grimly, "that it's my idees about money in the past has give me what I've got."

"But our Ruthie is going to git up a big, patriotic picture-somethin' to stir the hearts of the people when they think the boys air actually going over to help them French folks win the war."

"I wish," cried the old woman shrilly, "that I warn't too old and too crooked, to do something myself for the soldiers. But my back an' my bones won't let me, Jabez. And I ain't got no bank account. All I can do is to pray."

The miller looked at her with his usual grim smile. Perhaps it was a little quizzical on this occasion.

"Do you calc'late to do any prayin' about this here filum Ruth is going to make, 'The Boys of the Draft'?" he asked.

"I sartinly be-for her success and the good it may do."

"By gum! she'll make money, then," declared Uncle Jabez, who had unbounded faith in the religion Aunt Alvirah professed-but he did not.

Ruth, hearing this, developed another of her inspirational ideas. Uncle Jabez fell into a trap she laid for him, after having taken Mr. Hammond into her confidence regarding what she proposed doing.

"I reckon you'll make a mint of money out'n this draft story," the miller said one evening, when the actual work on the photographing of the film was well under way.

"I hope so," admitted Ruth slowly. "But I am afraid some parts of it will have to be cut or changed because it would cost more than Mr. Hammond cares to put into it at this time. You know, the Alectrion Corporation is in the field with several big things, and it takes a lot of money."

"Why don't he borry it?" demanded the miller sharply.

"He never does that. The only way in which he accepts outside capital is to let moneyed men buy into a picture he is making, taking their chance along with the rest of us that the picture will be a success."

"Yep. An' if it ain't a success?" asked the miller shrewdly.

"Then their money is lost."

"Ahem! That's a hard sayin'," muttered the old man. "But if it does make a hit-like that Forty-Niner story of yourn, Niece Ruth-then the feller that buys in makes a nice little pile?"

"Our successes," Ruth said with pride, "have run from fifty to two hundred per cent profit."

"My soul! Two hunderd! Ain't that perfec'ly scand'lous?" muttered Uncle Jabez. "An' here jest last week I let Amos Blodgett have a thousand dollars on his farm at five an' a ha'f per cent."

"But that investment is perfectly safe," Ruth said slyly.

"My soul! Yes. Blodgett's lower forty's wuth more'n the mortgage. But sech winnin's as you speak of -- ! Niece Ruth how much is needed to make this picture the kind of a picture you want it to be?"

She told him-as she and Mr. Hammond had already agreed. The idea was to divide the cost in three parts and let Uncle Jabez invest to the amount of one of the shares if he would.

"But, you see, Uncle Jabez, Mr. Hammond does not feel as confident as I do about 'The Boys of the Draft,' nor has he the same deep interest in the picture. I want it to be a success-and I believe it will be-because of the good it will do the Red Cross campaign for funds."

"Humph!" grunted the miller. "I'm bankin' on your winnin' anyway." And perhaps his belief in the efficacy of Aunt Alvirah Boggs' prayers had something to do with his "buying into" the new picture.

The screening of the great film was rushed. A campaign of advertising was entered into and the fact that a share of the profits from the film was to be devoted to Red Cross work made it popular at once. But Uncle Jabez showed some chagrin.

"What's the meanin' of it?" he demanded. "Who's goin' to give his share of the profits to any Red Cross? Not me!"

"But I am, Uncle Jabez," Ruth said lightly. "That was my intention from the first. But, of course, that has nothing to do with you."

"I sh'd say not! I sh'd say not!" grumbled the miller. "I ain't likely to git into a good thing an' then throw the profit away. I sh'd say not!"

The film was shown in New York, in several other big cities, and in Cheslow simultaneously. Ruth arranged for this first production with the proprietor of the best movie house in the local town, because she was anxious to see it and could not spare the time to go to New York.

Mr. Hammond, as though inspired by Ruth's example, telegraphed on the day of the first exhibition of the film that he would donate his share of the profits as well to the Red Cross.

"'Nother dern fool!" sputtered Uncle Jabez. "Never see the beat. Wal! if you'n he both want to give 'way a small fortune, it's your own business, I suppose. All the less need of me givin' any of my share."

He went with Ruth to see the production of the film. Indeed, he would not have missed that "first night" for the world. The pretty picture house was crowded. It had got so that when anything from the pen of the girl of the Red Mill was produced the neighbors made a gala day of it.

Ruth Fielding was proud of her success. And she had nothing on this occasion to be sorry for, the film being a splendid piece of work.

But, aside from this fact, "The Boys of the Draft" was opportune, and the audience was more than usually sensitive. The very next day the first quota of the drafted boys from Cheslow would march away to the training camp.

The hearts of the people were stirred. They saw a faithful reproduction of what the boys would go through in training, what they might endure in the trenches, and particularly what the Red Cross was doing for soldiers under similar conditions elsewhere.

As though spellbound, Uncle Jabez sat through the long reel. The appeal at the end, with the Red Cross nurse in the hospital ward, the dying soldier's head pillowed upon her breast while she whispered the comfort into his dulling ear that his mother would have whispered -- 

Ah, it brought the audience to its feet at the "fadeout"-and in tears! It was so human, so real, so touching, that there was little audible comment as they filed out to the soft playing of the organ.

But Uncle Jabez burst out helplessly when they were in the street. He wiped the tears from the hard wrinkles of his old face with frankness and his voice was husky as he declared:

"Niece Ruth! I'm converted to your Red Cross. Dern it all! you kin have ev'ry cent of my share of the profit on that picter-ev'ry cent!"



Chapter VII. On The Way


Tom Cameron came home on a furlough from the officers' training camp the day that the boys of the first draft departed from Cheslow. It stabbed the hearts of many mothers and fathers with a quick pain to see him march through the street so jaunty and debonair.

"Why, Tommy!" his sister cried. "You're a man!"

"Lay off! Lay off!" begged her twin, not at all pleased. "You might have awakened to the fact that I was out of rompers some years ago. Your eyesight has been bad."

Indeed, he was rather inclined to ignore her and "flock with his father," as Helen put it to Ruth. The father and son had something in common now that the girl could not altogether understand. They sat before the cold grate in the library, their chairs drawn near to each other, and smoked sometimes for an hour without saying a word.

"But, Ruthie," Helen said, her eyes big and moist, "each seems to know just what the other is thinking about. Sometimes papa says a word, and sometimes Tom; and the other nods and there is perfect understanding. It-it's almost uncanny."

"I think I know what you mean," said the more observant girl of the Red Mill. "We grew up some time ago, Helen. And you know we have rather thought of Tom as a boy, still.

"But he is a man now. There is a difference in the sexes in their attitude to this war which should establish in all our minds that we are not equal."

"Who aren't equal?" demanded Helen, almost wrathfully, for she was a militant feminist.

"Men and women are not equal, dear. And they never will be. Wearing mannish clothes and doing mannish labor will never give women the same outlook upon life that men have. And when men encourage us to believe that our minds are the same as theirs, they do it almost always for their own selfish ends-or because there is something feminine about their minds."

"Traitor!" cried Helen.

"No," sighed Ruth. "Only honesty.

"Tom and his father understand each other's thoughts and feelings as you and your father never could. After all, in the strongest association between father and daughter there is the barrier of sex that cannot be surmounted. You know yourself, Helen, that at a certain point you consider your father much of a big boy and treat him accordingly. That, they tell us, is the 'mother instinct' in the female, and I guess it is.

"On the other hand, I have seen girls and their mothers together (we never had mothers after we were little kiddies, Helen, and we've missed it) but I have seen such perfect understanding and appreciation between mothers and their daughters that it was as though the same soul dwelt in two bodies."

Helen sniffed in mingled scorn and doubt over Ruth's philosophy. Then she said in an aggrieved tone: "But papa and Tom ought not to shut me out of their lives-even in a small way."

"The penalty of being a girl," replied Ruth, practically. "Tom doesn't believe, I suppose, that girls would quite understand his manly feelings," she added with a sudden elfish smile.

"Cat's foot!" ejaculated the twin, with scorn.

Tom Cameron, however, did not run altogether true to form if Ruth was right in her philosophy. He had always been used to talking seriously at times with Ruth, and during this furlough he found time to have a long and confidential talk with the girl of the Red Mill. This might be the only furlough he would have before sailing for France, for he had already obtained his commission as second lieutenant.

There was an understanding between the young man and Ruth Fielding-an unspoken and tacit feeling that they were "made for each other." They were young. Ruth's thoughts had never dwelt much upon love and marriage. She never looked on each man she met half-wonderingly as a possible husband. She had never met any man with this feeling. Perhaps, in part, that was, unconsciously to herself, because Tom had always been so a part of her life and her thoughts. Lately, however, she had come to the realization that if Tom should really ask her to marry him when his education was completed and he was established in the world, the girl of the Red Mill would be very likely to consider his offer seriously.

"Things aren't coming out just as we had planned, Ruth," the young man said on this occasion. "I guess this war is going to knock a lot of plans in the head. If it lasts several years, many of us fellows, if we come through it safely, will feel that we are too old to go back to college.

"Can you imagine a fellow who has spent months in the trenches, and has done the things that the soldiers are having to do and to endure and to learn over there-can you imagine his coming back here and going to school again?"

"Oh, Tom! I suppose that is so. The returned soldier must feel vastly older and more experienced in every way than men who have never heard the bursting of shells and the rattle of machine guns. Oh, dear, Tommy! Are we going to know you at all when you come back?"

"Maybe not," grinned Tom. "I may raise whiskers. Most of the poilus do, I understand. But you could not really imagine a regiment of Uncle Sam's soldiers that were not clean shaven."

"We want to see it all, too-Helen and I," Ruth said, sighing. "We are so far away from the front."

"Goodness!" he exclaimed. "I should think you would be glad."

"But some women must go," Ruth told him gravely. "Why not us?"

"You --  Well, I don't know about you, Ruth. You seem somehow different. I expect you could look out for yourself anywhere. But Helen hasn't got your sense."

"Hear him!" gasped Ruth.

"It's true," he declared doggedly. "She hasn't. Father and I have talked it over. Nell is crazy to go-and I tell father he would be crazy to let her. But it may be that he will go to London and Paris himself, for there is some work he can do for the Government. Of course, Helen would insist upon accompanying him in that event."

"Oh, Tom!" exclaimed Ruth again.

"Why, they'd take you along, of course, if you wanted to go," said Tom.

"But I don't wish to go in any such way," the girl of the Red Mill declared. "I want to go for just one purpose-to help. And it must be something worth while. There will be enough dilettante assistants in every branch of the work. My position must mean something to the cause, as well as to me, or I will stay right here in Cheslow."

He looked at her with the old admiration dawning in his eyes.

"Ah! The same old Ruthie, aren't you?" he murmured. "The same independent, ambitious girl, whose work must count. Well, I fancy your chance will come. We all seem to be on our way. I wonder to what end?"

There was no sentimental outcome of their talk. After all they were only over the line between boy-and-girlhood and the grown-up state. Tom was too much of a man to wish to anchor a girl to him by any ties when the future was so uncertain. And nothing had really ever happened to them to stir those deeper passions which must rise to the surface when two people talk of love.

They were merely the best of friends. They had no other ties of a warmer nature than those which bound them in friendship to each other. They felt confidence in each other if the future was propitious; but now -- 

"I am sure you will make your mark in the army, Tom, dear," Ruth said to him. "And I shall think of you-wherever you are and wherever I am-always!"



Chapter VIII. The Nearest Duty


The county drive for Red Cross funds had been a great success; and many people declared that Ruth's work had been that which had told the most in the effort. Uncle Jabez inspired many of the more parsimonious of the county to follow his lead in giving to the cause. And, of course, "The Boys of the Draft" was making money for the Red Cross all over the country, as well as in and about Cheslow.

After Tom Cameron went back to camp Ruth's longing for real service in the war work fairly obsessed her mind. She could, of course, offer herself to do some unimportant work in France, paying her own transportation and expenses, and become one of that small army of women who first went over, many of whom were more ornamental, if the truth were told, than useful in the grim work that was to follow.

But the girl of the Red Mill, as she told Tom Cameron, wished to make whatever she did count. Yet she was spurred by no inordinate desire for praise or adulation. Merely she wanted to feel that she actually was doing her all for Uncle Sam.

Being untrained in nursing it could not be hospital work-not of the usual kind. Ruth wanted something that her capabilities fitted. Something she could do and do well. Something that was of a responsible nature and would count in the long run for the cause of humanity.

Meanwhile she did not refuse the small duties that fell to her lot. She was always ready to "jump in" and do her share in any event. Helen often said that her chum's doctrinal belief was summed up in the quotation from the Sunday school hymn: "You in your small corner, and I in mine!"

One day at the Cheslow chapter it was said that there was need of somebody who could help out in the supply department of the State Headquarters in Robinsburg. A woman or girl was desired who would not have to be paid a salary, and preferably one who could pay her own living expenses.

"That's me!" exclaimed Ruth to Helen. "I certainly can fill that bill."

"But it really amounts to nothing, dear," her chum said doubtfully. "It seems a pity to waste your brain and perfectly splendid ideas for organization and the like in such a position."

"Fiddle-de-dee!" ejaculated Ruth, quoting Uncle Jabez. "Nobody has yet appreciated my 'perfectly splendid ideas of organization,'" and she repeated the phrase with some scorn, "so I would better put forward some of my more simple talents. I have a good head for figures, I can letter packages, I can even stick stamps on letters and do other office work. My capabilities will not be strained. And, then," she added, "I feel that in State Headquarters I may be in a better position to 'grab off' something really worth while."

"'Johannah on the spot,' as it were?" said Helen. "But you'll have to go down there to live, Ruthie."

"The Y. W. C. A. will take me in, I am sure," declared her friend. "I am not afraid of being alone in a great city-at my age and with my experience!"

She telephoned to Robinsburg and was told to come on. Naturally, by this time, the heads of the State Red Cross, at least, knew who Ruth Fielding was.

But every girl who had raised a large sum of money for the cause was not suited to such work as was waiting for her at headquarters. She knew that she must prove her fitness.

Helen took her over in the car the next morning and was inclined to be tearful when they separated.

"Just does seem as though I couldn't get on without you, Ruthie!" she cried.

"Why, you are worse than poor Aunt Alvirah! Every time I go away from home she acts as though I might never come back again. And as for you, Helen Cameron, you have plenty to do. You have my share of Red Cross work in Cheslow to do as well as your own. Don't forget that."

Headquarters was a busy place. The very things Ruth told Helen she could do, she did do-and a multitude besides. Everything was systematized, and the work went on in a businesslike manner. Everybody was working hard and unselfishly.

At least, so Ruth at first thought. Then, before she had been there two days, she chanced into another department upon an errand and came face to face with Mrs. Rose Mantel, the woman in black.

"Oh! How d'do!" said the woman with her set smile. "I heard you were coming here to help us, Miss Fielding. Hope you'll like it."

"I hope so," Ruth returned gravely.

She had very little to say to the woman in black, although the latter, as the days passed, seemed desirous of ingratiating herself into the college girl's good opinion. But that Mrs. Mantel could not do.

It seemed that Mrs. Mantel was an expert bookkeeper and accountant. She confided to Ruth that, before she had married and "dear Herny" had died, she had been engaged in the offices of one of the largest cotton brokerage houses in New Orleans. She still had a little money left from "poor Herny's" insurance, and she could live on that while she was "doing her bit" for the Red Cross.

Ruth made no comment. Of a sudden Mrs. Mantel seemed to have grown patriotic. No more did she repeat slanders of the Red Cross, but was working for that organization.

Ruth Fielding would not forbid a person "seeing the light" and becoming converted to the worthiness of the cause; but somehow she could not take Mrs. Mantel and her work at their face value.

Gradually, as the weeks fled, Ruth became acquainted with others of the busy workers; with Mr. Charles Mayo, who governed this headquarters and seldom spoke of anything save the work-so she did not know whether he had a family, or social life, or anything else but just Red Cross.

There was a Mr. Legrand, whom she did not like so well. He seemed to be a Frenchman, although he spoke perfect English. He was a dark man with steady, keen eyes behind thick lenses, and, unusual enough in this day, he wore a heavy beard. His voice was a bark, but it did not seem that he meant to be unpleasant.

Legrand and a man named José, who could be nothing but a Mexican, often were with the woman in black-both in the offices and out of them. Ruth took her meals at a restaurant near by, although she roomed in the Y. W. C. A. building, as she said she should. In that restaurant she often saw the woman in black dining with her two cavaliers, as Ruth secretly termed Legrand and José.

It was a trio that the girl of the Red Mill found herself interested in, but with whom she wished to have nothing to do.

All sorts and conditions of people, however, were turning to Red Cross work. "Why," Ruth asked herself, "criticize the intentions of any of them?" She felt sometimes as though her condemnation of Mrs. Mantel, even though secret, was really wicked.

But in the bookkeeping and accounting department-handling the funds that came in, as well as the expense accounts-a dishonest person might do much harm to the cause. And Ruth knew in her heart that Mrs. Mantel was not an honest woman.

Her tale that day at the Ladies' Aid Society, in Cheslow, had been false-strictly false. The woman knew it at the time, and she knew it now. Ruth was sure that every time Mrs. Mantel looked at her with her set smile she was thinking that Ruth had caught her in a prevarication and had not forgotten it.

Yet the girl of the Red Mill felt that she could say nothing about Mrs. Mantel to Mr. Mayo, or to anybody else in authority. She had no proved facts.

Besides, she had never been so busy before in all her life, and Ruth Fielding was no sluggard. It seemed as though every moment of her waking hours was filled and running over with duties.

She often worked long into the evening in her department at the Red Cross bureau. She might have missed the folks at home and her girl friends more had it not been for the work that crowded upon her.

One evening, as she came down from the loft above the business office where she had been working alone, she remarked that there was a light in the office. Mrs. Mantel and her assistants did not usually work at night.

The door stood ajar. Ruth looked in with frank curiosity. She saw Mr. José, the black-looking Mexican, alone in the room. He had taken both of the chemical fire extinguishers from the wall-one had hung at one end of the room and the other at the other end-and was doing something to them. Repairing them, perhaps, or merely cleaning them. He sat there cheerfully whistling in a low tone and manipulating a polishing rag, or something of the kind. He had a bucket beside him.

"I wonder if he can't sleep nights, and that is why he is so busily engaged?" thought Ruth, as she went on out of the building. "I never knew of his being so workative before."

But the matter made no real impression on her mind. It was a transitory thought entirely. She went to her clean little cell in the Y. W. C. A. home and forgot all about Mr. José and the fire extinguishers.



Chapter IX. Tom Sails, And Something Else Happens


"You can see your son, Second Lieutenant Thomas Cameron, before he sails for France, if you will be at the Polk Hotel, at eight o'clock to-morrow p. m."

There have been other telegrams sent and received of more moment than the above, perhaps; but none that could have created a more profound impression in the Cameron household.

There have been not a few similar messages put on the telegraph wires and received by anxious parents during these months since America has really got into the World War.

There is every necessity for secrecy in the sailing of the transports for France. The young officers themselves have sometimes told more to their relatives than they should before the hour of sailing. So the War Department takes every precaution to safeguard the crossing of our boys who go to fight the Huns.

With Mr. Cameron holding an important government position and being ready himself to go across before many weeks, it was only natural that he should have this information sent him that he might say good-bye to Tom. The latter had already been a fortnight with "his boys" in the training camp and was fixed in his assignment to his division of the expeditionary forces.

Ruth chanced to be at the Outlook, as the Cameron home was called, for over Sunday when this telegram was received. Both she and Helen were vastly excited.

"Oh, I'm going with you! I must see Tommy once more," cried the twin with an outburst of sobs and tears that made her father very unhappy.

"My dear! You cannot," Mr. Cameron tried to explain.

"I can! I must!" the girl cried. "I know I'll never see Tommy again. He-he's going over there to-to be shot -- "

"Don't, dear!" begged Ruth, taking her chum into her arms. "You must not talk that way. This is war -- "

"And is war altogether a man's game? Aren't we to have anything to say about it, or what the Government shall do with our brothers?"

"It is no game," sighed Ruth Fielding. "It is a very different thing. And our part in it is to give, and give generously. Our loved ones if we must."

"I don't want to give Tom!" Helen declared. "I can never be patriotic enough to give him to the country. And that's all there is to it!"

"Be a good girl, Helen, and brace up," advised her father, but quite appreciating the girl's feelings. There had always been a bond between the Cameron twins stronger than that between most brothers and sisters.

"I know I shall never see him again," wailed the girl.

"I hope he'll not hear that you said that, dear," said the girl of the Red Mill, shaking her head. "We must send him away with cheerfulness. You tell him from me, Mr. Cameron, that I send my love and I hope he will come back a major at least."

"He'll be killed!" Helen continued to wail. "I know he will!"

But that did not help things a mite. Mr. Cameron went off late that night and reached the rendezvous called for in the telegram. It was in a port from which several transports were sailing within a few hours, and he came back with a better idea of what it meant for thousands of men under arms to get away on a voyage across the seas.

Tom was busy with his men; but he had time to take supper with his father at the hotel and then got permission for Mr. Cameron to go aboard the ship with him and see how comfortable the War Department had made things for the expeditionary force.

Mr. Cameron stopped at Robinsburg on his return to tell Ruth about it, for she had returned to Headquarters, of course, on Monday, and was working quite as hard as before. He brought, too, a letter for Ruth from Tom, and just what their soldier-boy said in that missive the girl of the Red Mill never told.

Ruth was left, when her friends' father went on to Cheslow, with a great feeling of emptiness in her life. It was not alone because of Tom's departure for France; Mr. Cameron and Helen, too, would soon go across the sea.

Mr. Cameron had repeated Helen's offer-that Ruth should accompany them. But the girl, though grateful, refused. She did not for a moment belittle his efforts for the Government, or Helen's interest in the war.

But Mr. Cameron was a member of a commission that was to investigate certain matters and come back to make report. He would not be over there long.

As for Helen, Ruth was quite sure she would join some association of wealthy women and girls in Paris, as Jennie Stone had, and consider that she was "doing her bit." Ruth wanted something more real than that. She was in earnest. She did not wish to be carefully sheltered from all hard work and even from the dangers "over there." She desired a real part in what was going forward.

Nevertheless, while waiting her chance, she did not allow herself to become gloomy or morose. That was not Ruth Fielding's way.

"I always know where to come when I wish to see a cheerful face," Mr. Mayo declared, putting his head in at her door one day. "You always have a smile on tap. How do you do it?"

"I practice before my glass every morning," Ruth declared, laughing. "But sometimes, during the day, I'm afraid my expression slips. I can't always remember to smile when I am counting and packing these sweaters, and caps, and all, for the poor boys who, some of them, are going to stand up and be shot, or gassed, or blinded by liquid fire."

"It is hard," sighed the chief, wagging his head. "If it wasn't knowing that we are doing just a little good -- But not as much as I could wish! Collections seem very small. Our report is not going to be all I could wish this month."

He went away, leaving Ruth with a thought that did not make it any easier for her to smile. She saw people all day long coming into the building and seeking out the cashier's desk, where Mrs. Mantel sat, to hand over contributions of money to the Red Cross. If only each brought a dollar there should be a large sum added to the local treasury each day.

There was no way of checking up these payments. The money passed through the hands of the lady in black and only by her accounts on the day ledger and a system of card index taken from that ledger by Mr. Legrand, who worked as her assistant, could the record be found of the moneys contributed to the Red Cross at this station.

Ruth Fielding was not naturally of a suspicious disposition; but the honesty of Mrs. Mantel and the real interest of that woman in the cause were still keenly questioned in Ruth's mind.

She wondered if Mr. Mayo knew who the woman really was. Was her story of widowhood, and of her former business experience in New Orleans strictly according to facts? What might be learned about the woman in black if inquiry was made in that Southern city?

Yet at times Ruth would have felt condemned for her suspicions had it not been for the daily sight of Mrs. Mantel's hard smile and her black, glittering eyes.

"Snakes' eyes," thought the girl of the Red Mill. "Quite as bright and quite as malevolent. Mrs. Mantel certainly does not love me, despite her soft words and sweet smile."

There was some stir in the headquarters at last regarding a large draft of Red Cross workers to make up another expeditionary force to France. Two full hospital units were going and a base supply unit as well. Altogether several hundred men and women would sail in a month's time for the other side.

Ruth's heart beat quicker at the thought. Was there a prospect for her to go over in some capacity with this quota?

Most of the candidates for all departments of the expeditionary force were trained in the work they were to do. It was ridiculous to hope for an appointment in the hospital force. No nurse among them all had served less than two years in a hospital, and many of them had served three and four.

She asked Mr. Mayo what billets there were open in the supply unit; but the chief did not know. The State had supplied few workers as yet who had been sent abroad; Robinsburg, up to this time, none at all.

"Why, Miss Fielding, you must not think of going over there!" he cried. "We need you here. If all our dependable women go to France, how shall we manage here?"

"You would manage very well," Ruth told him. "This should be a training school for the work over there. I know that I can give any intelligent girl such an idea of my work in three weeks that you would never miss me."

"Impossible, Miss Fielding!"

"Quite possible, I assure you. I want to go. I feel I can do more over there than I can here. A thousand girls who can't go could be found to do what I do here. Approve my application, will you please, Mr. Mayo?"

He did this after some hesitation. "Am I going to lose everybody at once?" he grumbled.

"Why, only poor little me," laughed Ruth Fielding.

"Yours is the seventh application I have O.K.'d. And several others may ask yet. The fire is spreading."

"Oh! Who?"

"We are going to lose Mrs. Mantel for one. I understand that the Red Cross wants her for a much more important work in France."

For a little while Ruth doubted after all if she so much desired to go to France. The fact that Mrs. Mantel was going came as a shock to her mind and made her hesitate. Suppose she should meet the woman in black over there? Suppose her work should be connected with that of the woman whom she so much suspected and disliked?

Then her better sense and her patriotism came to the force. What had she to do with Mrs. Mantel, after all? She was not the woman's keeper. Nor could it be possible that Mrs. Mantel would disturb herself much over Ruth Fielding, no matter where they might meet.

Was Ruth Fielding willing to work for the Red Cross only in ways that would be wholly pleasant and with people of whom she could entirely approve? The girl asked herself this seriously.

She put the thought behind her with distaste at her own narrowness of vision. Born of Yankee stock, she was naturally conservative to the very marrow of her bones. This New England attitude is not altogether a curse; but it sometimes leads one out of broad paths.

Surely the work was broad enough for both her and the woman in black to do what they might without conflict. "I'll do my part; what has Mrs. Mantel to do with me?" she determined.

Before Ruth had a chance to tell her chum of the application she had put in, Helen wrote her hurriedly that Mr. Cameron's commission was to sail in two days from Boston. Ruth could not leave her work, but she wrote a long letter to her dearest chum and sent it by special delivery to the Boston hotel, where she knew the Camerons would stop for a night.

It really seemed terrible, that her chum and her father should go without Ruth seeing them again; but she did not wish to leave her work while her application for an assignment to France was pending. It might mean that she would lose her chance altogether.

She only told Helen in the letter that she, too, hoped to be "over there" some day soon.

But several days slipped by and her case was not mentioned by Mr. Mayo. It seemed pretty hard to Ruth. She was ready and able to go and nobody wanted her!

The weather chanced to be unpleasant, too, and that is often closely linked up to one's very deepest feelings. Ruth's philosophy could not overcome the effect of a foggy, dripping day. Her usual cheerfulness dropped several degrees.

It drew on toward evening, and the patter of raindrops on the panes grew louder. The glistening umbrellas in the street, as she looked down upon them from the window, looked like many, many black mushrooms. Ruth knew she would have a dreary evening.

Suddenly she heard a door bang on the floor below-a shout and then a crash of glass. Next -- 

"Fire! Fire! Fire!"

In an instant she was out of her room and at the head of the stairs. It was an old building-a regular firetrap. Mr. Mayo had dashed out of his office and was shouting up the stairs:

"Come down! Down, every one of you! Fire!"

Through the open transom over the door of Mrs. Mantel's office Ruth saw that one end of the room was ablaze.



Chapter X. Suspicions


There was a patter of feet overhead and racing down the stairway came half a dozen frightened people. They had been aroused by Mr. Mayo's shout, and they knew that if the flames reached the stairway first they would be driven to the fire escape.

There seemed little danger of the fire reaching the stairs, however; for when Ruth got to the lower hall the door of the burning office had been opened again, and she saw one of the porters squirting the chemical fire extinguisher upon the blaze.

Mr. Legrand had flung open the door, and he was greatly excited. He held his left hand in his right, as though it were hurt.

"Where is Mrs. Mantel?" demanded Mr. Mayo.

"Gone!" gasped Legrand. "Lucky she did. That oil spread all over her desk and papers. It's all afire."

"I was opening a gallon of lubricating oil. It broke and spurted everywhere. I cut myself-see?"

He showed his hand. Ruth saw that blood seemed to be running from the cut freely. But she was more interested in the efforts of the porter. His extinguisher seemed to be doing very little good.

Ruth heard Mr. Mayo trying to discover the cause of the fire; but Mr. Legrand seemed unable to tell that. He ran out to a drugstore to have his hand attended to.

Mr. Mayo seized the second extinguisher from the wall. The porter flung his down, at the same time yelling:

"No good! No good, I tell you, Mr. Mayo! Everything's got to go. Those extinguishers must be all wrong. The chemicals have evaporated, or something."

Mr. Mayo tried the one he had seized with no better result. While this was going on Ruth Fielding suddenly remembered something-remembered it with a shock. She had seen the man, José, tampering with those same extinguishers some days before.

While a certain spray was puffed forth from the nozzle of the extinguisher, it seemed to have no effect on the flames which were, as the porter declared, spreading rapidly.

Mrs. Mantel's big desk and the file cabinet were all afire. Nothing could save the papers and books.

An alarm had been turned in by somebody, and now the first of the fire department arrived. These men brought in extinguishers that had an effect upon the flames at once. The fire was quite quenched in five minutes more.

Ruth had retreated to Mr. Mayo's office. She heard one of the fire chiefs talking to the gentleman at the doorway.

"What caused that blaze anyway?" the fireman demanded.

"I understand some oil was spilled."

"What kind of oil?" snapped the other.

"Lubricating oil."

"Nonsense! It acted more like benzine or naphtha to me. But you haven't told me how it got lit up?"

"I don't know. The porter says he first saw flames rising from the waste basket between the big desk and the file cabinet," Mr. Mayo said. "Then the fire spread both ways."

"Well! The insurance adjusters will be after you. I've got to report my belief. Looks as though somebody had been mighty careless with some inflammable substance. What were you using oil at all for here?"

"I-I could not tell you," Mr. Mayo said. "I will ask Mr. Legrand when he comes back."

But Ruth learned in the morning that Legrand had not returned. Nobody seemed to know where he lived. Mrs. Mantel said he had moved recently, but she did not know where to.

The insurance adjusters did make a pertinent inquiry about the origin of the fire. But nobody had been in the office with Legrand when it started save the porter, and he had already told all he had seen. There was no reason for charging anybody else with carelessness but the missing man.

Save in one particular. Mrs. Mantel seemed horror-stricken when she saw the charred remains of her desk and the file cabinet. The files of cards were completely destroyed. The cards were merely brown husks-those that were not ashes. The records of contributions for six months past were completely burned.

"But you, fortunately, have the ledgers in the safe, have you not, Mrs. Mantel?" the Chief said.

The woman in black broke down and wept. "How careless you will think me, Mr. Mayo," she cried. "I left the two ledgers on my desk. Legrand said he wished to compare certain figures -- "

"The ledgers are destroyed, too?" gasped the man.

"There are their charred remains," declared the woman, pointing dramatically to the burned debris where her desk had stood.

There was not a line to show how much had been given to the Red Cross at this station, or who had given it! When Mr. Mayo opened the safe he found less than two thousand dollars in cash and checks and noted upon the bank deposit book; and the month was almost ended. Payment was made to Headquarters of all collections every thirty days.

Mrs. Mantel seemed heartbroken. Legrand did not appear again at the Red Cross rooms. But the woman in black declared that the funds as shown in the safe must be altogether right, for she had locked the safe herself and remembered that the funds were not more than the amount found.

"But we have had some large contributions during the month, Mrs. Mantel," Mr. Mayo said weakly.

"Not to my knowledge, Mr. Mayo," the woman declared, her eyes flashing. "Our contributions for some weeks have been scanty. People are getting tired of giving to the Red Cross, I fear."

Ruth heard something of this discussion, but not all. She did not know what to think about Mrs. Mantel and Legrand. And then, there was José, the man whom she had seen tampering with the fire extinguishers!

Should she tell Mr. Mayo of her suspicions? Or should she go to the office of the fire insurance adjustors? Or should she keep completely out of the matter?

Had Mr. Mayo been a more forceful man Ruth might have given him her confidence. But she feared that, although he was a hard-working official and loyal to the core, he did not possess the quality of wisdom necessary to enable him to handle the situation successfully.

Besides, just at this time, she heard from New York. Her application had been investigated and she was informed that she would be accepted for work with the base supply unit about to sail for France, with the proviso, of course, that she passed the medical examination and would pay her share of the unit's expenses and for her own support.

She had to tell Mr. Mayo, bid good-bye to her fellow workers, and leave Robinsburg within two hours. She had only three days to make ready before going to New York, and she wished to spend all of that time at the Red Mill.



Chapter XI-SAID IN GERMAN


Ruth Fielding had made preparations for travel many times before; but this venture she was about to undertake was different from her previous flights from the Red Mill.

"Oh, my pretty! Oh, my pretty!" sighed Aunt Alvirah Boggs. "It seems as though this life is just made up of partings. You ain't no more to home than you're off again. And how do I know I shall ever set my two eyes on you once more, Ruthie?"

"I've always come back so far, Aunt Alvirah-like the bad penny that I am," Ruth told her cheerfully.

"Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" groaned Aunt Alvirah, sinking into her chair by the sunny window. "No bad penny in your case, my pretty. Your returns air always like that of the bluebird's in the spring-and jest as much for happiness as they say the bluebird is. What would your Uncle Jabez and me do without you?"

"But it will be only for a few months. I might remain away as long if I returned to Ardmore for my junior year."

"Ah, but that's not like going away over to France where there is so much danger and trouble," the little old woman objected.

"Don't worry about me, dear," urged Ruth, with great gentleness.

"We don't know what may happen," continued Aunt Alvirah. "A single month at my time o' life is longer'n a year at your age, my pretty."

"Oh, I am sure to come back," Ruth cried.

"We'll hope so. I shall pray for you, my pretty. But there'll be fear eatin' at our hearts every day that you are so far from us."

Uncle Jabez likewise expressed himself as loath to have her go; yet his extreme patriotism inspired him to wish her Godspeed cheerfully.

"I vum! I'd like to be goin' with you. Only with Old Betsey on my shoulder!" declared the miller. "You don't want to take the old gun with you, do you, Niece Ruth?" he added, with twinkling eyes. "I've had her fixed. And she ought to be able to shoot a Hun or two yet."

"I am not going to shoot Germans," said Ruth, shaking her head. "I only hope to do what I can in saving our boys after the battles. I can't even nurse them-poor dears! My all that I do seems so little."

"Ha!" grunted Uncle Jabez. "I reckon you'll do full and plenty. If you don't it'll be the first time in your life that you fall down on a job."

Which was remarkably warm commendation for the miller to give, and Ruth appreciated it deeply.

He drove her to town himself and put her on the train for New York. "Don't you git into no more danger over there than you kin help, Niece Ruth," he urged. "Good-bye!"

She traveled alone to the metropolis, and that without hearing from or seeing any of her fellow-workers at the Red Cross rooms in Robinsburg. She did wonder much, however, what the outcome of the fire had been.

What had become of Mrs. Rose Mantel, the woman in black? Had she been finally suspected by Mr. Mayo, and would she be refused further work with the organization because of the outcome of the fire? Ruth could not but believe that the conflagration had been caused to cover shortages in the Red Cross accounts.

At the Grand Central Terminal Ruth was met by a very lovely lady, a worker in the Red Cross, who took her home to her Madison Avenue residence, where Ruth was to remain for the few days she was to be in the city.

"It is all I can do," said the woman smiling, when Ruth expressed her wonder that she should have turned her beautiful home into a clearing house for Red Cross workers. "It is all I can do. I am quite alone now, and it cheers me and gives me new topics of interest to see and care for the splendid girls who are really going over there to help our soldiers."

Later Ruth Fielding learned that this woman's two sons were both in France-one in a medical corps and the other in the trenches. She had already given her all, it seemed; but she could not do too much for the country.

The several girls the lady entertained at this time had little opportunity for amusement. The Red Cross ship was to sail within forty-eight hours.

Ruth was able to meet many of the members of her supply unit, and found them a most interesting group. They had come from many parts of the country and had brought with them varied ideas about the work and of what they were "going up against."

All, however, seemed to be deeply interested in the Red Cross and the burden the war had laid upon them. They were not going to France to play, but to serve in any way possible.

There was a single disturbing element in the bustling hurry of getting under way. At this late moment the woman who had been chosen as chief of the supply unit was deterred from sailing. Serious illness in her family forced her to resign her position and remain to nurse those at home. It was quite a blow to the unit and to the Commissioner himself.

The question, Who will take her place? became the most important thought in the minds of the members of the unit. Ruth fully understood that to find a person as capable as the woman already selected would not be an easy matter.

Until the hour the party left New York for Philadelphia, the port of sail for the Red Cross ship, no candidate had been settled on by the Commissioner to head the supply unit.

"We shall find somebody. I have one person in mind right now who may be the very one. If so, this person will be shipped by a faster vessel and by another convoy than yours," and he laughed. "You may find your chief in Paris when you get there."

Ruth wondered to herself if they really would get there. At this time the German submarines were sinking even the steamships taking Red Cross workers and supplies across. The Huns had thrown over their last vestige of humanity.

The ship which carried the Red Cross units joined a squadron of other supply ships outside Cape May. The guard ships were a number of busy and fast sailing torpedo boat destroyers. They darted around the slower flotilla of merchant steamships like "lucky-bugs" on a millpond.

Ruth shared her outside cabin with a girl from Topeka, Kansas-an exceedingly blithe and boisterous young person.

"I never imagined there was so much water in the ocean!" declared this young woman, Clare Biggars. "Look at it! Such a perfectly awful waste of it. If the ocean is just a means of communication between countries, it needn't be any wider than the Missouri River, need it?"

"I am glad the Atlantic is a good deal wider than that," Ruth said seriously. "The Kaiser and his armies would have been over in our country before this in that case."

Clare chuckled. "Lots of the farming people in my section are Germans, and three months ago they noised it abroad that New York had been attacked by submarines and flying machines and that a big army of their fellow-countrymen were landing in this country at a place called Montauk Point -- "

"The end of Long Island," interposed Ruth.

"And were going to march inland and conquer the country as they marched. They would do to New York State just what they have done to Belgium and Northern France. It was thought, by their talk, that all the Germans around Topeka would rise and seize the banks and arsenals and all."

"Why didn't they?" asked Ruth, much amused.

"Why," said Clare, laughing, too, "the police wouldn't let them."

The German peril by sea, however, was not to be sneered at. As the fleet approached the coast of France it became evident that the officers of the Red Cross ship, as well as those of the convoy, were in much anxiety.

There seems no better way to safeguard the merchant ships than for the destroyers to sail ahead and "clear the way" for the unarmored vessels. But a sharp submarine commander may spy the coming flotilla through his periscope, sink deep to allow the destroyers to pass over him, and then rise to the surface between the destroyers and the larger ships and torpedo the latter before the naval vessels can attack the subsea boat.

For forty-eight hours none of the girls of the Red Cross supply unit had their clothing off or went to bed. They were advised to buckle on life preservers, and most of them remained on deck, watching for submarines. It was scarcely possible to get them below for meals.

The strain of the situation was great. And yet it was more excitement over the possibility of being attacked than actual fear.

"What's the use of going across the pond at such a time if we're not even to see a periscope?" demanded Clare. "My brother, Ben, who is coming over with the first expedition of the National Army, wagered me ten dollars I wouldn't know a periscope if I saw one. I'd like to earn that ten. Every little bit adds to what you've got, you know."

It was not the sight of a submarine periscope that startled Ruth Fielding the evening of the next-to-the-last day of the voyage. It was something she heard as she leaned upon the port rail on the main deck, quite alone, looking off across the graying water.

Two people were behind her, and out of sight around the corner of the deckhouse. One was a man, with a voice that had a compelling bark. Whether his companion was a man or a woman Ruth could not tell. But the voice she heard so distinctly began to rasp her nerves-and its familiarity troubled her, too.

Now and then she heard a word in English. Then, of a sudden, the man ejaculated in German:

"The foolish ones! As though this boat would be torpedoed with us aboard! These Americans are crazy."

Ruth wheeled and walked quickly down the deck to the corner of the house. She saw the speaker sitting in a deck chair beside another person who was so wrapped in deck rugs that she could not distinguish what he or she looked like.

But the silhouette of the man who had uttered those last words stood out plainly between Ruth and the fading light. He was tall, with heavy shoulders, and a fat, beefy face. That smoothly shaven countenance looked like nobody that she had ever seen before; but the barking voice sounded exactly like that of Legrand, Mrs. Rose Mantel's associate and particular friend!



Chapter XII. Through Dangerous Waters


There were a number of people aboard ship whom Ruth Fielding had not met, of course; some whom she had not even seen. And this was not to be wondered at, for the feminine members of the supply unit were grouped together in a certain series of staterooms; and they even had their meals in a second cabin saloon away from the hospital units.

She looked, for some moments, at the huge shoulders of the man who had spoken in German, hoping he would turn to face her. She had not observed him since coming aboard the ship at Philadelphia.

It seemed scarcely possible that this could be Legrand, the man who she had come to believe was actually responsible for the fire in the Robinsburg Red Cross rooms. If he was a traitor to the organization-and to the United States as well-how dared he sail on this ship for France, and with an organization of people who were sworn to work for the Red Cross?

Was he sufficiently disguised by the shaving of his beard to risk discovery? And with that peculiar, sharp, barking voice! "A Prussian drill master surely could be no more abrupt," thought Ruth.

As the ship in these dangerous waters sailed with few lamps burning, and none at all had been turned on upon the main deck, it was too dark for Ruth to see clearly either the man who had spoken or the person hidden by the wraps in the deck chair.

She saw the spotlight in the hand of an officer up the deck and she hastened toward him. The passengers were warned not to use the little electric hand lamps outside of the cabins and passages. She was not mistaken in the identity of this person with the lamp. It was the purser.

"Oh, Mr. Savage!" she said. "Will you walk with me?"

"Bless me, Miss Fielding! you fill me with delight. This is an unexpected proposal I am sure," he declared in his heavy, English, but good-humored way.

"'Fash not yoursel' wi' pride,' as Chief Engineer Douglas would say," laughed Ruth. "I am going to ask you to walk with me so that you can tell me the name of another man I am suddenly interested in."

"What! What!" cried the purser. "Who is that, I'd like to know. Who are you so suddenly interested in?"

She tried to explain the appearance of the round-shouldered man as she led the purser along the deck. But when they reached the spot where Ruth had left the individuals both had disappeared.

"I don't know whom you could have seen," the purser said, "unless it was Professor Perry. His stateroom is yonder-A-thirty-four. And the little chap in the deck chair might be Signor Aristo, an Italian, who rooms next door, in thirty-six."

"I am not sure it was a man in the other chair."

"Professor Perry has nothing to do with the ladies aboard, I assure you," chuckled the purser. "A dry-as-dust old fellow, Perry, going to France for some kind of research work. Comes from one of your Western universities. I believe they have one in every large town, haven't they?"

"One what?" Ruth asked.

"University," chuckled the Englishman. "You should get acquainted with Perry, if his appearance so much interests you, Miss Fielding."

But Ruth was in no mood for banter about the man whose appearance and words had so astonished her. She said nothing to the purser or to anybody else about what she had heard the strange man say in German. No person who belonged-really belonged-on this Red Cross ship, should have said what he did and in that tone!

He spoke to his companion as though there was a settled and secret understanding between them. And as though, too, he had a power of divination about what the German U-boat commanders would do, beyond the knowledge possessed by the officers of the steamship.

What could a "dry-as-dust" professor from a Western university have in common with the person known as Signor Aristo, who Ruth found was down on the ship's list as a chef of a wealthy Fifth Avenue family, going back to his native Italy.

It was said the Signor had had a very bad passage. He had kept to his room entirely, not even appearing on deck. Was he a man at all?

The thought came to Ruth Fielding and would not be put away, that this small, retiring person known as Signor Aristo might be a woman. If Professor Perry was the distinguished Legrand what was more possible than that the person Ruth had seen in the deck chair was Mrs. Rose Mantel, likewise in disguise?

"Oh, dear me!" she told herself at last, "I am getting to be a regular sleuth. But my suspicions do point that way. If that woman in black and Legrand robbed the Red Cross treasury at Robinsburg, and covered their stealings by burning the records, would they be likely to leave the country in a Red Cross ship?

"That would seem preposterous. And yet, what more unlikely method of departure? It might be that such a course on the part of two criminals would be quite sure to cover their escape."

She wondered about it much as the ship sailed majestically into the French port, safe at last from any peril of being torpedoed by the enemy. And Professor Perry had been quite sure that she was safe in any case!

Ruth saw the professor when they landed. The Italian chef she did not see at all. Nor did Ruth Fielding see anybody who looked like Mrs. Rose Mantel.

"I may be quite wrong in all my suspicions," she thought. "I would better say nothing about them. To cause the authorities to arrest entirely innocent people would be a very wicked thing, indeed."

Besides, there was so much to do and to see that the girl of the Red Mill could not keep her suspicions alive. This unknown world she and her mates had come to quite filled their minds with new thoughts and interests.

Their first few hours in France was an experience long to be remembered. Ruth might have been quite bewildered had it not been that her mind was so set upon the novel sights and sounds about her.

"I declare I don't know whether I am a-foot or a-horseback!" Clare Biggars said. "Let me hang on to your coat-tail, Ruth. I know you are real and United Statesy. But these funny French folk -- 

"My! they are like people out of a story book, after all, aren't they? I thought I'd seen most every kind of folk at the San Francisco Fair; but just nobody seems familiar looking here!"

Before they were off the quay, several French women, who could not speak a word of English save "'Ello!" welcomed the Red Cross workers with joy. At this time Americans coming to help France against her enemies were a new and very wonderful thing. The first marching soldiers from America were acclaimed along the streets and country roads as heroes might have been.

An old woman in a close-fitting bonnet and ragged shawl-not an over-clean person-took Ruth's hand in both hers and patted it, and said something in her own tongue that brought the tears to the girl's eyes. It was such a blessing as Aunt Alvirah had murmured over her when the girl had left the Red Mill.

She and Clare, with several of the other feminine members of the supply unit were quartered in an old hotel almost on the quay for their first night ashore. It was said that some troop trains had the right-of-way; so the Red Cross workers could not go up to Paris for twenty-four hours.

Somebody made a mistake. It could not be expected that everything would go smoothly. The heads of the various Red Cross units were not infallible. Besides, this supply unit to which Ruth belonged really had no head as yet. The party at the seaside hotel was forgotten.

Nobody came to the hotel to inform them when the unit was to entrain. They were served very well by the hotel attendants and several chatty ladies, who could speak English, came to see them. But Ruth and the other girls had not come to France as tourists.

Finally, the girl of the Red Mill, with Clare Biggars, sallied forth to find the remainder of their unit. Fortunately, Ruth's knowledge of the language was not superficial. Madame Picolet, her French teacher at Briarwood Hall, had been most thorough in the drilling of her pupils; and Madame was a Parisienne.

But when Ruth discovered that she and her friends at the seaside hotel had been left behind by the rest of the Red Cross contingent, she was rather startled, and Clare was angered.

"What do they think we are?" demanded the Western girl. "Of no account at all? Where's our transportation? What do they suppose we'll do, dumped down here in this fishing town? What -- "

"Whoa! Whoa!" Ruth laughed. "Don't lose your temper, my dear," she advised soothingly. "If nothing worse than this happens to us -- "

She immediately interviewed several railroad officials, arranged for transportation, got the passports of all viséed, and, in the middle of the afternoon, they were off by slow train to the French capital.

"We can't really get lost, girls," Ruth declared. "For we are Americans, and Americans, at present, in France, are objects of considerable interest to everybody. We'll only be a day late getting to the city on the Seine."

When they finally arrived in Paris, Ruth knew right where to go to reach the Red Cross supply department headquarters. She had it all written down in her notebook, and taxicabs brought the party in safety to the entrance to the building in question.

As the girls alighted from the taxis Clare seized Ruth's wrist, whispering:

"Why! there's that Professor Perry again-the one that came over with us on the steamer. You remember?"

Ruth saw the man whose voice was like Legrand's, but whose facial appearance was nothing at all like that suspected individual. But it was his companion that particularly attracted the attention of the girl of the Red Mill.

This was a slight, dark man, who hobbled as he walked. His right leg was bent and he wore a shoe with a four-inch wooden sole.

"Who is that, I wonder?" Ruth murmured, looking at the crippled man.

"That is Signor Aristo," Clair said. "He's an Italian chef I am told."

Signor Aristo was, likewise, smoothly shaven; but Ruth remarked that he looked much like the Mexican, José, who had worked with Legrand at the Red Cross rooms in Robinsburg.



Chapter XIII. The New Chief


Ruth Fielding was troubled by her most recent discovery. Yet she was in no mind to take Clare into her confidence-or anybody else.

She was cautious. With nothing but suspicions to report to the Red Cross authorities, what could she really say? What, after all, do suspicions amount to?

If the man calling himself Professor Perry was really Legrand, and the Italian chef, Signor Aristo the lame man, was he who had been known as Mr. José at the Robinsburg Red Cross headquarters, her identification of them must be corroborated. How could she prove such assertions?

It was a serious situation; but one in which Ruth felt that her hands were tied. She must wait for something to turn up that would give her a sure hold on these people whom she believed to be out and out crooks.

Ruth accompanied the remainder of the "left behind" party of workers into the building, and they found the proper office in which to report their arrival in Paris. The other members of the supply unit met the delayed party with much hilarity; the joke of their having been left behind was not soon to be forgotten.

The hospital units, better organized, and with their heads, or chiefs, already trained and on the spot, went on toward the front that very day. But Ruth's battalion still lacked a leader. They were scattered among different hotels and pensions in the vicinity of the Red Cross offices, and spent several days in comparative idleness.

It gave the girls an opportunity of going about and seeing the French capital, which, even in wartime, had a certain amount of gayety. Ruth searched out Madame Picolet, and Madame was transported with joy on seeing her one-time pupil.

The Frenchwoman held the girl of the Red Mill in grateful remembrance, and for more than Ruth's contribution to Madame Picolet's work among the widows and orphans of her dear poilus. In "Ruth Fielding at Briarwood Hall," Madame Picolet's personal history is narrated, and how Ruth had been the means of aiding the lady in a very serious predicament is shown.

"Ah, my dear child!" exclaimed the Frenchwoman, "it is a blessing of le bon Dieu that we should meet again. And in this, my own country! I love all Americans for what they are doing for our poor poilus. Your sweet and volatile friend, Helen, is here. She has gone with her father just now to a southern city. And even that mischievous Mam'zelle Stone is working in a good cause. She will be delight' to see you, too."

This was quite true. Jennie Stone welcomed Ruth in the headquarters of the American Women's League with a scream of joy, and flew into the arms of the girl of the Red Mill.

The latter staggered under the shock. Jennie looked at her woefully.

"Don't tell me that work agrees with me!" she wailed. "Don't say that I am getting fat again! It's the cooking."

"What cooking? French cooking will never make you fat in a hundred years," declared Ruth, who had had her own experiences in the French hotels in war times. "Don't tell me that, Jennie.

"I don't. It's the diet kitchen. I'm in that, you know, and I'm tasting food all the time. It-it's dreadful the amount I manage to absorb without thinking every day. I know, before this war is over, I shall be as big as one of those British tanks they talk about."

"My goodness, girl!" cried Ruth. "You don't have to make a tank of yourself, do you? Exercise -- "

"Now stop right there, Ruth Fielding!" cried Jennie Stone, with flashing eyes. "You have as little sense as the rest of these people. They tell me to exercise, and don't you know that every time I go horseback riding, or do anything else of a violent nature, that I have to come right back and eat enough victuals to put on twice the number of pounds the exercise is supposed to take off? Don't-tell-me! It's impossible to reduce and keep one's health."

Jennie was doing something besides putting on flesh, however. Her practical work in the diet kitchen Ruth saw was worthy, indeed.

The girl of the Red Mill could not see Helen at this time, but she believed her chum and Mr. Cameron would look her up, wherever the supply unit to which Ruth belonged was ultimately assigned.

She received a letter from Tom Cameron about this time, too, and found that he was hard at work in a camp right behind the French lines and had already made one step in the line of progress, being now a first lieutenant. He expected, with his force of Pershing's boys, to go into the trenches for the first time within a fortnight.

She wished she might see Tom again before his battalion went into action; but she was under command of the Red Cross; and, in any case, she could not have got her passport viséed for the front. Mr. Cameron, as a representative of the United States Government, with Helen, had been able to visit Tom in the training camp over here.

Ruth wrote, however-wrote a letter that Tom slipped into the little leather pouch he wore inside his shirt, and which he would surely have with him when he endured his first round of duty in the trenches. With the verities of life and death so near to them, these young people were very serious, indeed.

Yet the note of cheerfulness was never lost among the workers of the Red Cross with whom Ruth Fielding daily associated. While she waited for her unit to be assigned to its place the girl of the Red Mill did not waste her time. There was always something to see and something to learn.

When congregated at the headquarters of the Supply Department one day, the unit was suddenly notified that their new chief had arrived. They gathered quickly in the reception room and soon a number of Red Cross officials entered, headed by one in a major's uniform and with several medals on the breast of his coat. He was a medical army officer in addition to being a Red Cross commissioner.

"The ladies of our new base supply unit," said the commissioner, introducing the workers, "already assigned to Lyse. That was decided last evening.

"And it is my pleasure," he added, "to introduce to you ladies your new chief. She has come over especially to take charge of your unit. Madame Mantel, ladies. Her experience, her executive ability, and her knowledge of French makes her quite the right person for the place. I know you will welcome her warmly."

Even before he spoke Ruth Fielding had recognized the woman in black. Nor did she feel any overwhelming surprise at Rose Mantel's appearance. It was as though the girl had expected, back in her mind, something like this to happen.

The man who spoke like Legrand and the one who looked like José, appearing at the Paris Red Cross offices, had prepared Ruth for this very thing. "Madame" Mantel had crossed the path of the girl of the Red Mill again. Ruth crowded behind her companions and hid herself from the sharp and "snaky" eyes of the woman in black.

The question of how Mrs. Mantel had obtained this place under the Red Cross did not trouble Ruth at all. She had gained it. The thing that made Ruth feel anxious was the object the woman in black had in obtaining her prominent position in the organization.

The girl could not help feeling that there was something crooked about Rose Mantel, about Legrand, and about José. These three had, she believed, robbed the organization in Robinsburg. Their "pickings" there had perhaps been small beside the loot they could obtain with the woman in black as chief of a base supply unit.

Her first experience with Mrs. Mantel in Cheslow had convinced Ruth Fielding that the woman was dishonest. The incident of the fire at Robinsburg seemed to prove this belief correct. Yet how could she convince the higher authorities of the Red Cross that the new chief of this supply unit was a dangerous person?

At least, Ruth was not minded to face Mrs. Mantel at this time. She managed to keep out of the woman's way while they remained in Paris. In two days the unit got their transportation for Lyse, and it was not until they were well settled in their work at the base hospital in that city that Ruth Fielding came in personal contact with the woman in black, her immediate superior.

Ruth had charge of the linen department and had taken over the supplies before speaking with Mrs. Mantel. They met in one of the hospital corridors-and quite suddenly.

The woman in black, who still dressed so that this nickname was borne out by her appearance, halted in amazement, and Ruth saw her hand go swiftly to her bosom-was it to still her heart's increased beat, or did she hide some weapon there? The malevolent flash of Rose Mantel's eyes easily suggested the latter supposition.

"Miss Fielding!" she gasped.

"How do you do, Mrs. Mantel?" the girl of the Red Mill returned quietly.

"How --  I had no idea you had come across. And in my unit?"

"I was equally surprised when I discovered you, Mrs. Mantel," said the girl.

"You --  How odd!" murmured the woman in black. "Quite a coincidence. I had not seen you since the fire -- "

"And I hope there will be no fire here-don't you, Madame Mantel?" interrupted Ruth. "That would be too dreadful."

"You are right. Quite too dreadful," agreed Mrs. Mantel, and swept past the girl haughtily.



Chapter XIV. A Change Of Base


Ruth's daily tasks did not often bring her into contact with the chief of her unit. This was a very large hospital-one of the most extensive base hospitals in France. There were thousands of dollars' worth of supplies in Ruth's single department.

At present the American Red Cross at this point was caring for French and Canadian wounded. As the American forces came over, were developed into fighting men, and were brought back from the battlefield hospitals as grands blessés, as the French call the more seriously wounded, this base would finally handle American wounded only.

Ruth went through some of the wards in her spare hours, for she had become acquainted with several of the nurses coming over. The appeal of the helpless men (some of them blinded) wrenched the tender heart of the girl of the Red Mill as nothing she had ever before experienced.

She found that in her off hours she could be of use in the hospital wards. So many of the patients wished to write home, but could do so only through the aid of the Red Cross workers. This task Ruth could perform, for she could write and speak French.

Nobody interfered with her when she undertook these extra tasks. She saw that many of the girls in her own unit kept away from the wards because the sight of the wounded and crippled men was hard to bear. Even Clare Biggars had other uses for her spare moments than writing letters for helpless blessés.

Ruth was not forced into contact with the chief of her unit, and was glad thereof. Her weekly reports went up to Madame Mantel, and that was quite all Ruth had to do with the woman in black.

But the girl heard her mates talking a good deal about the woman. The latter seemed to be a favorite with most of the unit. Clare Biggars quite "raved" about Madame Mantel.

"And she knows so many nice people!" Clare exclaimed. "I wish my French was better. I went to dinner last night with Madame Mantel at that little café of the Chou-rouge. Half the people there seemed to know her. And Professor Perry -- "

"Not the man who came over on the steamer with us?" Ruth asked with sudden anxiety.

"The very same," said Clare. "He ate at our table."

"I don't suppose that little Italian chef, Signor Aristo, was among those present, too?" Ruth asked suspiciously.

"No. The only Italian I saw was not lame like Signor Aristo. Madame said he was an Italian commissioner. He was in uniform."

"Who was in uniform? Aristo?"

"Why, no! How you talk! The Italian gentleman at the restaurant. Aristo had a short leg, don't you remember? This man was dressed in an Italian uniform-all red and green, and medals upon his coat."

"I think I will go to the Chou-rouge myself," Ruth said dryly. "It must be quite a popular place. But I hope they serve something to eat besides the red cabbage the name signifies."

Again her suspicions were aroused to fever heat. If Professor Perry was Legrand disguised, he and Mrs. Mantel had got together again. And Clare's mention of the Italian added to Ruth's trouble of mind, too.

José could easily have assumed the heavy shoe and called himself "Aristo." Perhaps he was an Italian, and not a Mexican, after all. The trio of crooks, if such they were, had not joined each other here in Lyse by accident. There was something of a criminal nature afoot, Ruth felt sure. And yet with what evidence could she go to the Red Cross authorities?

Besides, something occurred to balk her intention of going to the café of the Chou-rouge to get a glimpse of the professor and the Italian commissioner. That day, much to her surprise, the medical major at the head of the great hospital sent for the girl of the Red Mill.

"Miss Fielding," he said, upon shaking hands with her, "you have been recommended to me very highly as a young woman to fill a certain special position now open at Clair. Do you mind leaving your present employment?"

"Why, no," the girl said slowly.

"I think the work at Clair will appeal to you," the major continued. "I understand that you have been working at off hours in the convalescent wards. That is very commendable."

"Oh, several of the other girls have been helping there as well as I."

"I do not doubt it," he said with a smile. "But it is reported to me that your work is especially commendable. You speak very good French. It is to a French hospital at Clair I can send you. A representative of the Red Cross is needed there to furnish emergency supplies when called upon, and particularly to communicate with the families of the blessés, and to furnish special services to the patients. You have a way with you, I understand, that pleases the poor fellows and that fits you for this position of which I speak."

"Oh, I believe I should like it!" the girl cried, her eyes glistening. It seemed to be just the work she had hoped for from the beginning-coming in personal touch with the wounded. A place where her sympathies would serve the poor fellows.

"The position is yours. You will start to-night," declared the major. "Clair is within sound of the guns. It has been bombarded twice; but we shall hope the Boches do not get so near again."

Ruth was delighted with the chance to go. But suddenly a new thought came to her mind. She asked:

"Who recommended me, sir?"

"You have the very best recommendation you could have, Miss Fielding," he said pleasantly. "Your chief seems to think very highly of your capabilities. Madame Mantel suggested your appointment."

Fortunately, the major was not looking at Ruth as he spoke, but was filling out her commission papers for the new place she had accepted. The girl's emotion at that moment was too great to be wholly hidden.

Rose Mantel to recommend her for any position! It seemed unbelievable! Unless -- 

The thought came to Ruth that the woman in black wished her out of the way. She feared the girl might say something regarding the Robinsburg fire that would start an official inquiry here in France regarding Mrs. Mantel and her particular friends. Was that the basis for the woman in black's desire to get Ruth out of the way? Should the latter tell this medical officer, here and now, just what she thought of Mrs. Mantel?

How crass it would sound in his ears if she did so! Rose Mantel had warmly recommended Ruth for a position that the girl felt was just what she wanted.

She could not decide before the major handed her the papers and an order for transportation in an ambulance going to Clair. He again shook hands with her. His abrupt manner showed that he was a busy man and that he had no more time to give to her affairs.

"Get your passport viséed before you start. Never neglect your passport over here in these times," advised the major.

Should she speak? She hesitated, and the major sat down to his desk and took up his pen again.

"Good-day, Miss Fielding," he said. "And the best of luck!"

The girl left the office, still in a hesitating frame of mind. There were yet several hours before she left the town. Her bags were quickly packed. All the workers of the Red Cross "traveled light," as Clare Biggars laughingly said.

Ruth decided that she could not confide in Clare. Already the Western girl was quite enamored of the smiling, snaky Rose Mantel. It would be useless to ask Clare to watch the woman. Nor could Ruth feel that it would be wise to go to the French police and tell them of her suspicions concerning the woman in black.

The French have a very high regard for the American Red Cross-as they have for their own Croix Rouge. They can, and do, accept assistance for their needy poilus and for others from the American Red Cross, because, in the end, the organization is international and is not affiliated with any particular religious sect.

To accuse one of the Red Cross workers in this great hospital at Lyse would be very serious-no matter to what Ruth's suspicions pointed. The girl could not bring herself to do that.

When she went to the prefect of police to have her passport viséed she found a white-mustached, fatherly man, who took a great interest in her as an Americaine mademoiselle who had come across the ocean to aid France.

"I kiss your hand, Mademoiselle!" he said. "Your bravery and your regard for my country touches me deeply. Good fortune attend your efforts at Clair. You may be under bombardment there, my child. It is possible. We shall hope for your safety."

Ruth thanked him for his good wishes, and, finally, was tempted to give some hint of her fears regarding the supposed Professor Perry and the Italian Clare had spoken of.

"They may be perfectly straightforward people," Ruth said; "but where I was engaged in Red Cross work in America these two men-I am almost sure they are the same-worked under the names of Legrand and José, one supposedly a Frenchman and the other a Mexican. There was a fire and property was destroyed. Legrand and José were suspected in the matter, but I believe they got away without being arrested."

"Mademoiselle, you put me under further obligations," declared the police officer. "I shall make it my business to look up these two men-and their associates."

"But, Monsieur, I may be wrong."

"If it is proved that they are in disguise, that is sufficient. We are giving spies short shrift nowadays."

His stern words rather troubled Ruth. Yet she believed she had done her duty in announcing her suspicions of the two men. Of Rose Mantel she said nothing. If the French prefect made a thorough investigation, as he should, he could not fail to discover the connection between the men and the chief of the Red Cross supply unit at the hospital.

Ruth's arrangements were made in good season, and Clare and the other girls bade her a warm good-bye at the door of their pension. The ambulance that was going to Clair proved to be an American car of famous make with an ambulance body, and driven by a tall, thin youth who wore shell-bowed glasses. He was young and gawky and one could see hundreds of his like leaving the city high schools in America at half-past three o'clock, or pacing the walks about college campuses.

He looked just as much out of place in the strenuous occupation of ambulance driver as anyone could look. He seemingly was a "bookish" young man who would probably enjoy hunting a Greek verb to its lair. Tom Cameron would have called him "a plug"-a term meaning an over-faithful student.

Ruth climbed into the seat beside this driver. She then had no more than time to wave her hand to the girls before the ambulance shot away from the curb, turned a corner on two wheels, and, with the staccato blast of a horn that sounded bigger than the car itself, sent dogs and pedestrians flying for their lives.

"Goodness!" gasped Ruth when she caught her breath. Then she favored the bespectacled driver with a surprised stare. He looked straight ahead, and, as they reached the edge of the town, he put on still more speed, and the girl began to learn why people who can afford it buy automobiles that have good springs and shock absorbers.

"Do-do you have to drive this way?" she finally shrilled above the clatter of the car.

"Yes. This is the best road-and that isn't saying much," the bespectacled driver declared.

"No! I mean so fa-a-ast!"

"Oh! Does it jar you? I'll pull her down. Got so used to getting over all the ground I can before I break something-or a shell comes -- "

He reduced speed until they could talk to each other. Ruth learned all in one gush, it seemed, that his name was Charlie Bragg, that he had been on furlough, and that they had given him a "new second-hand flivver" to take up to Clair and beyond, as his old machine had been quite worn out.

He claimed unsmilingly to be more than twenty-one, that he had left a Western college in the middle of his freshman year to come over to drive a Red Cross car, and that he was writing a book to be called "On the Battlefront with a Flivver," in which his brother in New York already had a publisher interested.

"Gee!" said this boy-man, who simply amazed Ruth Fielding, "Bob's ten years older than I am, and he's married, and his wife makes him put on rubbers and take an umbrella if it rains when he starts for his office. And they used to call me 'Bubby' before I came over here."

Ruth could appreciate that! She laughed and they became better friends.



Chapter XV. New Work


The prefect of police at Lyse was quite right. Clair was within sound of the big guns. Indeed, Ruth became aware of their steady monotone long before the rattling car reached its destination.

As the first hour sped by and the muttering of the guns came nearer and nearer, the girl asked Charlie Bragg if there was danger of one of the projectiles, that she began faintly to hear explode individually, coming their way. Was not this road a perilous one?

"Oh, no, ma'am!" he declared. "Oh, yes, this road has been bombarded more than once. Don't you notice how crooked it is? We turn out for the shell holes and make a new road, that's all. But there's no danger."

"But aren't you frightened at all-ever?" murmured the girl of the Red Mill.

"What is there to be afraid of?" asked the boy, whom his family called "Bubby." "If they get you they get you, and that's all there is to it.

"We have to stop here and put the lights out," he added, seeing a gaunt post beside the road on which was a half-obliterated sign.

"If you have to do that it must be perilous," declared Ruth.

"No. It's just an order. Maybe they've forgotten to take the sign down. But I don't want to be stopped by one of these old territorials-or even by one of our own military police. You don't know when you're likely to run into one of them. Or maybe it's a marine. Those are the boys, believe me! They're on the job first and always."

"But this time you boys who came to France to run automobiles got ahead of even the marine corps," laughed Ruth. "Oh! What's that?"

They were then traveling a very dark bit of road. Right across the gloomy way and just ahead of the machine something white dashed past. It seemed to cross the road in two or three great leaps and then sailed over the hedge on the left into a field.

"Did you see it?" asked Charlie Bragg, and there was a queer shake in his voice.

"Why, what is it? There it goes-all white!" and the excited girl pointed across the field, half standing up in the rocking car to do so.

"Going for the lines," said the young driver.

"Is it a dog? A big dog? And he didn't bark or anything!"

"Never does bark," said her companion. "They say they can't bark."

"Then it's a wolf! Wolves don't bark," Ruth suggested.

"I guess that's right. They say they are dumb. Gosh! I don't know," Charlie said. "You didn't really see anything, did you?" and he said it so very oddly that Ruth Fielding was perfectly amazed.

"What do you mean by that?" she demanded. "I saw just as much as you did."

"Well, I'm not sure that I saw anything," he told her slowly. "The French say it's the werwolf-and that means just nothing at all."

"Goodness!" exclaimed Ruth, repeating the word. "What old-world superstition is that? The ghost of a wolf?"

"They have a story that certain people, selling themselves to the Devil, can change at will into the form of a wolf," went on Charlie.

"Oh, I know! They have that legend in every language there is, I guess," Ruth returned.

"Now you've said it!"

"How ridiculous that sounds-in this day and generation. You don't mean that people around here believe such stories?"

"They do."

"And you half believe it yourself, Mr. Bragg," cried Ruth, laughing.

"I tell you what it is," the young fellow said earnestly, while still guiding the car through the dark way with a skill that was really wonderful. "There are a whole lot of things I don't know in this world. I didn't used to think so; but I do now."

"But you don't believe in magic-either black or white?"

"I know that that thing you saw just now-and that I have seen twice before-flies through this country just like that, and at night. It never makes a sound. Soldiers have shot at it, and either missed-or their bullets go right through it."

"Oh, how absurd!"

"Isn't it?" and perhaps Charlie Bragg grinned. But he went on seriously enough: "I don't know. I'm only telling you what they say. If it is a white or gray dog, it leaps the very trenches and barbed-wire entanglements on the front-so they say. It has been seen doing so. No one has been able to shoot it. It crosses what they call No Man's Land between the two battlefronts."

"It carries despatches to the Germans, then!" cried Ruth.

"That is what the military authorities say," said Charlie. "But these peasants don't believe that. They say the werwolf was here long before the war. There is a chateau over back here-not far from the outskirts of Clair. The people say that the woman lives there."

"What do you mean-the woman?" asked Ruth, between jounces, as the car took a particularly rough piece of the road on high gear.

"The one who is the werwolf," said Charlie, and he tried to laugh.

"Mr. Bragg!"

"Well, I'm only telling you what they say," he explained. "Lots of funny things are happening in this war. But this began before August, nineteen-fourteen, according to their tell."

"Whose tell? And what other 'funny' things do you believe have happened?" the girl asked, with some scorn.

"That's all right," he declared more stoutly. "When you've been here as long as I have you'll begin to wonder if there isn't something in all these things you hear tell of. Why, don't you know that fifty per cent, at least, of the French people-poilus and all-believe that the spirit of Joan of Arc led them to victory against the Boches in the worst battle of all?"

"I have heard something of that," Ruth admitted quietly. "But that does not make me believe in werwolves."

"No. But you should hear old Gaston Pere tell about this dog, or wolf, or ghost, or whatever it is. Gaston keeps the toll-bridge just this side of Clair. You'll likely see him to-night. He told me all about the woman."

"For pity's sake, Mr. Bragg!" gasped Ruth. "Tell me more. You have got my feelings all harrowed up. You can't possibly believe in such things-not really?"

"I'm only saying what Gaston-and others-say. This woman is a very great lady. A countess. She is an Alsatian-but not the right kind."

"What do you mean by that?" interrupted Ruth.

"All Alsatians are not French at heart," said the young man. "This French count married her years ago. She has two sons and both are in the French army. But it is said that she has had influence enough to keep them off the battle front.

"Oh, it sounds queer, and crazy, and all!" he added, with sudden vehemence. "But you saw that white thing flashing by yourself. It is never seen save at night, and always coming or going between the chateau and the battle lines, or between the lines themselves-out there in No Man's Land.

"It used to race the country roads in the same direction-only as far as the then frontier-before the war. So they say. Months before the Germans spilled over into this country. There you have it.

"The military authorities believe it is a despatch-carrying dog. The peasants say the old countess is a werwolf. She keeps herself shut in the chateau with only a few servants. The military authorities can get nothing on her, and the peasants cross themselves when they pass her gate."

Ruth said nothing for a minute or two. The guns grew louder in her ears, and the car came down a slight hill to the edge of a river. Here was the toll-bridge, and an old man came out with a shrouded lantern to take toll-and to look at their papers, too, for he was an official.

"Good evening, Gaston," said Charlie Bragg.

"Evening, Monsieur," was the cheerful reply.

The American lad stooped over his wheel to whisper: "Gaston! the werwolf just crossed the road three miles or so back, going toward -- " and he nodded in the direction of the grumbling guns.

"Ma foi!" exclaimed the old man. "It forecasts another bombardment or air attack. Ah-h! La-la!"

He sighed, nodded to Ruth, and stepped back to let the car go on. The girl felt as though she were growing superstitious herself. This surely was a new and strange world she had come to-and a new and strange experience.

"Do you really believe all that?" she finally asked Charlie Bragg, point-blank.

"I tell you I don't know what I believe," he said. "But you saw the werwolf as well as I. Now, didn't you?"

"I saw a light-colored dog of large size that ran across the track we were following," said Ruth Fielding decisively, almost fiercely. "I'll confess to nothing else."

But she liked Charlie Bragg just the same, and thanked him warmly when he set her down at the door of the Clair Hospital just before midnight. He was going on to the ambulance station, several miles nearer to the actual front.

There were no street lights in Clair and the windows of the hospital were all shrouded, as well as those of the dwellings left standing in the town. Airplanes of the enemy had taken to bombing hospitals in the work of "frightfulness."

Ruth was welcomed by a kindly Frenchwoman, who was matron, or directrice, and shown to a cell where she could sleep. Her duties began the next morning, and it was not long before the girl of the Red Mill was deeply engaged in this new work-so deeply engaged, indeed, that she almost forgot her suspicions about the woman in black, and Legrand and José, or whatever their real names were.

However, Charlie Bragg's story of the werwolf, of the suspected countess in her chateau behind Clair, and Gaston's prophecy regarding the meaning of the ghostly appearance, were not easily forgotten. Especially, when, two nights following Ruth's coming to the hospital, a German airman dropped several bombs near the institution. Evidently he was trying to get the range of the Red Cross hospital.



Chapter XVI. The Days Roll By


Ruth Fielding had already become inured to the sights and sounds of hospital life at Lyse, and to its work as well. Of course she was not under the physical strain that the Red Cross nurses endured; but her heart was racked by sympathy for the blessés as greatly as the nurses' own.

Starting without knowing anyone in the big hospital, she quickly learned her duties, and soon showed, too, her fitness for the special work assigned her. Her responsibilities merely included the arranging of special supplies and keeping the key of her supply room; but the particular strain attending her work was connected with the spiritual needs of the wounded.

Their gratitude, she soon found, was a thing to touch and warm the heart. Fretful they might be, and as unreasonable as children at times. But in the last count they were all-even the hardest of them-grateful for what she could do for them.

She had read (who has not?) of the noble sacrifices of that great woman whose work for the helpless soldiers in hospital antedates the Red Cross and its devoted workers-Florence Nightingale. She knew how the sick and dying soldiers in the Crimea kissed her shadow on their pillows as she passed their cots, and blessed her with their dying breaths.

The roughest soldier, wounded unto death, turns to the thought of mother, of wife, of sweetheart, of sister-indeed, turns to any good woman whose voice soothes him, whose hand cools the fever of his brow.

Ruth Fielding began to understand better than ever before this particular work that she was now called upon to perform, and that she was so well fitted to perform.

She was cheerful as well as sympathetic; she was sane beyond most young girls in her management of men-many men.

"Bless you, Mademoiselle!" declared the matron, "of course they will make love to you. Let them. It will do them good-the poor blessés-and do you no harm. And you have a way with you!"

Ruth got over being worried by amatory bouts with the wounded poilus after a while. Her best escape was to offer to write letters to the afflicted one's wife or sweetheart. That was part of her work-to attend to as much of the correspondence of the helplessly wounded as possible.

And all the time she gave sympathy and care to these strangers she hoped, if Tom Cameron should chance to be wounded, some woman would be as kind to him!

She had not received a second letter from Tom; but after a fortnight Mr. Cameron and Helen came unexpectedly to Clair. Helen spent two days with her while Mr. Cameron attended to some important business connected with his mission in France.

They had seen Tom lately, and reported that the boy had advanced splendidly in his work. Mr. Cameron declared proudly that his son was a born soldier.

He had already been in the trenches held by both the French and British to study their methods of defence and offence. This training all the junior, as well as senior, officers of the American expeditionary forces were having, for this was an altogether new warfare that was being waged on the shell-swept fields of France and Belgium.

Helen had arranged to remain in Paris with Jennie Stone when her father went back to the States. She expressed herself as rather horrified at some of the things she learned Ruth did for and endured from the wounded men.

"Why, they are not at all nice-some of them," she objected with a shudder. "That great, black-whiskered man almost swore in French just now."

"Jean?" laughed Ruth. "I presume he did. He has terrible wounds, and when they are dressed he lies with clenched hands and never utters a groan. But when a man does that, keeping subdued the natural outlet of pain through groans and tears, his heart must of necessity, Helen, become bitter. His irritation spurts forth like the rain, upon the unjust and the just-upon the guilty and innocent alike."

"But he should consider what you are doing for him-how you step out of your life down into his -- "

"Up into his, say, rather," Ruth interrupted, flushing warmly. "It is true he of the black beard whom you are taking exception to, is a carter by trade. But next to him lies a count, and those two are brothers. Ah, these Frenchmen in this trial of their patriotism are wonderful, Helen!"

"Some of them are very dirty, unpleasant men," sighed Helen, shaking her head.

"You must not speak that way of my children. Sometimes I feel jealous of the nurses," said Ruth, smiling sadly, "because they can do so much more for them than I. But I can supply them with some comforts which the nurses cannot."

They were, indeed, like children, these wounded, for the most part. They called Ruth "sister" in their tenderest moments; even "maman" when they were delirious. The touch of her hand often quieted them when they were feverish. She read to them when she could. And she wrote innumerable letters-intimate, family letters that these wounded men would have shrunk from having their mates know about.

Ruth, too, had to share in all the "news from home" that came to the more fortunate patients. She unpacked the boxes sent them, and took care of such contents as were not at once gobbled down-for soldiers are inordinately fond of "goodies." She had to obey strictly the doctors' orders about these articles of diet, however, or some of the patients would have failed to progress in their convalescence.

Nor were all on the road to recovery; yet the spirit of cheerfulness was the general tone of even the "dangerous" cases. Their unshaken belief was that they would get well and, many of them, return to their families again.

"Chère petite mère," Louis, the little Paris tailor, shot through both lungs, whispered to Ruth as she passed his bed, "see! I have something to show you. It came to me only to-day in the mail. Our first-and born since I came away. The very picture of his mother!"

The girl looked, with sympathetic eyes, at the postcard photograph of a very bald baby. Her ability to share in their joys and sorrows made her work here of much value.

"I feel now," said Louis softly, "that le bon Dieu will surely let me live-I shall live to see the child," and he said it with exalted confidence.

But Ruth had already heard the head physician of the hospital whisper to the nurse that Louis had no more than twenty-four hours to live. Yet the poilu's sublime belief kept him cheerful to the end.

Many, many things the girl of the Red Mill was learning these days. If they did not exactly age her, she felt that she could never again take life so thoughtlessly and lightly. Her girlhood was behind her; she was facing the verities of existence.



Chapter XVII. At The Gateway Of The Chateau


Ruth heard from Clare Biggars and the other girls at the Lyse Hospital on several occasions; but little was said in any of their letters regarding Mrs. Mantel, and, of course, nothing at all of the woman's two friends, who Ruth had reason to suspect were dishonest.

She wondered if the prefect of police had looked up the records of "Professor Perry" and the Italian commissioner, the latter who, she was quite sure, could be identified as "Signor Aristo," the chef, and again as "José," who had worked for the Red Cross at Robinsburg.

France was infested, she understood, with spies. It was whispered that, from highest to lowest, all grades of society were poisoned by the presence of German agents.

Whether Rose Mantel and her two friends were actually working for the enemy or not, Ruth was quite sure they were not whole-heartedly engaged in efforts for the Red Cross, or for France.

However, her heart and hands were so filled with hourly duties that Ruth could not give much thought to the unsavory trio. Rose Mantel, the woman in black, and the two men Ruth feared and suspected, must be attended to by the proper authorities. The girl of the Red Mill had done quite all that could be expected of her when she warned the police head at Lyse to be on his guard.

Her work in the hospital and supply room engaged so much of her time that for the first few weeks Ruth scarcely found opportunity to exercise properly. Madame, la Directrice, fairly had to drive her out of the hospital into the open air.

The fields and lanes about the town were lovely. Here the Hun had not seized and destroyed everything of beauty. He had been driven back too quickly in the early weeks of the war to have wreaked vengeance upon all that was French.

Clair was the center of a large agricultural community. The farmers dwelt together in the town and tilled the fields for several miles around. This habit had come down from feudal times, for then the farmers had to abide together for protection. And even now the inhabitants of Clair had the habit of likewise dwelling with their draft animals and cattle!

The narrow courts between the houses and stables were piled high with farm fertilizer, and the flies were a pest. The hospital authorities could not get the citizens to clean up the town. What had been the custom for centuries must always be custom, they thought.

The grumbling of the big guns on the battlefront was almost continuous, day and night. It got so that Ruth forgot the sound. At night, from the narrow window of her cell, she could see the white glare over the trenches far away. By day black specks swinging to and fro in the air marked the observation balloons. Occasionally a darting airplane attracted her to the window of her workroom.

Clair was kept dark at night. Scarcely the glimmer of a candle was allowed to shine forth from any window or doorway. There was a motion picture theater in the main street; but one had to creep to it by guess, and perhaps blunder in at the door of the grocer's shop, or the wine merchant's, before finding the picture show.

By day and night the French aircraft and the anti-aircraft guns were ready to fight off enemy airplanes. During the first weeks of Ruth Fielding's sojourn in the town there were two warnings of German air raids at night. A deliberate attempt more than once had been made to bomb the Red Cross hospital.

Ruth was frightened. The first alarm came after she was in bed. She dressed hurriedly and ran down into the nearest ward. But there was no bustle there. The ringing of the church bells and the blowing of the alarm siren had not disturbed the patients here, and she saw Miss Simone, the night nurse, quietly going about her duties as though there was no stir outside.

Ruth remembered Charlie Bragg's statement of the case: "If they get you they get you, and that's all there is to it!" And she was ashamed to show fear in the presence of the nurse.

The French drove off the raider that time. The second time the German dropped bombs in the town, but nobody was hurt, and he did not manage to drop the bombs near the hospital. Ruth was glad that she felt less panic in this second raid than before.

Thinking of Charlie Bragg must have brought that young man to see her. He came to the hospital on his rest day; and then later appeared driving his ambulance and asked her to ride.

The red cross she wore gave authority for Ruth's presence in the ambulance, and nobody questioned their object in driving through the back roads and lanes beyond Clair.

The country here was not torn up by marmite holes, or the chasms made by the Big Berthas. Such a lovely, quiet country as it was! Were it not for the steady grumbling of the guns Ruth Fielding could scarcely have believed that there was such a thing as war.

But it was not likely that Ruth would ride much with Charlie Bragg for the mere pleasure of it. The young fellow drove at top speed at all times, whether the road was smooth or rutted.

"Really, I can't help it, Miss Ruth," he declared. "Got the habit. We fellows want always to get as far as we can with our loads before something breaks down, or a shell gets us.

"By the way, seen anything of the werwolf again?"

"Mercy! No. Do you suppose we did really see anything that night?"

"Don't know. I know there was an attack made upon this sector two nights after that, and a raid on an artillery base that we were keeping particularly secret from the Boches. Somebody must have told them."

"The Germans are always flying over and photographing everything," said Ruth doubtfully.

"Not that battery. Had it camouflaged and only worked on it nights. The Boches put a barrage right behind it and sent over troops who did a lot of damage.

"Believe me! You don't know to what lengths these German spies and German-lovers go. You don't know who is true and who is false about you. And the most ingenious schemes they have," added Charlie.

"They have tried secret wireless right here-within two miles. But the radio makes too much noise and is sure to be spotted at last. In one place telegraph wires were carried for several miles through the bed of a stream and the spy on this side walked about with the telegraph instrument in his pocket. When he got a chance he went to the hut near the river bank, where the ends of the wire were insulated, and tapped out his messages.

"And pigeons! Don't say a word. They're flying all the time, and sometimes they are shot and the quills found under their wings. I tell you spies just swarm all along this front."

"Then," Ruth said, ruminatingly, "it must have been a dog we saw that night."

"The werwolf?" asked Charlie, with a grin.

"That is nonsense. It is a dog trained to run between the spy on this side and somebody behind the German lines. Poor dog!"

"Wow!" ejaculated the young fellow with disgust. "Isn't that just like a girl? 'Poor dog,' indeed!"

"Why! you don't suppose that a noble dog would want to be a spy?" cried Ruth. "You can scarcely imagine a dog choosing any tricky way through life. It is only men who deliberately choose despicable means to despicable ends."

"Hold on! Hold on!" cried Charlie Bragg. "Spies are necessary-as long as there is going to be war, anyway. The French have got quite as brave and successful spies beyond the German lines as the Germans have over here; only not so many."

"Well-I suppose that's so," admitted Ruth, sighing. "There must be these terrible things as long as the greater terrible thing, war, exists. Oh! There is the chateau gateway. Drive slower, Mr. Bragg-do, please!"

They mounted a little rise in the road. Above they had seen the walls and towers of the chateau, and had seen them clearly for some time. But now the boundary wall of the estate edged the road, and an arched gateway, with high grilled gates and a small door set into the wall beside the wider opening, came into view.

A single thought had stung Ruth Fielding's mind, but she did not utter it. It was: Why had none of the German aviators dropped bombs upon the stone towers on the hill? Was it a fact that the enemy deliberately ignored the existence of the chateau-that somebody in that great pile of masonry won its immunity from German bombs by playing the traitor to France and her cause?

Charlie had really reduced the speed of the car until it was now only crawling up the slope of the road. Something fluttered at the postern-gate-a woman's petticoat.

"There's the old woman," said Charlie, "Take a good look at her."

"You don't mean the countess?" gasped Ruth.

"Whiskers! No!" chuckled the young fellow. "She's a servant-or something. Dresses like one of these French peasants about here. And yet she isn't French!"

"You have seen her before, then," murmured Ruth.

"Twice. There! Look at her mustache, will you? She looks like a grenadier."

The woman at the gate was a tall, square-shouldered woman, with a hard, lined and almost masculine countenance. She stared with gloomy look as the Red Cross ambulance rolled by. Ruth caught Charlie's arm convulsively.

"Oh! what was that?" she again whispered, looking back at the woman in the gateway.

"What was what?" he asked.

"That-something white-behind her-inside the gate! Why, Mr. Bragg! was it a dog?"

"The werwolf," chuckled the young chauffeur.



Chapter XVIII. Shocking News


From both Helen and Jennie letters reached the girl of the Red Mill quite frequently. Ruth saw that always her correspondence was opened and read by the censor; but that was the fate of all letters that came to Clair.

"We innocents," said the matron of the hospital, "are thus afflicted because of the plague of spies-a veritable Egyptian plague!-that infests this part of my country. Do not be troubled, Mam'zelle Americaine. You are not singled out as though your friendliness to France was questioned.

"And yet there may be those working in the guise of the Red Cross who betray their trust," the woman added. "I hear of such."

"Who are they? Where?" Ruth asked eagerly.

"It is said that at Lyse many of the supplies sent to the Red Cross from your great and charitable country, Mam'zelle, have been diverted to private dealers and sold to the citizens. Oh, our French people-some of them-are hungry for the very luxuries that the blessés should have. If they have money they will spend it freely if good things are to be bought."

"At Lyse!" repeated Ruth. "Where I came from?"

"Fear not that suspicion rests on you, ma chère amie," cooed the Frenchwoman. "Indeed, no person in the active service of the Red Cross at Lyse is suspected."

"Nobody suspected in the supply department?" asked Ruth doubtfully.

"Oh, no! The skirts of all are clear, I understand."

Ruth said no more, but she was vastly worried by what she had heard. What, really, had taken place at Lyse? If a conspiracy had been discovered for the robbing of the Red Cross Supply Department, were not Mrs. Mantel and Legrand and José engaged in it?

Yet it seemed that the woman in black was not suspected. Ruth tried to learn more of the particulars, but the matron of the Clair hospital did not appear to know more than she had already stated.

Ruth wrote to Clare Biggars immediately, asking about the rumored trouble in their department of the Red Cross at Lyse; but naturally there would be delay before she could receive a reply, even if the censor allowed the information to go through the mails.

Meanwhile Clair was shaken all through one day and night by increased artillery fire on the battle front. Never had Ruth Fielding heard the guns roll so terribly. It was as though a continuous thunderstorm shook the heavens and the earth.

The Germans tried to drive back the reserves behind the French trenches with the heaviest barrage fire thus far experienced along this sector, while they sent forward their shock troops to overcome the thin French line in the dugouts.

Here and there the Germans gained a footing in the front line of the French trenches; but always they were driven out again, or captured.

The return barrage from the French guns at last created such havoc among the German troops that what remained of the latter were forced back beyond their own front lines.

The casualties were frightful. News of the raging battle came in with every ambulance to the Clair Hospital. The field hospitals were overcrowded and the wounded were being taken immediately from the dressing stations behind the trenches to the evacuation hospitals, like this of Clair, before being operated upon.

This well-conducted institution, in which Ruth had been busy for so many weeks, became in a few hours a bustling, feverish place, with only half enough nurses and fewer doctors than were needed.

Ruth offered herself to the matron and was given charge of one ward for all of one night, while the surgeons and nurses battled in the operating room and in the dangerous wards, with the broken men who were brought in.

Ruth's ward was a quiet one. She had already learned what to do in most small emergencies. Besides, these patients were, most of them, well on toward recovery, and they slept in spite of what was going on downstairs.

On this night Clair was astir and alight. The peril of an air raid was forgotten as the ambulances rolled in from the north and east. The soft roads became little better than quagmires for it had rained during a part of the day.

Occasionally Ruth went to an open window and looked down at the entrance to the hospital yard, where the lantern light danced upon the glistening cobblestones. Here the ambulances, one after another, halted, while the stretcher-bearers and guards said but little; all was in monotone. But the steady sound of human voices in dire pain could not be hushed.

Some of the wounded were delirious when they were brought in. Perhaps they were better off.

Nor was Ruth Fielding's sympathy altogether for the wounded soldiers. It was, as well, for these young men who drove the ambulances-who took their lives in their hands a score of times during the twenty-four hours as they forced their ambulances as near as possible to the front to recover the broken men. She prayed for the ambulance drivers.

Hour after hour dragged by until it was long past midnight. There had been a lull in the procession of ambulances for a time; but suddenly Ruth saw one shoot out of the gloom of the upper street and come rushing down to the gateway of the hospital court.

This machine was stopped promptly and the driver leaned forward, waving something in his hand toward the sentinel.

"Hey!" cried a voice that Ruth recognized-none other than that of Charlie Bragg. "Is Miss Fielding still here?"

He asked this in atrocious French, but the sentinel finally understood him.

"I will inquire, Monsieur."

"Never mind the inquiring business," declared Charlie Bragg. "I've got to be on my way. I know she's here. Get this letter in to her, will you? We're taking 'em as far as Lyse now, old man. Nice long roll for these poor fellows who need major operations."

He threw in his clutch again and the ambulance rocked away. Ruth left the window and ran down to the entrance hall. The sentinel was just coming up the steps with the note in his hand. Before Ruth reached the man she saw that the envelope was stained with blood!

"Oh! Is that for me?" the girl gasped, reaching out for it.

"Quite so, Mam'zelle," and the man handed it to her with a polite gesture.

Ruth seized it, and, with only half-muttered thanks, ran back to her ward. Her heart beat so for a minute that she felt stifled. She could not imagine what the note could be, or what it was about.

Yet she had that intuitive feeling of disaster that portends great and overwhelming events. Her thought was of Tom-Tom Cameron! Who else would send her a letter from the direction of the battle line?

She sank into her chair by the shaded lamp behind the nurse's screen. For a time she could not even look at the letter again, with its stain of blood so plain upon it!

Then she brought it into line with her vision and with the lamplight streaming upon it. The bloody finger marks half effaced something that was written upon the face of the envelope in a handwriting strange to Ruth.

"This was found in tunic pocket of an American-badly wounded-evacuated to L -- . His identification tag lost, as his arm was torn off at elbow, and no tag around his neck."

This brief statement was unsigned. Some kindly Red Cross worker, perhaps, had written it. Charlie Bragg must have known that the letter was addressed to Ruth and offered to bring it to her at Clair, the American on whom the letter was found having been unconscious.

The flap on the envelope had not been sealed. With trembling fingers the girl drew the paper forth. Yes! It was in Tom Cameron's handwriting, and it began: "Dear Ruth Fielding."

In his usual jovial style the letter proceeded. It had evidently been written just before Tom had been called to active duty in the trenches.

There were no American troops in the battle line, as yet, Ruth well knew. But their officers, in small squads, were being sent forward to learn what it meant to be in the trenches under fire.

And Tom had been caught in this sudden attack! Evacuated to Lyse! The field hospitals, as well as this one at Clair, were overcrowded. It was a long way to take wounded men to Lyse to be operated upon.

"Operated upon!" The thought made Ruth shudder. She turned sick and dizzy. Tom Cameron crippled and unconscious! An arm torn off! A cripple for the rest of his life!

She looked at the bloody fingerprints on the envelope. Tom's blood, perhaps.

He was being taken to Lyse, where nobody would know him and he would know nobody! Oh, why had it not been his fate to be brought to this hospital at Clair where Ruth was stationed?

There was a faint call from one of the patients. It occurred twice before the girl aroused to its significance.

She must put aside her personal fears and troubles. She was here to attend to the ward while the regular night nurse was engaged elsewhere.

Because Tom Cameron was wounded-perhaps dying-she could not neglect her duty here. She went quietly and brought a drink of cool water to the feverish and restless blessé who had called.



Chapter XIX. At The Wayside Cross


The early hours of that morning were the most tedious that Ruth Fielding ever had experienced. She was tied here to the convalescent ward of the Clair Hospital, while her every thought was bent upon that rocking ambulance that might be taking the broken body of Tom Cameron to the great base hospital at Lyse.

Was it possible that Tom was in Charlie Bragg's car? What might not happen to the ambulance on the dark and rough road over which Ruth had once ridden with the young American chauffeur.

While she was looking out of the window at the ambulance as it halted at the gateway of the hospital court, was poor Tom, unconscious and wounded, in Charlie's car? Oh! had she but suspected it! Would she not have run down and insisted that Tom be brought in here where she might care for him?

Her heart was wrung by this possibility. She felt condemned that she had not suspected Tom's presence at the time! Had not felt his nearness to her!

Helen was far away in Paris. Already Mr. Cameron was on the high seas. There was nobody here so close to Tom as Ruth herself. Nor could anybody else do more for him than Ruth, if only she could find him!

The battle clouds and storm clouds both broke in the east with the coming of the clammy dawn. She saw the promise of a fair day just before sunrise; then the usual morning fog shut down, shrouding all the earth about the town. It would be noon before the sun could suck up this moisture.

Two hours earlier than expected the day nurse came to relieve her. Ruth was thankful to be allowed to go. Having spent the night here she would not be expected to serve in her own department that day. Yet she wished to see the matron and put to her a request.

It was much quieter downstairs when she descended. A nodding nurse in the hall told her that every bed and every cot in the hospital was filled. Some of the convalescents would be removed as soon as possible so as to make room for newly wounded poilus.

"But where is the matron?"

"Ah, the good mother has gone to her bed-quite fagged out. Twenty-four hours on her feet-and she is no longer young. If I can do anything for the Americaine mademoiselle -- ?"

But Ruth told her no. She would write a note for Madame la Directrice, to be given to her when she awoke. For the girl of the Red Mill was determined to follow a plan of her own.

By rights she should be free until the next morning. There were twenty-four hours before her during which she need not report for service. Had she not learned of Tom's trouble she doubtless would have taken a short nap and then appeared to help in any department where she might be of use.

But, to Ruth's mind, Tom's need was greater than anything else just then. In her walks about Clair she had become acquainted with a French girl who drove a motor-car-Henriette Dupay. Her father was one of the larger farmers, and the family lived in a beautiful old house some distance out of town. Ruth made a brief toilet, a briefer breakfast, and ran out of the hospital, taking the lane that led to the Dupay farm.

The fog was so thick close to the ground that she could not see people in the road until she was almost upon them. But, then, it was so early that not many even of the early-rising farmers were astir.

In addition, the night having been so racked with the sounds of the guns,-now dying out, thank heaven!-and the noise of the ambulances coming in from the front and returning thereto, that most of the inhabitants of Clair were exhausted and slept late.

The American girl, well wrapped in a cloak and with an automobile veil wound about her hat and pulled down to her ears, walked on hurriedly, stopping now and then at a crossroad to make sure she was on the right track.

If Henriette Dupay could get her father's car, and would drive Ruth to Lyse, the latter would be able to assure herself about Tom one way or another. She felt that she must know just how badly the young fellow was wounded!

To think! An arm torn off at the elbow-if it was really Tom who had been picked up with the note Ruth had received in his pocket. It was dreadful to think of.

At one point in her swift walk Ruth found herself sobbing hysterically. Yet she was not a girl who broke down easily. Usually she was selfcontrolled. Helen accused her sometimes of being even phlegmatic.

She took a new grip upon herself. Her nerves must not get the best of her! It might not be Tom Cameron at all who was wounded. There were other American officers mixed in with the French troops on this sector of the battle front-surely!

Yet, who else but Tom would have carried that letter written to "Dear Ruth Fielding"? The more the girl of the Red Mill thought of it the more confident she was that there could have been no mistake made. Tom had fallen wounded in the trenches and was now in the big hospital at Lyse, where she had worked for some weeks in the ranks of the Red Cross recruits.

Suddenly the girl was halted by a voice in the fog. A shrill exclamation in a foreign tone-not French-sounded just ahead. It was a man's voice, and a woman's answered. The two seemed to be arguing; but to hear people talking in anything but French or English in this part of France was enough to astonish anybody.

"That is not German. It is a Latin tongue," thought the girl, wonderingly. "Italian or Spanish, perhaps. Who can it be?"

She started forward again, yet walked softly, for the moss and short grass beside the road made her footfalls indistinguishable a few yards away. There loomed up ahead of her a wayside cross-one of those weather-worn and ancient monuments so often seen in that country.

In walking with Henriette Dupay, Ruth had seen the French girl kneel a moment at this junction of the two lanes, and whisper a prayer. Indeed, the American girl had followed her example, for she believed that God hears the reverent prayer wherever it is made. And Ruth had felt of late that she had much to pray for.

The voices of the two wrangling people suggested no worship, however. Nor were they kneeling at the wayside shrine. She saw them, at last, standing in the middle of the cross lane. One, she knew, had come down from the chateau.

Ruth saw that the woman was the heavy-faced creature whom she had once seen at the gateway of the chateau when riding past with Charlie Bragg. This strange-looking old woman Charlie had said was a servant of the countess up at the chateau and that she was not a Frenchwoman. Indeed, the countess herself was not really French, but was Alsatian, and "the wrong kind," to use the chauffeur's expression.

The American girl caught a glimpse of the woman's face and then hid her own with her veil. But the man's countenance she did not behold until she had passed the shrine and had looked back.

He had wheeled to look after Ruth. He was a small man and suddenly she saw, as he stepped out to trace her departure more clearly, that he was lame. He wore a heavy shoe on one foot with a thick and clumsy sole-such as the supposed Italian chef had worn coming over from America on the Red Cross ship.

Was it the man, José, suspected with Legrand and Mrs. Rose Mantel-all members of a band of conspirators pledged to rob the Red Cross? Ruth dared not halt for another glance at him. She pulled the veil further over her face and scuttled on up the lane toward the Dupay farmhouse.



Chapter XX. Many Things Happen


Ruth reached the farmhouse just as the family was sitting down to breakfast. The house and outbuildings of the Dupays were all connected, as is the way in this part of France. No shell had fallen near the buildings, which was very fortunate, indeed.

Henriette's father was a one-armed man. He had lost his left arm at the Marne, and had been honorably discharged, to go back to farming, in order to try to raise food for the army and for the suffering people of France. His two sons and his brothers were still away at the wars, so every child big enough to help, and the women of the family as well, aided in the farm work.

No petrol could be used to drive cars for pleasure; but Henriette sometimes had to go for supplies, or to carry things to market, or do other errands connected with the farm work. Ruth hoped that the French girl would be allowed to help her.

The hospitable Dupays insisted upon the American girl's sitting down to table with them. She was given a seat on the bench between Henriette and Jean, a lad of four, who looked shyly up at the visitor from under heavy brown lashes, and only played with his food.

It was not the usual French breakfast to which Ruth Fielding had become accustomed-coffee and bread, with possibly a little compote, or an egg. There was meat on the table-a heavy meal, for it was to be followed by long hours of heavy labor.

"What brings you out so early after this awful night?" Henriette whispered to her visitor.

Ruth told her. She could eat but little, she was so anxious about Tom Cameron. She made it plain to the interested French girl just why she so desired to follow on to Lyse and learn if it really was Tom who had been wounded, as the message on the blood-stained envelope said.

"I might start along the road and trust to some ambulance overtaking me," Ruth explained. "But often there is a wounded man who can sit up riding on the seat with the driver-sometimes two. I could not take the place of such an unfortunate."

"It would be much too far for you to walk, Mademoiselle," said the mother, overhearing. "We can surely help you."

She spoke to her husband-a huge man, of whom Ruth stood rather in awe, he was so stern-looking and taciturn. But Henriette said he had been a "laughing man" before his experience in the war. War had changed many people, this French girl said, nodding her head wisely.

"The venerable Countess Marchand," pointing to the chateau on the hill, "had been neighborly and kind until the war came. Now she shut herself away from all the neighbors, and if a body went to the chateau it was only to be confronted by old Bessie, who was the countess' housekeeper, and her only personal servant now."

"Old Bessie," Ruth judged, must be the hard-featured woman she had seen at the chateau gate and, on this particular morning, talking to the lame man at the wayside cross.

The American girl waited now in some trepidation for Dupay to speak. He seemed to consider the question of Ruth's getting to Lyse quite seriously for some time; then he said quietly that he saw no objection to Henriette taking the sacks of grain to M. Naubeck in the touring car body instead of the truck, and going to-day to Lyse on that errand instead of the next week.

It was settled so easily. Henriette ran away to dress, while a younger brother slipped out to see that the car was in order for the two girls. Ruth knew she could not offer the Dupays any remuneration for the trouble they took for her, but she was so thankful to them that she was almost in tears when she and Henriette started for Lyse half an hour later.

"The main road is so cut up and rutted by the big lorries and ambulances that we would better go another way," Henriette said, as she steered out of the farm lane into the wider road.

They turned away from Lyse, it seemed to Ruth; but, after circling around the hill on which the chateau stood, they entered a more traveled way, but one not so deeply rutted.

A mile beyond this point, and just as the motor-car came down a gentle slope to a small stream, crossed by a rustic bridge, the two girls spied another automobile, likewise headed toward Lyse. It was stalled, both wheels on the one side being deep in a muddy rut.

There were two men with the car-a small man and a much taller individual, who was dressed in the uniform of a French officer-a captain, as Ruth saw when they came nearer.

The little man stepped into the woods, perhaps for a sapling, with which to pry up the car, before the girls reached the bottom of the hill. At least, they only saw his back. But when Ruth gained a clear view of the officer's face she was quite shocked.

"What is the matter?" Henriette asked her, driving carefully past the stalled car.

Ruth remained silent until they were across the bridge and the French girl had asked her question a second time, saying:

"What is it, Mademoiselle Ruth?"

"Do you know that man?" Ruth returned, proving herself a true Yankee by answering one question with another.

"The captain? No. I do not know him. There are many captains," and Henriette laughed.

"He-he looks like somebody I know," Ruth said hesitatingly. She did not wish to explain her sudden shocked feeling on seeing the man's face. He looked like the shaven Legrand who, on the ship coming over and in Lyse, had called himself "Professor Perry."

If this was the crook, who, Ruth believed, had set fire to the business office of the Robinsburg Red Cross headquarters, he had evidently not been arrested in connection with the supply department scandal, of which the matron of the hospital had told her. At least, he was now free. And the little fellow with him! Had not Ruth, less than two hours before, seen José talking with the woman from the chateau at the wayside shrine near Clair?

The mysteries of these two men and their disguises troubled Ruth Fielding vastly. It seemed that the prefect of police at Lyse had not apprehended them. Nor was Mrs. Mantel yet in the toils.

This was a longer way to Lyse by a number of miles than the main road; nevertheless, it was probable that the girls gained time by following the more roundabout route.

It was not yet noon when Henriette stopped at a side entrance to the hospital where Ruth had served her first few weeks for the Red Cross in France. The girl of the Red Mill sprang out, and, asking her friend to wait for her, ran into the building.

The guard remembered her, and nobody stopped her on the way to the reception office, where a record was kept of all the patients in the great building. The girl at the desk was a stranger to Ruth, but she answered the visitor's questions as best she could.

She looked over the records of the wounded accepted from the battle front or from evacuation hospitals during the past forty-eight hours. There was no such name as Cameron on the list; and, as far as the clerk knew, no American at all among the number.

"Oh, there must be!" gasped Ruth, wringing her hands. "Surely there is a mistake. There is no other hospital here for him to be brought to, and I am sure this person was brought to Lyse. They say his arm is torn off at the elbow."

A nurse passing through the office stopped and inquired in French of whom Ruth was speaking. The girl of the Red Mill explained.

"I believe we have the blessé in my ward," this nurse said kindly. "Will you come and see, Mademoiselle? He has been quite out of his head, and perhaps he is an American, for he has not spoken French. We thought him English."

"Oh, let me see him!" cried Ruth, and hastened with her into one of the wards where she knew the most serious cases were cared for.

Her fears almost overcame the girl. Her interest in Tom Cameron was deep and abiding. For years they had been friends, and now, of late, a stronger feeling than friendship had developed in her heart for Tom.

His courage, his cheerfulness, the real, solid worth of the young fellow, could not fail to endear him to one who knew him as well as did Ruth Fielding. If he had been shot down, mangled, injured, perhaps, to the very death!

How would Helen and their father feel if Tom was seriously wounded? If Ruth found him here in the hospital, should she immediately communicate with his twin sister in Paris, and with his father, who had doubtless reached the States by this time?

Her mind thus in a turmoil, she followed the nurse into the ward and down the aisle between the rows of cots. She had helped comfort the wounded in this very ward when she worked in this hospital; but she looked now for no familiar face, save one. She looked ahead for the white, strained countenance of Tom Cameron against the coarse pillow-slip.

The nurse stopped beside a cot. Oh, the relief! There was no screen around it! The occupant was turned with his face away from the aisle. The stump of the uplifted arm on his left side, bandaged and padded, was uppermost.

"Tom!" breathed the girl of the Red Mill, holding back just a little and with a hand upon her breast.

It was a head of black hair upon the pillow. It might easily have been Tom Cameron. And in a moment Ruth was sure that he was an American from the very contour of his visage-but it was not Tom!

"Oh! It's not! It's not!" she kept saying over and over to herself. And then she suddenly found herself sitting in a chair at the end of the ward and the nurse was saying to her:

"Are you about to faint, Mademoiselle? It is the friend you look for?"

"Oh, no! I sha'n't faint," Ruth declared, getting a grip upon her nerves again. "It is not my friend. Oh! I cannot tell you how relieved I am."

"Ah, yes! I know," sighed the Frenchwoman. "I have a father and a brother in our army and after every battle I fear until I hear from them. I am glad for your sake it is another than your friend. And yet-he will have friends who suffer, too-is it not?"



Chapter XXI. Again The Werwolf


Ruth Fielding felt as though she needed a cup of tea more than she ever had before in her life. And Clare Biggars had her own tea service in her room at the pension. Ruth had inquired for Clare and learned that this was a free hour for the Kansas girl. So Ruth and Henriette Dupay drove to the boarding-house; for to get a good cup of tea in one of the restaurants or cafés was impossible.

Her relief at learning the wounded American in the hospital was not Tom Cameron was quite overwhelming at first. Ruth had come out to the car so white of face that the French girl was frightened.

"Oh! Mam'zelle Fielding! It is that you haf los' your friend?" cried the girl in the stammering English she tried so hard to make perfect.

"I don't know that," sighed Ruth. "But, at least, if he is wounded, he was not brought here to this hospital."

She could not understand how that letter had been found in the pocket of the young man she had seen in the hospital ward. Tom Cameron certainly had written that letter. Ruth would not be free from worry until she had heard again from Tom, or of him.

The pension was not far away, and Ruth made her friend lock the car and come in with her, for Clare was a hospitable soul and it was lunch time. To her surprise Ruth found Clare in tears.

"What is the matter, my dear girl?" cried Ruth, as Clare fled sobbing to her arms the moment she saw the girl of the Red Mill. "What can have happened to you?"

"Everything!" exploded the Kansas girl. "You can't imagine! I've all but been arrested, and the Head called me down dreadfully, and Madame -- "

"Madame Mantel?" Ruth asked sharply. "Is she the cause of your troubles? I should have warned you -- "

"Oh, the poor dear!" groaned Clare. "She feels as bad about it as I do. Why, they took her to the police station, too!"

"You seem to have all been having a fine time," Ruth said, rather tartly. "Tell me all about it. But ask us to sit down, and do give us a cup of tea. This is Henriette Dupay, Clare, and a very nice girl she is. Try to be cordial-hold up the reputation of America, my dear."

"How-do?" gulped Clare, giving the French girl her hand. "I am glad Ruth brought you. But it was only yesterday -- "

"What was only yesterday?" asked Ruth, as the hostess began to set out the tea things.

"Oh, Ruth! Haven't you heard something about the awful thing that happened here? That Professor Perry -- "

"Ah! What about him?" asked Ruth. "You know what I wrote you-that I had heard there was trouble in the Supply Department? You haven't answered my letter."

"No. I was too worried. And finally-only yesterday, as I said-I was ordered to appear before the prefect of police."

"A nice old gentleman with a white mustache."

"A horrid old man who said the meanest things to dear Madame Mantel!" cried Clare hotly.

Ruth saw that the Western girl was still enamored of the woman in black, so she was careful what she said in comment upon Clare's story.

All Ruth had to do was to keep still and Clare told it all. Perhaps Henriette did not understand very clearly what the trouble was, but she looked sympathetic, too, and that encouraged Clare.

It seemed that Mrs. Mantel had made a companion of Clare outside of the hospital, and Ruth could very well understand why. Clare's father was a member of Congress and a wealthy man. It was to be presumed that Clare seemed to the woman in black well worth cultivating.

The Kansas girl had gone with the woman to the café of the Chou-rouge more than once. Each time the so-called Professor Perry and the Italian commissioner, whose name Clare had forgotten-"But that's of no consequence," thought Ruth, "for he has so many names!"-had been very friendly with the Red Cross workers.

Then suddenly the professor and the Italian had disappeared. The head of the Lyse hospital had begun to make inquiries into the working of the Supply Department. There had been billed to Lyse great stores of goods that were not accounted for.

"Poor Madame Mantel was heartbroken," Clare said. "She wished to resign at once. Oh, it's been terrible!"

"Resign under fire?" suggested Ruth.

"Oh-you understand-she felt so bad that her department should be under suspicion. Of course, it was not her fault."

"Did the head say that?"

"Why, he didn't have to!" cried Clare. "I hope you are not suspicious of Madame Mantel, Ruth Fielding?"

"You haven't told me enough to cause me to suspect anybody yet-save yourself," laughed Ruth. "I suspect that you are telling the story very badly, my dear."

"Well, I suppose that is so," admitted Clare, and thereafter she tried to speak more connectedly about the trouble which had finally engrossed all her thought.

The French police had unearthed, it was said, a wide conspiracy for the diversion of Red Cross supplies from America to certain private hands. These goods had been signed for in Mrs. Mantel's office; she did not know by whom, but the writing on the receipts was not in her hand. That was proved. And, of course, the goods had never been delivered to the hospital at Lyse.

The receipts must have been forged. The only point made against Mrs. Mantel, it seemed, was that she had not reported that these goods, long expected at Lyse, were not received. Her delay in making inquiry for the supplies gave the thieves opportunity for disposing of the goods and getting away with the money paid for them by dishonest French dealers.

The men who had disposed of the supplies and had pocketed the money (or so it was believed) were the man who called himself Professor Perry and the Italian commissioner.

"And what do you think?" Clare went on to say. "That professor is no college man at all. He is a well-known French crook, they say, and usually travels under the name of Legrand.

"They say he had been in America until it got too hot for him there, and he crossed on the same boat with us-you remember, Ruth?"

"Oh, I remember," groaned the girl of the Red Mill. "The Italian, too?"

"I don't know for sure about him. They say he isn't an Italian, but a Mexican, anyway. And he has a police record in both hemispheres.

"Consider! Madame Mantel and I were seen hobnobbing with them! I know she feels just as I do. I hate to show myself on the street!"

"I wouldn't feel that way," Ruth replied soothingly. "You could not help it."

"But the police-ordering me before that nasty old prefect!" exclaimed the angry girl. "And he said such things to me! Think! He had cabled the chief of police in my town to ask who I was and if I had a police record. What do you suppose my father will say?"

"I guarantee that he will laugh at you," Ruth declared. "Don't take it so much to heart. Remember we are in a strange country, and that that country is at war."

"I never shall like the French system of government, just the same!" declared Clare, with emphasis.

"And-and what about Mrs. Mantel?" Ruth asked doubtfully.

"I am going over to see her now," Clare said, wiping her eyes. "I am so sorry for her. I believe that horrid prefect thinks she is mixed up in the plot that has cost the Red Cross so much. They say nearly ten thousand dollars worth of goods was stolen, and those two horrid men-Professor Perry and the other-have got away and the French police cannot find them."

Ruth was secretly much disturbed by Clare's story. She believed that she knew something about the pair of crooks who were accused-Rose Mantel's two friends-that might lead to their capture. She was sure Henriette Dupay and she had passed them with their stalled automobile on the road to Lyse that morning.

In addition, she believed the two crooks were connected with those people at the Chateau Marchand, who were supposed to be pro-German. Now she knew what language she had heard spoken by José and the hard-featured Bessie of the chateau, there by the wayside cross. It was Spanish. The woman might easily be a Mexican as well as José.

Should she go to the prefect of police and tell him of these things? It seemed to Ruth Fielding that she was much entangled in a conspiracy of wide significance. The crooks who had robbed the Red Cross seemed lined up with the spies of the Chateau Marchand.

And there was the strange animal-dog, or what-not!-that was connected with the chateau. The werwolf! Whether she believed in such traditional tales or not, the American girl was impressed with the fact that there was much that was suspicious in the whole affair.

Yet she naturally shrank from getting her own fingers caught in the cogs of this mystery that the French police were doubtless quite able to handle in their own way, and all in good time. It was evident that even Mrs. Mantel was not to be allowed to escape the police net. She had not been arrested yet; but she doubtless was watched so closely now that she could neither get away, nor aid in doing further harm.

As for Clare Biggars, she was perfectly innocent of all wrong-doing or intent. And she was quite old enough to take care of herself. Besides, her father would doubtless be warned that his daughter was under suspicion of the French police and he would communicate with the United States Ambassador at Paris. She would be quite safe and suffer no real trouble.

So Ruth decided to return to Clair without going to the police, and, after lunch, having delivered the bags of grain which had filled the tonneau of the car, she and Henriette Dupay drove out of town again.

They were delayed for some time by tire trouble, and the French girl proved herself as good a mechanic as was necessary in repairing the tube. But night was falling before they were halfway home.

Ruth's thoughts were divided between the conspiracy, in which Mrs. Mantel was engaged, and her worry regarding Tom Cameron. She had filed a telegraph message at the Lyse Hospital to be sent to Tom's cantonment, where he was training, and hoped that the censor would allow it to go through. For she knew she could not be satisfied that Tom had not been wounded until she heard from him.

The American girl's nerves had been shot through by the affair of the early morning, when the note from Tom had been brought to her. What had followed since that hour had not served to help her regain her self-control.

Therefore, as Henriette drove the car on through the twilight, following the road by which they had gone to Lyse, there was reason for Ruth suddenly exclaiming aloud, when she saw something in the track ahead:

"Henriette! Look! What can that be? Do you see it?"

"What do you see, Mademoiselle Ruth?" asked the French girl, reducing the speed of the car in apprehension.

"There! That white -- "

"Nom de Dieu!" shrieked Henriette, getting sight of the object in question.

The girl paled visibly and shrank back into her seat. Ruth cried out, fearing the steering wheel would get away from Henriette.

"Oh! Did you see?" gasped the latter.

The white object had suddenly disappeared. It seemed to Ruth as though it had actually melted into thin air.

"That was the werwolf!" continued the French girl, and crossed herself. "Oh, my dear Mademoiselle, something is sure now to happen-something very bad!"



Chapter XXII. The Countess And Her Dog


RUTH FIELDING had almost instantly identified the swiftly moving object in the road as the same that she had seen weeks before while riding with Charlie Bragg toward Clair. And yet she could not admit as true the assertion made both by the ambulance driver and the excited French girl.

To recognize the quickly disappearing creature as a werwolf-the beast-form of a human being, sold irrevocably to the Powers of Darkness-was quite too much for a sane American girl like Ruth Fielding!

"Why, Henriette!" she cried, "that is nothing but a dog."

"A wolf, Mademoiselle. A werwolf, as I have told you. A very wicked thing."

"There isn't such a thing," declared Ruth bluntly. "That was a dog-a white or a gray one. And of large size. I have seen it once before-perhaps twice," Ruth added, remembering the glimpse she had caught of such a creature with Bessie at the chateau gate.

"Oh, it is such bad fortune to see it!" sighed Henriette.

"Don't be so childish," Ruth adjured, brusquely. "Nothing about that dog can hurt you. But I have an idea the poor creature may be doing the French cause harm."

"Oh, Mademoiselle! You have heard the vile talk about the dear countess!" cried Henriette. "It is not so. She is a brave and lovely lady. She gives her all for France. She would be filled with horror if she knew anybody connected her with the spies of les Boches."

"I thought it was generally believed that she was an Alsatian of the wrong kind."

"It is a wicked calumny," Henriette declared earnestly. "But I have heard the tale of the werwolf ever since I was a child-long before this dreadful war began."

"Yes?"

"It was often seen racing through the country by night," the girl declared earnestly. "They say it comes from the chateau, and goes back to it. But that the lovely countess is a wicked one, and changes herself into a devouring wolf-ah, no, no, Mademoiselle! It is impossible!

"The werwolf comes and goes across the battle front, it is said. Indeed, it used to cross the old frontier into Germany in pre-war times. Why may not some wicked German woman change herself into a wolf and course the woods and fields at night? Why lay such a thing to the good Countess Marchand?"

Ruth saw that the girl was very much in earnest, and she cast no further doubt upon the occupant of the chateau, the towers of which had been in sight in the twilight for some few minutes. Henriette was now driving slowly and had not recovered from her fright. They came to a road which turned up the hill.

"Where does that track lead?" Ruth asked quickly.

"Past the gates of the chateau, Mademoiselle."

"You say you will take me to the hospital at Clair before going home," Ruth urged. "Can we not take this turn?"

"But surely," agreed Henriette, and steered the car into the narrow and well-kept lane.

Ruth made no explanation for her request. But she felt sure that the object which had startled them both, dog or whatever it was, had dived into this lane to disappear so quickly. The "werwolf" was going toward the chateau on this evening instead of away from it.

There was close connection between the two criminals, who had come from America on the Red Cross steamship, Legrand and José, with whatever was going on between the Chateau Marchand and the Germans. Werwolf, or despatch dog, Ruth was confident that the creature that ran by night across the shell-racked fields was trained to spy work.

Who was guilty at the chateau? That seemed to be an open question.

Henriette's declaration that it was not the Countess Marchand, strengthened the suspicion already rife in Ruth's mind that the old servant, Bessie, was the German-lover.

The latter was known to José, one of the crooks from America. She might easily be of the same nationality as José-Mexican. And the Mexicans largely are pro-German.

José and Legrand were already under suspicion of a huge swindle in Red Cross stores. It would seem that if these men would steal, it was fair to presume they would betray the French Government for money.

It was a mixed-up and doubtful situation at best. Ruth Fielding intuitively felt that she had hold of the ends of certain threads of evidence that must, in time, lead to the unraveling of the whole scheme of deceit and intrigue.

It was still light enough on the upland for the girls to see some distance along the road ahead. Henriette drove the car slowly as they approached the wide gateway of the chateau.

Ruth distinguished the flutter of something white by the gate and wondered if it was the "werwolf" or the old serving woman. But when she called Henriette's attention to the moving object the French girl cried, under her breath:

"Oh! It is the countess! Look you, Mademoiselle Ruth, perhaps she will speak to us."

"But there's something with her. It is a dog," the American girl declared.

"Why that is only Bubu, the old hound. He is always with the countess when she walks out. He is a greyhound-see you? It is foolish, Mademoiselle, to connect Bubu with the werwolf," and she shrugged her plump shoulders.

Ruth paid more attention to the dog at first than she did to the lady who held the loop of his leash. He wore a dark blanket, which covered most of his body, even to his ears. His legs were long, of course, and Ruth discovered another thing in a moment, while the car rolled nearer.

The thin legs of the slate-colored beast were covered with mud. That mud was not yet dry. The dog had been running at large within the last few minutes, the girl was sure.



Chapter XXIII. Ruth Does Her Duty


The query that came sharply to Ruth Fielding's mind was: Without his blanket and off his leash, what would Bubu, the greyhound, look like in the gloaming? The next moment the tall old lady walking by the observant dog's side, raised her hand and nodded to Henriette.

"Oh, Madame!" gasped the French girl, and brought the car to an instant stop.

"I thought it was my little Hetty," the countess said in French, and smiling. "Hast been to Lyse for the good father?"

"Yes, Madame," replied the girl.

"And what news do you bring?"

The voice of the old lady was very kind. Ruth, watching her closely, thought that if the Countess Marchand was a spy for Germany, and was wicked at heart, she was a wonderfully good actress.

She had a most graceful carriage. Her hair, which was snow white, was dressed most becomingly. Her cheeks were naturally pink; yet her throat and under her chin the skin was like old ivory and much wrinkled. She was dressed plainly, although the cape about her shoulders was trimmed with expensive fur.

Henriette replied to her queries bashfully, bobbing her head at every reply. She was much impressed by the lady's attention. Finally the latter looked full at Ruth, and asked:

"Your friend is from the hospital, Hetty?"

"Oh, yes, Madame!" Henriette hastened to say. "She is an Americaine. Of the Red Cross."

"I could imagine her nativity," said the countess, bowing to Ruth, and with cordiality. "I traveled much with the count-years ago. All over America. I deem all Americans my friends."

"Thank you, Madame," replied Ruth gravely.

At the moment the stern-faced Bessie came through the little postern gate. She approached the countess and stood for a moment respectfully waiting her mistress' attention.

"Ah, here is the good Bessie," said the countess, and passed the serving woman the loop of the dog's leather leash. "Take him away, Bessie. Naughty Bubu! Do you know, he should be punished-and punished severely. He had slipped his collar again. See his legs? You must draw the collar up another hole, Bessie."

The harsh voice of the old woman replied, but Ruth could not understand what she said. The dog was led away; but Ruth saw that Bessie stared at her, Ruth, curiously-or was it threateningly?

The countess turned again to speak to the two girls. "Old Bessie comes from America, Mademoiselle," she explained. "I brought her over years ago. She has long served me."

"She comes from Mexico, does she not?" Ruth asked quietly.

"Yes. I see you have bright eyes-you are observant," said the countess. "Yes. Mexico was Bessie's birthplace, although she is not all Spanish."

Ruth thought to herself: "I could guarantee that. She is part German. 'Elizabeth'-yes, indeed! And does this lady never suspect what her serving woman may be?"

The countess dismissed them with another kindly word and gesture. Henriette was very much wrought up over the incident.

"She is a great lady," she whispered to Ruth. "Wait till I tell my father and mother how she spoke to me. They will be delighted."

"And this is a republic!" smiled Ruth. Even mild toadyism did not much please this American girl. "Still," she thought, "we are inclined to bow down and worship a less worthy aristocracy at home-the aristocracy of wealth."

Henriette ran her down to the town and to the hospital gate. Ruth was more than tired-she felt exhausted when she got out of the car. But she saw the matron before retiring to her own cell for a few hours' sleep.

"We shall need you, Mademoiselle," the Frenchwoman said distractedly. "Oh! so many poor men are here. They have been bringing them in all day. There is a lull on the front, or I do not know what we should do. The poor, poor men!"

Ruth had to rest for a while, however, although she did not sleep. Her mind was too painfully active.

Her thoughts drummed continually upon two subjects, the mystery regarding Tom Cameron-his letter to her found in another man's pocket. Secondly, the complications of the plot in which the woman in black, the two crooks from America, and the occupants of the chateau seemed all entangled.

She hoped hourly to hear from Tom; but no word came. She wished, indeed, that she might even see Charlie Bragg again; but nobody seemed to have seen him about the hospital of late. The ambulance corps was shifted around so frequently that there was no knowing where he could be found, save at his headquarters up near the front. And Ruth Fielding felt that she was quite as near the front here at Clair as she ever wished to be!

She went on duty before midnight and remained at work until after supper the next evening. She had nothing to do with the severely wounded, of course; but there was plenty to do for those who had already been in the hospital some time, and whom she knew.

Ruth could aid them in simple matters, could read to them, write for them, quiet them if they were nervous or suffering from shell-shock. She tried to forget her personal anxieties in attending to the poor fellows and aiding them to forget their wounds, if for only a little while.

But she climbed to her cell at last, worn out as she was by the long strain, with a determination to communicate with the French police-head in Lyse regarding the men who had robbed the Red Cross supply department.

She wrote the letter with the deliberate intention of laying all the mystery, as she saw it, before the authorities. She would protect the woman in black no longer. Nor did she ignore the possibility of the Countess Marchand and her old serving woman being in some way connected with Legrand and José, the Mexican.

She lay bare the fact that the two men from America had been in a plot to rob the Red Cross at Robinsburg, and how they had accomplished their ends with the connivance (as Ruth believed) of Rose Mantel. She spared none of the particulars of this early incident.

She wrote that she had seen the man, José, in his character of the lame Italian, both on the steamship coming over, in Paris, and again here at Clair talking with the Mexican servant of the Countess Marchand. Legrand, too, she mentioned as being in the neighborhood of Clair, now dressed as a captain of infantry in the French army.

She quite realized what she was doing in writing all this. Legrand, for instance, risked death as a spy in any case if he represented himself as an officer. But Ruth felt that the matter was serious. Something very bad was going on here, she was positive.

The only thing she could not bring herself to tell of was the suspicions she had regarding the identity of the "werwolf," as the superstitious country people called the shadowy animal that raced the fields and roads by night, going to and coming from the battle front.

It seemed such a silly thing-to repeat such gossip of the country side to the police authorities! She could not bring herself to do it. If the occupants of the chateau were suspected of being disloyal, what Ruth had already written, connecting José with Bessie, would be sufficient.

She wrote and despatched this letter at once. She knew it would be unopened by the local censor because of the address upon it. Communications to the police were privileged.

Ruth wondered much what the outcome of this step would be. She shrank from being drawn into a police investigation; but the matter had gone so far now and was so serious that she could not dodge her duty.

That very next day word was sent in to Ruth from the guard at the entrance whom she had tipped for that purpose, that the American ambulance driver, Monsieur Bragg, was at the door.

When Ruth hastened to the court the brancardiers had shuffled in with the last of Charlie's "load" and he was cranking up his car. The latter looked as though it had been through No Man's Land, clear to the Boche "ditches" it was so battered and mud-bespattered. Charlie himself had a bandage around his head which looked like an Afghan's turban.

"Oh, my dear boy! Are you hurt?" Ruth gasped, running down the steps to him.

"No," grunted the young ambulance driver. "Got this as an order of merit. For special bravery in the performance of duty," and he grinned. "Gosh! I can't get hurt proper. I bumped my head on a beam in the park-pretty near cracked my skull, now I tell you! Say! How's your friend?"

"That is exactly what I don't know," Ruth hastened to tell him.

"How's that? Didn't you go to Lyse?"

"Yes. But the man in whose pocket that letter to me was found isn't Tom Cameron at all. It was some one else!"

"What? You don't mean it! Then how did he come by that letter? I saw it taken out of the poor chap's pocket. Johnny Mall wrote the note to you on the outside of it. I knew it was intended for you, of course."

"But the man isn't Tom. I should say, Lieutenant Thomas Cameron."

"Seems to me I've heard of that fellow," ruminated the ambulance driver, removing his big spectacles to wipe them. "But I believe he is wounded. I'm sorry," he added, as he saw the change in Ruth's face. "Maybe he isn't, after all. Is-is this chap a pretty close friend of yours?"

Ruth told him, somewhat brokenly, in truth, just how near and dear to her the Cameron twins were. Telling more, perhaps, in the case of Tom, than she intended.

"I'll see what I can find out about him. He's been in this sector, I believe," he said. "I guess he has been at our headquarters up yonder and I've met him.

"Well, so long," he added, hopping into his car. "Next time I'm back this way maybe I'll have some news for you-good news."

"Oh, I hope so!" murmured Ruth, watching the battered ambulance wheel out of the hospital court.

Henriette Dupay had an errand in the village the next day and came to see Ruth, too. The little French girl was very much excited.

"Oh, my dear Mademoiselle Ruth!" she cried. "What do you think?"

"I could not possibly think-for you," smiled Ruth.

"It is so-just as I told you," wailed the other girl. "It always happens."

"Do tell me what you mean? What has happened now?"

"Something bad always follows the seeing of the werwolf. My grandmère says it is a curse on the neighborhood because many of our people neglect the church. Think!"

"Do tell me," begged the American girl.

"Our best cow died," cried Henriette. "Our-ve-ry-best-cow! It is an affliction, Mademoiselle."

Ruth could well understand that to be so, for cows, since the German invasion, have been very scarce in this part of France. Henriette was quite confident that the appearance of the "werwolf" had foretold the demise of "the poor Lally." The American girl saw that it was quite useless to seek to change her little friend's opinion on that score.

"Of course, the thing we saw in the road could not have been the countess' dog?" she ventured.

But Henriette would have none of that. "Why, Bubu's blanket is black," she cried. "And you know the werwolf is all of a white color-and so hu-u-uge!"

She would have nothing of the idea that Bubu was the basis of the countryside superstition. But the French girl had a second exciting bit of news.

"Think you!" she cried, "what I saw coming over to town this ve-ry day, Mademoiselle Ruth."

"Another mystery?"

"Quite so. But yes. You would never, as you say, 'guess.' I passed old Bessie, Madame la Countess' serving woman, riding fast, fast in a motor-car. Is it not a wonder?"

The statement startled Ruth, but she hid her emotion, asking:

"Not alone-surely? You do not mean that that old woman drives the countess' car?"

"Oh, no, Mademoiselle. The countess has no car. This was the strange car you and I saw on the road that day-the one that was stalled in the rut. You remember the tall capitaine-and the little one?"

The shock of the French girl's statement was almost too much for Ruth's self-control. Her voice sounded husky in her own ears when she asked:

"Tell me, Henriette! Are you sure? The old woman was riding away with those two men?"

"But yes, Mademoiselle. And they drive fast, fast!" and she pointed east, away from the hospital, and away from the road which led to Lyse.



Chapter XXIV. A Partial Exposure


It was when Ruth was going off duty for the day that the matron sent for her to come to the office before going to her own cell, as the tiny immaculate little rooms were called in which the Red Cross workers slept.

Obeying the summons, Ruth crossed the wide entrance hall and saw in the court a high-powered, open touring car in which sat two military-appearing men, although neither was in uniform. In the matron's room was another-a tall, dark young man, who arose from his chair the instant the girl entered the room.

"Monsieur Lafrane, Mademoiselle Fielding," said the matron nervously. "Monsieur Lafrane is connected, he tells me, with the Department of Justice."

"With the secret police, Mademoiselle," the man said significantly. "The prefect of police at Lyse has sent me to you," and he bowed again to Ruth.

The matron was evidently somewhat alarmed as well as surprised, but Ruth's calm manner reassured her to some extent.

"It is all right, Madame," the American girl told her. "I expected monsieur's visit."

"Oh, if mademoiselle is assured -- ?"

"Quite, Madame."

The Frenchwoman hurried from the office and left the girl and the secret agent alone. The latter smiled quietly and asked Ruth to be seated.

"It is from Monsieur Joilette, at Lyse, that I come, as I say. He informs me you have the logic of a man-and a man's courage, Mademoiselle. He thinks highly of you."

"Perhaps he thinks too highly of my courage," Ruth returned, smiling.

"Not so," proceeded Monsieur Lafrane, with rather a stern countenance, "for it must take some courage to tell but half your story when first you went to Monsieur Joilette. It is not-er-exactly safe to tell half truths to the French police, Mademoiselle."

"Not if one is an American?" smiled Ruth, not at all shaken. "Nor did I consider that I did wrong in saying nothing about Mrs. Mantel at the time, when I had nothing but suspicion against her. If Monsieur Joilette is as wise as I think him, he could easily have found the connection between those two dishonest men from America and the lady."

"True. And he did so," said the secret agent, nodding emphatically. "But already Legrand and this José had made what you Americans would call 'a killing,' yes?" Ruth nodded, smiling. "They got away with the money. But we are not allowing Madame Mantel, as she calls herself -- "

"That isn't her name then?"

"Name of a name!" ejaculated the man in disgust. "I should say not. She is Rosa Bonnet, who married an American crook four years ago and went to the United States. He was shot, I understand, in an attempt of his gang to rob a bank in one of your Western States."

"Oh! And she came East and entered into our Red Cross work. How dreadful!"

"Rosa is a sharp woman. We believe she has done work for les Boches. But then," he added, "we believe that of every crook we capture now."

"And is she arrested?"

"But yes, Mademoiselle," he said good-naturedly. "At least the police of Lyse were about to gather her in as I left this afternoon to come over here. But the men -- "

"Oh, Monsieur!" cried Ruth, with clasped hands, "they have been in this neighborhood only to-day."

He shot in a quick: "How do you know that, Mademoiselle Fielding?"

She told him of the French girl's visit and of what Henriette had said of seeing Legrand, the Mexican and Bessie riding away in a motor-car from the chateau.

"To be trusted, this girl? This Mademoiselle Dupay?"

"Oh, quite!"

"The scoundrels! They slip through our fingers at every turn. But we will have them yet. Surely they cannot escape us for long. There are too many looking for them-both of the secret police and of the army."

"Then the woman, too! The old woman and that José may only be related. Perhaps she has nothing to do with-with -- "

"With what, Mademoiselle?" he asked, smiling across the table at her, and that grimly.

"Is there not spying, too? Don't you think these people are in communication with the Germans?"

"Could you expect me to answer that query, Mademoiselle?" he returned, his eyes suddenly twinkling. "But, yes! I see you are vitally interested. And you have heard this old wives' tale of the werwolf."

He quite startled her then, for she had said nothing of that in her letter to the Lyse prefect of police.

"Some matters must be cleared up. You may be able to help, Mademoiselle. I have come to ask you to make a call with me."

"A call? On the Dupays? I hope I have said nothing to lead you to suppose that they are not loyal. And they have been kind to me."

"Quite so, Mademoiselle," he rejoined again with gravity. "I would ask you to do nothing that will make you feel an atom of disgrace. No, no! A mere call-and you shall return here in an hour."

Ruth knew it was a command as well as a request. She hurried for her wrap, for the evening was damp. But she did not remove her costume of the Red Cross.

As she came down to the waiting car she saw that she was peered at by several of the nurses. Some wind of what was going on evidently had got about the hospital.

Ruth ran down the steps and jumped into the car, the tonneau door of which was held open by the man with whom she had talked in the matron's office. Instantly the engine began to purr and the car slipped away from the steps.

Lafrane bowed to Ruth again, and said, with a gesture, as though introducing her:

"My comrades, Mademoiselle Fielding. Be of good courage. Like myself, Mademoiselle, they admire the courage of les Americaines."

Ruth could say nothing to that. She felt half stifled with seething emotions. Her heart beat rapidly. What was now going to happen to her? She had endured many strange experiences since coming to France; but she had to admit that she was not prepared for this occurrence.

The car shot through the tortuous roads swiftly. Suddenly she noted that they were taking the hilly road to the Dupay farm-the longer way. They mounted the hill toward the chateau gate.

A light flashed ahead in the roadway. The car was pulled down to a stop before the entrance to the Chateau Marchand. Another soldierly looking man-this one in uniform-held the lantern and pointed to the gateway of the estate. To Ruth's surprise the wide gates were open.

The guard said something swiftly that the girl did not catch. The chauffeur manipulated the clutch and again the car leaped ahead. It turned directly into the private drive leading up to the chateau.



CHAPTER XXV. Quite Satisfactory


Ruth said nothing to Monsieur Lafrane, although she was startled. He had had no idea, then, of taking her to the Dupay farm. She was somewhat relieved by this discovery, although she was curious as to why she was being carried to the chateau.

It was plain that their visit was expected. The great front door of the old pile of masonry was wide open and a flaring, swinging lamp illuminated the entrance hall, the light shining far across the flagging before the door. As the girl had noted, there seemed no fear here at the chateau of German night raiders, while the village of Clair lay like a black swamp below the hill, not a lamp, even in the hospital, being allowed to shine from windows or doorways there.

"Will you come in, Mademoiselle?" said the leader of the expedition softly.

One of his companions got out, too, and him they left in the entrance hall, standing grim and silent against the wall like an added piece of ancient armor, of which there were several in sight, while the secret agent and Ruth entered an apartment on the right.

It was a library-a long and lofty room, paneled with carved oak and furnished in a wood quite as dark, the chairs and huge table being massive. There were a few fine old pictures; but the bookshelves were almost stripped of volumes. Ruth noted that but a few dozen remained.

The floor, too, was bare; yet by the stain on the boards she saw that once a huge rug must have almost covered the room. Everything remaining gave the apartment a stern and poverty-stricken air.

These things she noted at first glance. The countess was present, and it was the countess who attracted Ruth's almost immediate attention.

She was quite as handsome and graceful as she had seemed when Ruth saw her walking in the road. But now she was angry, and her head was held high and her cheeks were deeply flushed. Her scant skirts swishing in and out of the candlelight, she walked up and down the room beyond the table, with something of the litheness of the caged tiger.

"And have you come back to repeat these things you have said about Bessie?" she demanded in French of the secret agent.

"But, yes, Madame la Countess. It is necessary that you be convinced," he said respectfully.

"I cannot believe it. I resent your accusation of poor Bessie. She has been with me for twenty years."

"It is so," said the man gravely. "And we cast no reflection upon her faithfulness to you, Madame. But have you noted no change in her-of late?"

"Ah, who has not been changed by the war?" murmured the countess, stopping to look at them across the table. Then for the first time she seemed to apprehend Ruth's presence. She bowed distantly. "Mademoiselle Americaine," she murmured. "What is this?"

"I would ask the mademoiselle to tell you what she knows of the connection of your servant with these men we are after," said the secret agent briefly. Then he gestured for Ruth to speak.

The latter understood now what she had been brought here for. And she was shrewd enough to see, too, that the French secret police thought the countess entirely trustworthy.

Therefore Ruth began at the beginning and told of her suspicions aroused against Legrand and José when still she was in America, and of all the events which linked them to some plot, aimed against France, although she, of course, did not know and was not likely to know what that plot was.

The men were proven crooks. They were in disguise. And Ruth was positive that José was closely associated with the old serving woman whom Ruth had seen with the dog.

At mention of the greyhound the countess and the secret agent exchanged glances. Ruth intercepted them; but she made no comment. She saw well enough that there was a secret in that which she was not to know.

Nor did she ever expect to learn anything more about that phase of the matter, being unblessed with second sight. However, in our next volume, "Ruth Fielding at the War Front; Or, The Hunt for a Lost Soldier," she was destined to gain much information on several points connected with the old chateau and its occupants.

Now, however, she merely told the countess what the agent had asked her to tell, including the fact that Bessie had been seen that afternoon riding away from the chateau with the two criminals, Legrand and José.

Her testimony seemed to convince the lady of the chateau. She bowed her head and wiped away the tears that moistened her now paling cheeks.

"Ma foi! Who, then, is to be trusted?" she murmured, when the girl had finished. "Your pardon, Monsieur! But, remember, I have had the poor creature in my service for many years.

"I must accept all your story as true. The American mademoiselle convinces me. This José, then, must be Bessie's nephew. I had heard of him. I must thank her, perhaps, that she did not allow him and his associate to rob me before she ran away. The apaches!"

"We will get them," said the agent cheerfully, preparing to depart. "I leave men in the neighborhood. They will communicate with you-and you can trust them. If the woman reappears alone we must question her. You understand?" and he spoke with some sternness.

The countess nodded, having recovered her self-control. "I know my duty, Monsieur," she said. Then to Ruth, putting forth her hand, she added:

"You have called and find me in sore trouble, my dear. Do I understand that you work in our hospital at Clair?"

"Yes, Madame," replied the girl.

"Come to see me again, then-at a happier time." She pressed Ruth's hand for a moment and went out. The secret service agent bowed low as she disappeared. Then he said with admiration to Ruth:

"Ma foi! A countess, say you? She should be a queen." Ah, this good republican was quite plainly a lover of the aristocracy, too!

Ruth was whisked back to the hospital. On the way Monsieur Lafrane assured her that she would be gratefully remembered by the French secret police for what seemed to her, after all, a very simple thing.

The men were confident of soon apprehending Legrand and his companions. "And then-the jug!" ejaculated the leader, using with gusto what he fondly believed to be another Americanism.

It was not likely that Ruth would sleep much that night. Her mind was greatly overwrought. But finally, about daylight, when she did fall into a more or less refreshing sleep, an orderly came to her door and knocked until she responded.

"Mademoiselle has waiting for her on the steps a visitor," he said, with a chuckle. "She should come down at once."

"A visitor, Henri?" she cried. "Who can it be?"

"One young Americaine," he replied, and went away cheerfully humming a tune.

"What can that Charlie Bragg want at this hour in the morning?" Ruth murmured, yet hurrying her toilet. "Possibly he brings news of Tom!"

Down she ran to the court as soon as she was neat. A man was sitting on the steps, leaning against the doorpost. It was not Charlie, for he was in military uniform and she could see an officer's insignia. He was asleep.

She saw as she left the stairway and crossed the entrance hall that he wore his arm in a sling. She thought instantly of the unknown American in Lyse Hospital who had lost his forearm. Then -- 

"Tom Cameron!" she cried, and sprang to his side.

The soldier awoke with a start. He looked up at her and grinned.

"Hullo, Ruthie," he observed. "Excuse this early call, but I might not have another rest day for a long time. We're going into the trenches-going to take over a sector of the French line, they say, before long. So -- 

"Hullo! What's happened?"

"Your arm, Tom! You are wounded?" she gasped.

"Oh, shucks! Got a splinter of shell in it. Nothing much. Keeping it in splints so it will mend quicker," he said.

"But your letter, Tom!" she cried, and there, in the early morning, standing upon the hospital steps, she told him the story of the happening that had so disturbed and troubled her.

"Don't that beat all!" exclaimed Tom. "I wondered what had happened to that letter that I had just finished when I was called on duty. It was Sam Hines who had his arm torn off-poor fellow. We heard from him. He's getting on all right, but, of course, he'll have to go home.

"He must have picked up my letter, maybe to give it to me, knowing I had forgotten it. Well, it's all right, Ruthie. I can tell you lots more than was in that letter-and you've got a lot to tell me."

So they sat down, side by side, and related each to the other all their adventures, while the great guns on the battle line boomed a rumbling accompaniment to what was said.

<eob>

The Automobile Girls In The Berkshires

Or

The Ghost Of Lost Man's Trail

By

Laura Dent Crane



Chapter I

The Reunion


"Mollie Thurston, we are lost!" cried Barbara dramatically.

The two sisters were in the depth of a New Jersey woods one afternoon in early September.

"Well, what if we are!" laughed Mollie, leaning over to add a cluster of wild asters to her great bunch of golden rod. "We have two hours ahead of us. Surely such clever woodsmen as we are can find our way out of woods which are but a few miles from home. Suppose we should explore a real forest some day. Wouldn't it be too heavenly! Come on, lazy Barbara! We shall reach a clearing in a few moments."

"You lack sympathy, Miss Mollie Thurston; that's your trouble."

Barbara was laughing, yet she anxiously scanned the marshy ground as she picked her way along.

"I wouldn't mind being lost in these woods a bit more than you do, if I were not so horribly afraid of snakes. Oh, my! this place looks full of 'em."

"They are not poisonous, Bab, or I might be more sympathetic," said Mollie reassuringly. "The snakes in these woods are harmless. How can a girl as brave as you are be such a goose about a poor, wriggly little 'sarpint,' that couldn't harm you if it tried."

"O-o-o!" shivered Bab. "One's own pet fear has nothing to do with sense or nonsense. Kindly remember your own feelings toward the timid mouse! Just the same, I should like to play 'Maid Marian' for a while and dwell in the heart of a woodland glen. If ever I have a chance to go on a camping trip, I shall get rid of my fear of snakes, somehow."

"Bab," said Mollie, after a moment's pause, "hasn't it been dreadfully dull since Ruth and her father went away? Do you think they will ever come back? I can hardly believe it has been only three weeks since they left Kingsbridge, and only six weeks since we came back from Newport. Anyhow I am glad Grace Carter is home again from her visit to her brother."

"Cheer up, Mollie, do!" encouraged Bab. "Ruth has promised to pay us a visit before she goes home to Chicago, and she is a girl of her word, as you and I well know. I am expecting a letter from her every day."

"Well," Mollie ejaculated in heart-felt tones, "I know I am nearly dead to see her. Grace and I were talking of it only yesterday."

"Mollie, I don't want to be a croaker," began Bab, after a little hesitation, "but have you noticed that mother seems worried about something? When I was talking yesterday about how crazy I was to go to Vassar some day, mother looked as though she wanted to cry. I stopped there and then. She has seemed so gay and cheerful until recently. I wonder whether she is worried about money."

Mollie nodded her head and frowned. "Now you speak of it, Bab, I believe I have noticed that she seems depressed at times. I think she is tired out and needs a complete change. She had a long letter from Cousin Betty in St. Paul yesterday, asking her to make a visit. I think mother should accept. You and I are certainly big enough to look after ourselves until school commences. Let's beg her to go."

"All right, Mollie, we will," said her older sister, "but if the family funds are even lower than usual, where is the money to come from for such an expensive trip? Just the same, I shall question mother, and find out what's the matter."

Bab was walking on bravely, trying to forget her horror of snakes.

"I am sure," she thought, "that I can feel my feet trembling inside my boots; I am so afraid of stepping on one of the wretched little pests."

It had rained the day before, and the ground under the thick tangle of trees and underbrush being unusually marshy, the girls had to pick their way carefully. Mollie walked ahead while they were talking. Barbara jumping from the twisted root of one tree to another half a yard away, felt something writhe and wriggle under her foot. Without stopping to look down, she shrieked -- "A snake! a snake!" -- and ran blindly forward. Before Mollie had time to look around, Barbara caught her foot under a root and tumbled headlong into the wet mud.

"Bab," cried Mollie, "you certainly have gone and done it this time! How wet and muddy you are!"

She picked up a stick and raked in the leaves near her sister.

"See, here's what you have made such a fuss about, a tiny garter snake, that couldn't hurt a thing. You've crushed the thing with your heel."

Mollie turned suddenly. "Barbara, what is the matter with you?" she asked, as she caught a glimpse of her sister's face. "Why don't you get up? Can I help you?" She leaned over her sister.

Poor Bab's face was white as a sheet, and she was trembling.

"Yes, do help me if you can," she answered. "I can't get up by myself. I'm afraid I have turned my ankle. Here, take my hand. Sitting here in this mud I feel as if I had fallen into a nest of snakes."

Mollie gave Bab both her hands. Setting her teeth, Bab tried to rise, but, with a groan, sat down again. The second time Mollie pulled with all her might. Barbara, summoning her courage, rose slowly to her feet. Without speaking she leaned against the trunk of the nearest tree.

"Wait here, dear," urged Mollie, more worried than she would show. "I will try and find you a stick. Then if you lean on me and use the stick in the other hand, perhaps we can get along all right."

They were several miles from home and in another hour the dusk would be upon them. So the two girls struggled bravely on through the thick woods, though it was difficult to walk abreast in the narrow path. Barbara insisted she was better with each step, but Mollie knew otherwise. With every foot of ground they covered Bab limped more and more painfully. Now and then when her injured foot pressed too heavily on the rough ground, she caught her breath and swallowed a groan. Mollie realized they would not get home before midnight at the rate they were now moving.

"Rest here, Bab," she insisted, when they came to an opening in the woods where the shade was less dense. "I think I see a place over there that must lead into a road. I will run on ahead and find some one to come back to help you."

Bab was glad to sit down. Her foot was swelling and growing more painful every moment; her pulses were throbbing. She was almost crying, but she would never mention surrender; she was not sorry, however, when Mollie suggested that she should rest.

Mollie sped through the woods as fast as she could run. As soon as her back was turned, Bab closed her eyes. "How glad I am to rest," she thought gratefully.

In the half hour that Barbara Thurston waited alone her mind wandered to many of her own hopes and fears. First, she couldn't help worrying over her mother. Then, she thought of her own ambition. More than anything in the world she longed to go to Vassar College. In two years more she would be ready to enter, but where was the money to come from? Barbara realized that her mother would never be able to pay her expenses from their small income; nevertheless, she meant to go. The Kingsbridge High School offered a scholarship at Vassar to the girl who passed the best final examinations during the four years of its course. Barbara had won the highest honors in her freshman and sophomore years, but she had two more winters of hard work ahead of her.

"I wonder," she thought at last, "if I can persuade Ruth to go to college with me?" Then she must have fallen into a little doze.

Readers of the preceding volume, "The Automobile Girls at Newport," will remember how the famous little club, known as "The Automobile Girls" came to be organized, and they are familiar with the exciting and humorous incidents of that journey in Ruth Stuart's motor car. There were many adventures along the way, including mysterious encounters with a gentlemanly young rascal, known to the police as "The Boy Raffles." The same "Raffles" afterwards turned up at Newport, where the girls for several weeks led a life of thrilling interest. "The Automobile Girls" it was who caught "Raffles" red-handed, and who saved Bab's snobbish cousin, Gladys Le Baron, from falling in love with him.

Six weeks before, on their return from the trip to Newport, "The Automobile Girls" had disbanded. Mr. Stuart had given a dinner in their honor, and at the close of the meal, he formally presented each of the girls with a miniature model of Ruth's motor car, forming pins of red enamel about the size of a dime.

"You must wear them forever," Ruth insisted, almost in tears. "Who knows what luck they may bring to us? Remember this isn't a real breaking up of 'The Automobile Girls'; it is only an 'auf wiedersehen.'"

The morning after Mr. Stuart's dinner, Grace left Kingsbridge to visit her brother. Later, Mr. Stuart and his sister, Miss Stuart, bore Ruth away to spend several weeks with some relatives in northern New York.

Ruth confided to Bab her grief at leaving them.

"I perfectly hate to go," she protested. "Just think, Bab, how soon I shall have to go back to Chicago, and leave you here in New Jersey. Other people are well enough in their places, but they are not my Barbara, Mollie and Grace!"

It was after this confidence, that Bab made Ruth solemnly promise to pay them a visit before she returned home.

Barbara opened her eyes suddenly. Had she been asleep and dreamed of Ruth? She could almost hear her voice and laugh. Some one was coming along the path. She could hear the dead leaves crunch under flying feet.

"Barbara, my Barbara!" Was it Mollie's voice calling her?

"Here I am," cried Bab faintly.

Through the trees running straight toward her, her eyes shining, her cheeks aglow, was Ruth Stuart. Barbara tried to leap up.

"Sit down, you poor dear, do," Ruth commanded. "What have you done to your silly little self? Never mind; here is your friend and always devoted slave come to your rescue."

"Where did you come from?" inquired Bab, weakly.

"Out of the everywhere into the here. Father and Mollie will be along in a few seconds and explain to you. I simply couldn't wait for them. Another dear friend of yours is up the road desiring to offer you assistance. You may recall 'Mr. A. Bubble.'"

Ruth took out the flask of beef tea which she always carried on a motor trip, and made Barbara drink a few swallows. "Now," she declared, "I will try to tell you how I happen to be here. Three days ago I told father I simply couldn't bear to be away from Kingsbridge twenty-four hours longer. So he and I decided that as soon as manners would permit we should put the automobile in commission and fly to you as fast as we could. And here we are! Besides, just think how quickly the holiday time is passing. I have another scheme -- but here come Mollie and father!"

Mr. Stuart and Mollie were approaching quickly.

"Let me help you, Barbara," said Mr. Stuart, putting his strong arm around the injured girl and nearly lifting her from the ground. "Can you manage to walk? Ruth, you help from the other side. It is not far to the road, and once we get you there, the auto will soon take you home to that little mother of yours."

"I declare I would just like to kiss 'Mr. A. Bubble,' if I knew an appropriate place," declared Barbara, when she was at last safely stowed away in the automobile. Her lame foot was propped up on soft cushions while close beside her sat her beloved Ruth holding her hand. Mollie was sitting in front with Mr. Stuart.

"Tell me," Barbara continued, "no one has properly explained it to me how you happened to be at the right place just at the right moment? And how did Mollie find you to tell you I was concealed in the woods with a sprained ankle? It's too much for me. Please explain?"

"Not so fast, Miss Thurston, if you please," pleaded Mr. Stuart. "Ruth and I would like to be regarded as angels dropped from the sky, but the truth must be told! She and I were speeding along this very road, a little faster than is perfectly proper, as we were hoping to make our way before dusk to the home of a charming lady, Mrs. Thurston, who lives with her two attractive daughters, in Laurel Cottage, Kingsbridge. What did we see? A small, excited girl ahead of us, who seemed to be trying to run faster than our auto could travel. Nevertheless, we caught up with her. Who do you think she was? Miss Mollie Thurston! We were all so surprised that it must have taken us quite a minute to explain matters to each other."

"You can imagine," added Mistress Mollie from the front seat, "how jolly glad I was!"

For some time Mrs. Thurston had been anxiously awaiting her daughters' return. She was standing at the gate of her home, when a familiar chug, chug, chug, sounded up the road. "I must be dreaming," she thought. "I am so worried at the girls being out late that I imagine I hear Ruth's automobile bringing them home to me. How lonely it has been for us all since Ruth and her father went away!"

"Chug, chug, chug," the noise sounded louder than ever. A splash of red appeared at the turn of the road, a siren whistle blew, and a well-known, crimson motor car rapidly approached her gate. Mrs. Thurston rubbed her eyes. It was the Stuart's automobile and no other. Sitting enthroned in it was that gentleman and his daughter. And, could it be possible? Barbara and Mollie, as well!

Mrs. Thurston's gentle face glowed with pleasure. Switfly as a girl she threw open her gate and was waiting on the sidewalk when the car stopped in front of her with a flourish.

"I am so delighted to see you," she said, extending her hand to Mr. Stuart and kissing Ruth on both cheeks. "Where did you find my daughters? But what's the matter with you, Bab?" she asked, as she noticed her child's pale cheeks.

"Nothing, now, mother," said Bab, hopping up, but sitting down again just as promptly. "I have sprained my ankle a little, not very much. I would like to get into the house to take off my shoe. It pinches until I feel like the mean sister trying to squeeze her foot into Cinderella's slipper."

"Come on in with me, every one of you," she pleaded. "Dear Mr. Stuart, you are not going to take Ruth up to the hotel with you for even one night. Remember, you promised she was to visit us, as soon as you returned."

"Do let me stay, father," coaxed Ruth, dancing after them. "I have no trunk to worry about at present. Aunt Sallie is coming back, day after to-morrow, and she is to bring my trunk with her. Father and I traveled all the way in the automobile."

Mrs. Thurston followed Mr. Stuart out as he was saying good-bye. He had agreed to leave Ruth with them. "Mr. Stuart, you can go to your hotel, if you wish to engage your room, but you must come back and have tea with us. We have hot rolls, honey, and fresh milk for supper. There is no use in your denying that is your favorite evening meal."

"I don't want to deny it, Mrs. Thurston," was Mr. Stuart's answer, as he stepped into his car. "I will come back with pleasure. On my way to the hotel I shall call at the doctor's and ask him to come around and look after Bab's foot."



Chapter II

New Light On Old Papers


"Mother, you are worried about something," said Barbara to her mother early the next morning as they sat alone in their little dining room, which was bright with the September sun.

Mrs. Thurston started nervously. She had been thinking so deeply that Bab's voice had startled her.

Mollie and Ruth had rushed off early to find Grace and bring her back with them. Susan, the maid, was in the yard hanging up her dish towels. Mrs. Thurston had supposed Bab was deep in reading the history of David Copperfield, which lay open on her lap.

"You don't answer me, mother," complained Barbara, as she saw her mother's face flush under her gaze. "You might as well ''fess up' and be done with it. I know there is something wrong."

Mrs. Thurston hesitated; then she answered quietly: "You are right, Bab, dear. I am very much worried and it is about money. But I did not want you children to know of it until I was obliged to tell you. Barbara, half of our income is gone!"

"Oh, mother!" cried Barbara, "what do you mean?"

"Well, dear," said her mother quietly, "the money has not entirely gone yet. But I fear it soon will go. Your uncle wrote me that some stock he bought for me had been going down, down, until finally it will cease paying dividends altogether and be of no value. How shall we manage then? I have been lying awake at night trying to plan. You know it takes every cent we have to live in even the simplest way. Oh, Bab, what shall we do?"

Barbara looked grave. "Did Uncle Ralph write you about this?"

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Thurston, "two or three weeks ago. I have had it on my mind ever since. Your uncle used to own some of this same stock, but he wrote me he had sold out some time ago."

"It is strange he didn't tell us to sell at the same time," Barbara reflected. "What does Uncle Ralph propose that we do? He is so rich I think he might show some interest in you, poor dear. You are his only sister, especially since he has made all his money out of the business father founded."

"Your Uncle Ralph suggests," Mrs. Thurston faltered, "that we find some work to do. But you and Mollie must be educated, and I am so ignorant of business."

Barbara's cheeks were crimson and her brown eyes flashed. "I think, mother," she said quietly, "it will be just as well for us to learn a little more about Uncle Ralph's management of our business. I am going to consult Mr. Stuart; I am sure he will give us good advice; he is such a clear-headed business man. Don't you worry, mother, dear, for I am sure things will turn out all right."

Mrs. Thurston rose to go out to market.

"Before you go, mother," Barbara begged, "will you please let me see the roll of father's business papers you have stored away in the trunk in the attic. Oh, I know they are of no value, but just the same I am curious to see them."

"Well, if you are so determined, all right," sighed Mrs. Thurston.

Before she left the house she handed Barbara a roll of old papers tied with a crimson cord.

Bab sat pondering with the papers in her lap. She was more frightened at her mother's news than she would show. They were mere girls, she and Mollie, and their little mother had no knowledge of business. She shook herself impatiently. Barbara was an optimist -- things would turn out all right.

Soon Bab wrinkled her forehead and tried to settle down to her work; the papers were altogether incomprehensible to her. Most of them were old business contracts. Yet, here was one that seemed a bit different. It was in Uncle Ralph Le Baron's handwriting, but so faded that it was difficult to read. Slowly Bab deciphered it: "On demand, I promise to pay to John Thurston the sum of five thousand dollars for value received." To this was appended her uncle's well-known signature, Ralph Le Baron.

"Well," sighed Barbara, as she started to tie the papers together again, "I suppose Uncle Ralph settled this debt a long time ago."

Suddenly a big, cheerful presence darkened the doorway.

"Hello, Bab!" called Mr. Stuart. "Why are you alone?"

"The girls have gone up to the Squire's for Grace," Bab explained, "and mother is at market. But do please come in and wait for them. Ruth told me to keep you; she wants to ask you about something very important."

"May I inquire what you are doing, Barbara?" Mr. Stuart queried, taking a seat. "Are you preparing to be a lawyer's clerk that you spend your spare hours poring over musty business papers?"

Barbara blushed. "I am almost ashamed to tell you, Mr. Stuart, but you and Ruth have been so awfully good to us, I think I shall just ask you one more favor. These are some business papers my father left when he died. No one has ever looked them over. I have always wondered if they could be of any value. Of course I know it is foolish of me to even dream of such a thing. But would you mind glancing at them, please?"

Barbara handed the roll of documents to her friend with such a pretty look of pleading in her brown eyes that a much harder hearted man than Mr. Stuart could not have refused her.

"Certainly; I shall be glad to have a look at them," Mr. Stuart answered.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. The only sound in the room was the soft refrain of the old clock on the mantel. Barbara held her breath, but she knew she was foolish to feel so excited.

Mr. Stuart examined the papers closely. One after another he read them through. This big western man who had made a fortune by his own brains and ability, was devoting the same care to Barbara's apparently worthless papers that he would give to his own important business affairs. Suddenly he looked up. He held in his hand the promissory note signed by Ralph Le Baron acknowledging his debt for five thousand dollars to his brother-in-law, John Thurston.

"I presume," Mr. Stuart said quietly to Bab, "that your uncle settled this debt years ago; but if he did, why was the note never canceled?"

At this moment Mr. Stuart and Barbara heard a rustle of skirts, and looking up they saw Mrs. Thurston, her arms full of bundles, and her face white. "What do you mean?" she said in a strange, hard voice. "What money should have been paid by my brother years ago? Please explain."

"Why," said Mr. Stuart, so quietly you could have heard a pin drop in the stillness of the little room, "I mean, of course, this five thousand dollars, which, as I see by the date, your brother borrowed from your husband eleven years ago. Let me see, that was one year before your husband's death!"

Mrs. Thurston sank into a chair. Mr. Stuart reached her just in time to save her from falling. He took the bundles from her hand and waited. For a minute Mrs. Thurston could not speak.

Barbara felt her heart pounding away and her pulses throbbing; but she made no sound.

"Was this money paid you by your brother when he settled your estate?" Mr. Stuart repeated his question.

"No!" faltered Mrs. Thurston.

"Have you any memorandum among your husband's papers which would prove that the money was returned to him before his death?"

Mrs. Thurston shook her head. Barbara was staring at her mother with wide open brown eyes, her cheeks paling, then flushing. Here was a mystery!

"My brother," said Mrs. Thurston finally, "settled my affairs for me at the time of my husband's sudden death. I was too crushed to realize what was taking place, and I had no idea that we would be brought to poverty. But I know I saw no such paper as you mention. Until this minute, I never heard that my brother borrowed any money from my husband. Oh, it simply can't be true --  -- "

"What can't be true, mother?" inquired Bab at last. Her mother did not answer.

Mr. Stuart quietly folded up the mysterious paper and put it in his pocket. "It may be that Mr. Le Baron can explain this situation at once," he said. "He is staying at the same hotel with me. If you will permit me I will inquire into the matter for you. Now don't worry yourselves about it any more," Mr. Stuart ended, resuming his natural manner.

To himself he told a different story. "This looks bad, very bad!" he thought. "If Ralph Le Baron had paid this money back he would have seen that the note was returned to him. I know him well enough for that. If he never has paid it, can he be forced to do so now?" reflected Mr. Stuart, looking at the matter from all sides. "He has never been asked for the money before, and I do not believe the law requires a debt to be paid after six years, if no claim has been previously made for it, and it is now eleven years since the note was made. I must look into the matter. A man who could rob his widowed sister and nieces of five thousand dollars would be guilty of any crime. I shall make it hot for him unless he can tell a straight story."

"Why is everybody looking so serious?" called out a gay voice, and Ruth, followed by Mollie and Grace, entered the room.

The little group within the room started guiltily.

"There is mystery in the very air," declaimed Ruth, "you are trying to conceal something!"

"You are a goose," replied her father fondly, then nodding reassuringly to Bab and her mother. "Who knows what a day may bring forth?" he said.



Chapter III

Happiness, And Another Scheme


The next morning Mr. Stuart left his hotel and went into New York with Mr. Le Baron. They left Kingsbridge at eight o'clock, and did not return until six. Half an hour later Mr. Stuart called at Laurel Cottage for Mrs. Thurston in his automobile.

"We will take Miss Barbara with us to the hotel," he said to her mother, "if you feel it will not injure her ankle. She need do no walking. I should prefer that she be with you when you have an interview with your brother. He is to see you at the hotel to-night. You will dine with me first."

Barbara's foot being better, she and her mother asked no questions, but with trembling fingers made ready to go.

"What do you mean," demanded Ruth and Mollie, "by going off on such a mysterious errand? Why, Mr. Stuart," asked Ruth, "are Mollie and I not also invited to dinner?"

Mr. Stuart was obdurate. He offered no explanations. When Ruth whispered something in his ear, he answered quietly: "That will keep," and Ruth said no more.

Mr. and Mrs. Le Baron bowed coldly to Mrs. Thurston and Barbara, when entering the hotel dining room that night, they found the mother and daughter dining with Mr. Stuart. But Gladys Le Baron stopped for a moment at the able to inquire after Bab's foot. She was not the haughty girl she once had been. Since her return from Newport she had seemed strangely fond of Bab.

Barbara and her mother never knew how they got through their meal. But Mr. Stuart was a tower of strength.

"We will not discuss business matters," he explained, "until we go upstairs to my sitting room. Mr. Le Baron will join us there at half-past eight."

When Ralph Le Baron entered Mr. Stuart's apartment to keep his appointment, he did not look into his sister's face. He merely inquired coldly: "How are you, Mollie?" and sat down near the small wood fire which was burning cosily in the open grate. Not once did he glance at Barbara, though she kept her eyes fixed steadily on him. He was a tall, thin man, with high cheek bones and a nose like an eagle's.

"Mrs. Thurston," began Mr. Stuart, "your brother does not claim that he paid to you or your husband the five thousand dollars which he undoubtedly borrowed. When I first spoke to him of the matter he declared he had never been loaned any such sum. He had great difficulty in recalling the incident until I showed him his note which I still have in my pocket. He explained afterwards, however, that the matter had passed entirely out of his mind after your husband's death."

Mrs. Thurston looked at her brother questioningly. "It seems very strange to me, Ralph, that you could have forgotten," she declared. "But perhaps it is all for the best! We need the money more now than we ever have before."

Mr. Le Baron did not answer his sister.

"I think you will find it the wisest plan, Mr. Le Baron," continued Mr. Stuart, breaking the silence, "to pay over this money to Mrs. Thurston and her daughters as soon as you conveniently can."

Ralph Le Baron knit his brows. Barbara was watching him closely. There was no love lost between Bab and her uncle. She had long looked for some difficulty to arise out of his management of her mother's affairs, but nothing so serious as this.

Mr. Le Baron's voice sounded cold and hard as steel.

"Do not deceive yourselves," he said, with a sneer. "I mean you, Mollie, and Mr. Stuart, who seems to be taking an unusual interest in your affairs. I have not the slightest intention of ever paying back the money!"

Mrs. Thurston's manner changed. She spoke firmly. "I should be exceedingly sorry, Ralph, to have any trouble with you over the matter; but the law must compel you to pay your debt."

"Not so fast, sister," smiled Mr. Le Baron, sarcastically. "You are coming into a remarkable business knowledge all at once, but you do not yet know quite enough. The law does not compel me after six years to pay a debt which has not been presented to me within that time. Perhaps you have never heard of the statute of limitation. Perhaps your friend, Mr. Stuart, will make it clear to you. You should have asked me for this money five or six years ago. The New York law does not require a debt to be paid unless a request has been made for its settlement within six years after the time it was contracted. The money was loaned to me by your husband eleven years ago, as we all know by the date on the note. I have no further concern in the matter."

"Great heavens, man!" cried Mr. Stuart, breaking in fiercely, "you cannot mean to play your own sister such a low-down, scoundrelly trick! You will not pay back the money to her which you confess to owing, simply because she has not asked you for it before! How could she ask for it when you alone knew of the debt and kept the matter a secret? I am not so sure how your law would stand in such a case. A pretty story it will make to tell to the men who respect your business integrity. Mrs. Thurston shall have a lawyer to inquire into the situation immediately!"

A low knock sounded at the door. Before anyone could answer, Gladys Le Baron walked smilingly into the room. She looked in surprise at her father's dark, revengeful face.

"Is anything the matter?" she inquired, her face sobering in an instant. "I wondered why father ran off by himself to see Aunt Mollie and Bab. I thought you would like to have me join you --  -- "

"Go back to your apartment at once, Gladys!" interrupted her father sternly.

Mr. Stuart turned upon him. "Ralph Le Baron, I am going to do something, to-night, that I never expected to do in my life. I am going to expose a father to his own child. Wait here a minute, Gladys."

Mr. Stuart then told Gladys the whole story. She stood listening in utter silence, her face crimson with blushes. Barbara could only look at her cousin through a mist of tears. When Mr. Stuart had ended his story, he said: "I am sorry indeed to tell you this, Gladys, but you must have learned it some day. I do not know whether your father is right in regard to the law in this matter, but Mrs. Thurston will carry the case to court."

Gladys went over to her father, who had never raised his eyes to look at her, while Mr. Stuart was speaking, nor did he make any denial.

"Is it true, father?" she asked him at last.

"It is in a measure true, Gladys," her father answered, "but it is purely a matter of business, which you cannot be expected to understand."

Gladys put her head down on the arm of the sofa, where she now sat by her father, and wept bitterly. There was no other sound in the room, except an occasional suppressed sob from Mrs. Thurston. Bab was far too excited and too angry to cry!

Finally Gladys raised her head. "Father, on my sixteenth birthday, you settled five thousand dollars on me in my own name!" She spoke in a low voice. "If you do not feel that you ought to pay back to Aunt Mollie the money you borrowed from Uncle John, won't you please let me give her this money of mine? I must do it, father. I can't understand the business side of it, but it just seems to me we owe her the money and that's all there is to it! I have been horrid and haughty many times, but I can't bear that we should seem -- dishonest!"

Poor Gladys whispered this last dreadful word under her breath. Then she put her arms round her father and kissed him. "You are not angry with me?" she asked him.

If there was one person in the world Ralph Le Baron truly loved it was his only child, Gladys. Not for ten times five thousand dollars would he have had her a witness to the scene which had just passed between him and his sister. He meant, of course, to tell her and his wife what had happened, but he meant to put his own interpretation on the affair before they heard of it from anyone else.

Did his better nature move him? Perhaps it did. He looked around the room and answered testily: "The law certainly does not require that I return this money to my sister, and business is business with me. But since my daughter Gladys and my sister seem to look upon the matter as a case of sentiment, why I --  -- " He spoke slowly. It was hard work for him to get the words out. "I will waive strictly business principles on this occasion, and return the money to my sister."

"O Ralph!" cried Mrs. Thurston, as though a great load was lifted from her mind. Barbara rejoiced. But in her heart of hearts she thought it was hard to have her uncle act as though he were doing them a favor when he was only paying them their just dues.

A few minutes later Gladys and her father withdrew from the room. "I am so glad," whispered Gladys to Bab, as she passed her cousin on her way out.

Barbara held her hand just long enough to murmur gently: "Gladys, dear, if I once did you a kindness, I think you have repaid me a thousand-fold."

It was after ten o'clock when "Mr. A. Bubble" bore the travelers home to Laurel Cottage. Mollie and Ruth were waiting in the sitting room, with a fire burning cheerily in the grate and the candles lit over the mantelpiece. In front of the fire, they had mounted twelve marshmallows, which they were toasting to a beautiful brown on twelve hatpins.

"We thought you were never coming back, Mummy," said Mollie, taking off her mother's light wrap. "What has happened to you?" she asked as she viewed her mother's shining eyes.

"Good news indeed, Mollie baby!" her mother answered. "We are five thousand dollars richer than we were when we left home. Now, perhaps Bab can go to Vassar, and things will be a little easier for us, even if the other money has gone. Mr. Stuart thinks we ought to have twenty-five dollars a month income from the five thousand dollars! Isn't it too wonderful?"

"Have a marshmallow, everyone, do," said Ruth, extending her hatpins. They were comfortably seated around the fire and the subject of the money had been dropped. "I want all of you to be eating marshmallows except me, so I can do all the talking. I think I have been a perfect angel. Father, you know I have kept a secret to myself for three whole days. Of course, I told Mollie to-night, when you left us by ourselves, but that doesn't count."

Mollie's cheeks were glowing and her eyes dancing in the soft firelight. "Oh, yes," she added naughtily, "Ruth and I can keep good news to ourselves as well as other people. At least," she continued wistfully, her eyes turning to her mother, "I hope it is good news."

"Mrs. Thurston," inquired Ruth, "don't you dearly love 'The Automobile Girls'?"

Mrs. Thurston smiled. "I most certainly do," she replied.

"Then all is well!" Ruth made her a low curtsey. "Anyone who truly loves 'The Auto-Girls' cannot fail to rejoice at my news. Mrs. Thurston, we cannot bear to be disbanded. We must get together again before I go home to Chicago. Mollie told me she and Bab wanted you to go on a visit to a cousin in St. Paul, but they feared you would not consent to leave them alone. Here's where I come in! I want you to let me take care of your babies, while you go on your trip."

Ruth gave an impudent pull at Mollie's curls, as she went on with her request. "Father and I have planned another per-fect-ly grand trip for 'The Automobile Girls!' Now please don't anybody object until I have finished. Here, eat another marshmallow! This trip is not to be in the least like the other one. What I want is to go for a month on a camping party in the Berkshire Hills!"

"Hear! Hear!" called out Bab, hopping up, and forgetting all about her sprained ankle.

"I have just had this letter from Aunt Sallie, father," continued Ruth. "She is game! Of course, she started out by saying she thought the trip was perfect nonsense; she knew we would have pneumonia and various other diseases if we attempted it, but she ended by declaring that, of course, she could not be left behind if we were determined on the frolic. She is a darling! So, now, Mrs. Thurston, if only you will consent, in a few days we want dear old 'Bubble,' to make a start for the Berkshires. This is the perfect time of the year and the mountains will be simply glorious! Oh, I can't talk any more, I am so out of breath! Do go on please, father."

"Mrs. Thurston, our plan is not so wild as it sounds. Ruth will take the girls in her car up into the Berkshires. I have discovered that on one of the mountains some distance from the regular line of travel, is a well built log cabin. It has big fireplaces in it, and can be made thoroughly comfortable for September. Early in October, Ruth wants to go with the girls to the hotel at Lenox, for a week or two of the autumn sports there. The automobile can travel comfortably over most of the Berkshire roads."

Mr. Stuart's tones were as persuasive as Ruth's. "But, when the girls come to the chosen place, they can store the car in some suitable garage, and take the trails up the sides of the mountain, either on horseback or afoot."

"But Barbara's foot," insisted Mrs. Thurston weakly, in the first pause that gave her an opportunity to speak.

"Oh, Bab's ankle will be all right, mother!" Mollie cried. "We have spoken to the doctor, and he says Bab will be jumping about as lively as a cricket in a few days."

"Mrs. Thurston," said Mr. Stuart, speaking in his heartiest voice, "I want to be allowed the floor in this conversation. I have something to propose on my own account. A party of friends of my sister's and mine are going west on a sight seeing trip. Among them is a railroad president and his wife, and their private car is to be used for the tour. It would give me great pleasure to have you meet them and make your journey to St. Paul in their company. My sister wishes to assure you that you will find them thoroughly congenial and will no doubt enjoy the trip. To tell the truth, Miss Stuart has already written our friends to expect you, for I had determined that you should go at all events.

"As for our daughters," he continued, "I am greatly interested in this camping scheme for them. I know, from my own experience, that nothing can be made more delightful than our modern fashion of 'roughing it.' I intend to make the necessary arrangements, and properly equip this camping party myself. I shall even run up to the Berkshires for a day or two, to look over the ground. I want to engage a guide for the party, and a woman to do the cooking. Then I must see if the little log cabin is all the circular says it is. It is rented out to camping parties all through the year. Come, Mrs. Thurston," questioned Mr. Stuart, "don't you think this is a good scheme for everyone?"

"Right you are, Mr. Stuart!" Bab called out rapturously. By this time Mollie and Ruth were both on the floor, with their arms around Mrs. Thurston.

"We do so want to lead 'the simple life,' dear Mrs. Thurston," Ruth begged. "Think how splendid for us to have a month out of doors before we go back to hard work at school." Ruth made a wry face. She was not fond of study, like Barbara. "We may spend a week or so in Lenox, to please Aunt Sallie. But most of the time we want to be right in the mountains. Let me see -- there is Greylock, and Monument Mountain, and hosts of others not too far from Lenox. At least, we shall be able to see them from our mountain top. And we must escort Bab over to Rattlesnake Mountain, in honor of her well known fondness for those charming pets."

"Oh, I'll look after Bab," Mollie spoke in superior tones.

"Mother," said Barbara earnestly, "you must accept Mr. Stuart's charming invitation, even if you think it wiser for us not to go on the camping trip with Ruth. I know you need a change. You have had so much worry, and now your mind is at rest."

"Ruth," said Mrs. Thurston, looking as bright and happy as one of the girls, "accept my best wishes for the 'Robin Hood Band' of 'Automobile Girls!' I am sure they will soon rival that celebrated set of woodsmen. Only, I beg of you, confine your adventures strictly within the limits of the law."

"Then you mean that Bab and Mollie may go!" cried Ruth in tones of rapture. "But we don't intend to play at being an outlaw band. Kindly regard us as early Puritan settlers in the New England hills, compelled to seek protection from the Indians in our log hut. I wish we could run across a few Indians up there; we shall be right on their old camping grounds. There are still some Indian trails in the mountains, but the Berkshires are so highly civilized, these days, we shall never find even a trace of a red man, or a red woman either!"

"When do we start, Ruth?" asked Mollie. "I should like to be off to-morrow. Remember how fast the time is going. School begins the middle of October."

"What about Grace?" asked Bab thoughtfully. "It would hardly be a real 'Automobile Girls' party if one of their number should be left out."

"Oh, it is all right about Grace, of course!" Ruth answered. "Goodness me! Haven't I told you? We have already talked our plan over with Squire Carter, who is delighted to have Grace go. He says a month out of doors will do wonders for her. He only wished he was not too old to join us."

One week later, Miss Sallie Stuart and the quartette of "Automobile Girls" gathered at the station to speed Mrs. Thurston on her journey. Mr. Stuart was to accompany her as far as New York City, and see her safely established among his friends.

"Be good children, all of you," urged Mrs. Thurston at the last minute. "And remember to keep your feet dry."

"In case the camping outfit is not thoroughly satisfactory, Sallie," counseled Mr. Stuart, "telegraph to New York for whatever you like. I believe everything is O. K. Remember to keep your camp fires always burning. You are to have the most trustworthy guide in the Berkshires, as well as his wife, to look after you, and you will never be far from civilization if you wish to go, Sallie?" he ended, for Miss Sallie was looking dismal at the idea of parting.

Miss Sallie nodded her head. "You know my views, Robert. If you will permit Ruth to follow any wild fancy that pops into her head, at least, I shall be near to see that she gets into as little mischief as possible."

Mr. Stuart's last whisper before the train started was for Bab. "Don't worry about your little mother," he said. "We will see that things are well with her. That copper stock she owns is looking up again. She is not to sell out."

Mr. Stuart turned to find Ruth for his last kiss. "Remember, daughter," he declared, "I rely on you and Bab to keep cool heads and clear brains in any emergency."

As the train moved off, Mr. Stuart and Mrs. Thurston watched for a few moments a circle of waving hands. A little later their car swung around a curve and Kingsbridge was lost to view.

"The Automobile Girls" and Miss Sallie then repaired to the hotel. Grace, Mollie and Bab were to be Ruth's guests until they started for the Berkshires. All was in readiness.

The week before, Mr. Stuart had taken the girls to New York for a few days' shopping. If ever there were young women fitted up in the proper styles for mountain climbing they were. Each girl was presented with two pairs of thick, high boots and leather leggins. Ruth insisted that her heavy wool dress be made of the Stuart plaid. She then had a tam o'shanter designed from the same Scotch tartan. But Ruth's proudest possession was a short Norfolk jacket made of the same leather as her leggins, and a knapsack to carry over her shoulders. Attired in her woodland costume, she looked not unlike "Rosalind" in Shakespeare's play, when that maid comes into the woods disguised as a boy to seek for her father.

Barbara's suit was of dark brown corduroy, with jacket and cap to match. Grace would choose nothing but her favorite dark blue. But her costume was the most striking of them all, for, with her blue skirt and blouse, she was to wear a coat of hunter's pink and a smart, little hat of the same bright scarlet shade. Mr. Stuart selected the costume for Mistress Mollie. She at least, he insisted, should be arrayed in the proper shade of Lincoln green; and like a veritable "Maid Marian" she appeared.

For once Miss Sallie was entirely satisfied with their selection of costumes. "For me," she argued in her most decided manner, "the most necessary garments are half a dozen pairs of overshoes, and the same number of mackintoshes and umbrellas. I shall also take an extra trunk of warm flannels. If the fall rains begin while we are camping in the mountains we shall surely be washed down into the valley before we can make our escape."



Chapter IV

In The Heart Of The Berkshires


A crimson automobile was climbing the steep inclines of the Berkshire Hills. Now it rose to the crest of a road. Again it dipped into a valley. It looked like a scarlet autumn leaf blown down from one of the giant forest trees that guarded the slopes of the mountains.

Mollie Thurston stood up in the back of the motor car, waving a long green veil.

"Isn't the scenery just too perfect for words?" she called to Ruth.

The day was wonderful; the September sun shone warm and golden through the shadows of dancing, many-colored leaves. "The Automobile Girls" had left summer behind them in Kingsbridge. Three days of traveling found them in the early autumn glory of the Berkshire woods.

Ruth did not answer Mollie's question.

"My dear child, wake up!" commanded Miss Sallie, leaning over to give her niece a gentle poke with her violet parasol. "Have you grown suddenly deaf? Can you not hear when you are spoken to?"

Ruth glanced up from her steering wheel. "Did some one speak to me?" she queried. "I am so sorry I did not hear. I am afraid I am both deaf and dumb to-day. But we simply must get to our mountain by noon. Driving a car over these mountain roads isn't the easiest task in the world."

Barbara laughed back over her shoulder at the occupants of the end seat in the car. "Miss Sallie Stuart," she said in solemn tones, "please, let our chauffeur alone! Suppose the dark descends upon us in the woods and you have 'nary' a place to lay your head!"

"Then I should immediately find a hotel and ask for a room and a bath," protested Miss Stuart, who did not favor the idea of the log cabin in the woods. "Remember, children, you may pretend as hard as you like that we are a thousand miles from civilization; but, unless we are perfectly comfortable in the woods, I shall take you to the best hotel in Lenox. From there you may do your mountaineering in a respectable way."

"All the more need for you to hurry, Ruth," whispered Bab in her friend's ear. "I feel sure we shall find the guides and wagons waiting for us at the foot of the hill. If we get an early enough start up the mountain we can get fairly settled by night time."

Ruth nodded with her eyes straight in front of her. She kept her car moving swiftly ahead.

"Barbara, it is quite idle to talk to Ruth," broke in Miss Sallie, who had not heard just what Bab had said. "She is her father's daughter. Once her mind is made up to accomplish a thing, she will do it or die! So we might as well resign ourselves to our fate. She will reach 'her mountain,' as she calls it, by noon, even if we have to jump a few of these embankments to succeed."

Miss Sallie was growing tired.

"Why did I ever allow myself to be brought on such a wild expedition after the experiences you girls led me into in Newport!" she said.

"Now, Miss Sallie!" said Grace Carter gently -- Grace was always the peacemaker -- "you know you love these glorious woods as much as we do. Think how jolly things will be when we go down into Lenox after it grows too cold to stay in camp. Who knows but you will turn out the best sportsman in the lot? And we shall probably have our guide teach you to shoot before we are through this trip."

Miss Stuart sniffed indignantly. Then she laughed at the thought of her plump fingers pulling the trigger of a gun. "What is our guide's outlandish name?" she inquired in milder tones.

"Naki, and his wife is called Ceally," Grace answered. "You remember Mr. Stuart explained they were originally French Canadians, but they have been living in these mountains for a number of years. Because they used to be guides up in the Canadian forests they don't know any other trade to follow in these peaceful woods."

"These woods were by no means always peaceful, my lady Grace!" asserted Bab. "You can't even be perfectly sure they are peaceful now. Why," she went on in thrilling tones, "these hillsides once ran red with the blood of our ancestors and of the friendly Indian tribes who fought with them against the French."

"Oh, come! come! No more American history!" remarked Mollie. "Beg pardon, but I do object to Bab's school-teacher manner. Did you ever see anything so lovely as these hills are now? The scenery around here is like the enchanted forests of Arcady."

"Oh, Miss Sallie, girls, look!" called Grace. From the high crest of a hill "The Automobile Girls" gazed down upon one of the loveliest valleys in the Berkshires. Afar off they could see the narrow Housatonic River winding its way past villages and fields, from the hillsides, which gave it the Indian name; for Housatonic means "a stream over the mountains." Nestling in the valleys lay a chain of silver lakes.

Ruth paused an instant. "Over there ahead of us is 'our mountain.' I think we can reach it in an hour or so."

While they were pursuing their journey, another small party was gathering on the slope of the hill opposite. A long, lean man burned to the color and texture of leather sat on the front seat of a wagon drawn by two strong mountain horses. By his side was his wife, almost as thin and brown; behind them, piled up in the wagon, were trunks, rolls of steamer rugs, kitchen utensils, making altogether as odd an assortment of goods as if the couple were peddlers.

Strolling around near them was a younger man, evidently the driver of a well filled grocery wagon. His horse stood patiently cropping the fine, hillside grass. Farther up the roadside a chauffeur nibbled a spear of mint. He had no car near him, but his costume was unmistakable. Evidently something was in the air. Somebody or something was being waited for.

Soon after twelve o'clock, there was a whirr along the road. The cart horses raised their ears, and without a motion from their drivers, moved farther to the right side of the path. Berkshire Hills horses, in whatever station of life, needed no further notice. An automobile was approaching!

"Here they come!" cried the grocer's boy, jumping back into his wagon. The chauffeur dropped his piece of mint and gazed down the road. Now at least there was something worth seeing!

"Hip! hip! hurrah!" "The Automobile Girls" landed with a flourish beside the wagons. Their laughter woke the sleeping echoes in the hills.

"Are you Naki and Ceally?" cried Ruth, jumping out of the car and running forward with her hand extended. "And are these our things you have in the wagon? I am so sorry we are a few minutes late; but these mountain roads take longer to drive over than I had expected. I hope I haven't kept you waiting very long."

"No'm," said the guide, sliding slowly down from his perch on the camping outfit. He emptied the pipe he had been comfortably smoking. "Time enough," he answered. Naki was a man of few words.

The chauffeur had walked over to Ruth's car and was assisting Miss Sallie to descend. "You are to take this car into Lenox, I believe," Miss Stuart began. "My niece will explain matters to you more fully. I am told we cannot take the car any further up this side of the hill. Where is the carriage in which we are to drive?"

"Oh, Aunt Sallie!" cried Ruth in consternation. "What are we to do? When Naki wrote there would be seats in his wagon for those of us who wished to drive up the hill, I am afraid he meant those seats in front by him and his wife."

The guide looked perfectly solemn, even when he beheld Miss Sallie's face. Imagine, if you can, Miss Sallie Stuart, nervous, as she was, perched on top of a rickety wagon! Add the fact that she was to be driven up an unexplored hillside by the side of the two queer, brown people to whom they were confiding their fates!

"We don't ride 'longside of you, Miss," explained Naki to Ruth. "I leads the horses up and my wife walks by their side. There's room for three of you up there on the front seat. It's more comfortable than it looks. The other two of you had better walk or you can ride in the grocery wagon. The man's coming along behind us with the provisions."

Miss Sallie had not spoken again. Her expression was that of a martyr.

"Do you think you can manage, Miss Sallie?" Bab pleaded.

Ruth was explaining matters to the chauffeur. He was to take the car to Lenox. Every afternoon at one o'clock he was to return with it to this fork in the road and wait for half an hour. If "The Automobile Girls" decided on a trip to one of the nearby towns, they would join him at this place; for here the good road ended and the trail up the hillside began. The camp was a long way from any town, but an automobile defies distance.

Miss Stuart looked truly miserable when she saw their car disappear down the foot of the hill. Then she looked around her carefully. The place was entirely deserted.

"Very well," she declared, resignedly. "I suppose there is nothing for me to do but to climb up into that wretched wagon."

Ruth, Barbara, Grace, Mollie, Naki and his wife all assisted her to mount over the wheel to the seat of honor. Violet cushions were piled back of her, Grace sat on one side of her, Mollie on the other. Ruth and Barbara were determined to walk.

"We are dreadfully tired sitting still, Aunt Sallie," Ruth begged. "Please let us follow the wagon!"

"Certainly, you can walk if you are able. In fact, you have no way to ride except in the grocery wagon, where you would probably get mixed up with the pickles and preserves," responded Miss Stuart. "Walk by all means!"

The cavalcade started.

"Let's pretend," proposed Bab to Ruth, "that we are starting out on what the Indians called 'the long walk.'"

"Surely, Bab, it's a long walk, all right. But why introduce the Indians?"

The girls were climbing up the steep path ahead of the wagon. Bab laughed. "Oh, I read somewhere," she explained, "that the Indians used to sell their land that way. Suppose you and I were early settlers, who were trying to purchase this hillside from the Indians. They would tell us we could have, for a fixed sum, as much land as we could cover in the 'long walk.' That would mean that we were to walk along quietly from sunrise to sunset, sitting down occasionally to smoke a pipe of peace, to break bread, and to drink water. That reminds me, are we ever going to break bread again? I am starving!"

But Ruth was not sympathetic at the moment. "It is curious," she replied. "These mountains are so full of Indian legends, we shall think, hear and dream of nothing but Indians in the next few weeks. The names of all the places around were once Indian. I suppose we shall do almost everything except see an Indian. The last of them has vanished from here. Oh, Bab, do look at Aunt Sallie!"

Miss Stuart had forgotten her fright. Fortunately, she did not realize how absurd she appeared.

"Ruth!" she called from her throne on the wagon seat. "Here is a perfectly good place for our lunch. There is water near and view enough, I am sure. I must be given food before I am taken another step up these hills. I am famished!"

The party found a clear space in the woods. In a short time Naki had built a fire of pine twigs, and Ceally had a giant pot of coffee boiling over it. Its delicious perfume mingled with the fresh mountain air.

"I declare I haven't been so hungry since I was a girl," Miss Sallie avowed. She was seated on a log, with a sandwich in one hand and a cup of coffee on the ground by her. Her hat was on one side of her head, and her pompadour drooped dejectedly, but Miss Sallie was blissfully unconscious. The color in her cheeks shone as fresh and rosy as the tints in the cheeks of any other of "The Automobile Girls."

Mollie flitted around like the spirit of the woods. Nothing could induce her to keep still. "Do let me get the water," she coaxed the guide. Like a flash she was off and back bearing a heavy bucket. "Here, Ruth," she volunteered, pouring a stream of water into the tiny silver cup that Ruth always carried. Ruth was just in time. With a jump to one side, she escaped, but the splash descended on unsuspecting Bab, who Was nibbling a doughnut.

In her ardor at playing waitress in the woods Mollie had turned her bucket upside down. Instead of dispensing nectar, this little cup-bearer to "The Automobile Girls" had nearly drowned one of them.

"It's a blessed thing you are my sister," cried Bab.

Mollie apologized, dabbing at Bab with her small pocket handkerchief. "You can tell me exactly what you think of me. Ruth and Grace might be too polite. I am so sorry; I was trying to be useful."

"Go over to the fire, Barbara, and dry your dress," advised Miss Sallie. "It is just as well you have on a thick suit. We must learn to expect occasional mishaps."

Barbara winked solemnly at Ruth as she arose from the table. Miss Sallie was sure to be in a good humor when she talked in this philosophical fashion.

For an hour after luncheon the camping party continued their climb. Finally Ruth and Bab, who were in front, came to a sudden stop. "Hurrah!" they shouted, turning to wave their handkerchiefs to the occupants of the wagon.

Mollie nearly pitched out of the wagon in her excitement, but Grace and Miss Sallie clutched at her skirts in time.

"Have we arrived?" Mollie cried. "Oh, do stop the wagon!" The little log cabin in the woods was now plainly in view.

"It's the gingerbread house, I know it is," exclaimed Grace, making a flying leap over the wheel of the cart. "The logs are the soft, brown color of good gingerbread, and the little windows must be made of sugar frosting."

In a clearing on top of a hillside stood the "hut," as the girls christened it in an instant. A circle of pine and cedar trees hid it from sight. All around it were thick woods. Higher hills rose at the back of it. A roaring brook tumbled down the hillside fifty feet from their cabin door.

By nightfall the little house in the woods was made thoroughly livable. The girls hammered and worked, assisted by Naki and his wife. Miss Sallie sat by the big fire in the living room and gave directions. Adjoining this big room, which ran across one side of the cabin, were two bedrooms. Farther back Naki and Ceally shared a small chamber that connected with the kitchen.

Just before supper time Ruth took Miss Sallie by the arm; Grace, Barbara and Mollie followed them; around and around their new home "The Automobile Girls" marched.

"See your elegance!" said Ruth to her aunt, pointing to a mirror, which hung by a nail over Miss Sallie's rough pine wood dressing table. Her favorite toilet articles were already laid out upon it, her wrapper hung over the back of a chair.

"Most noble lady," continued Ruth, "behold what miracles your willing slaves have performed for your comfort! Everything is here for your convenience except your perfumed bath."

"Don't speak of a bath, child!" cried Miss Sallie, with a real shudder of horror. "It is the lack of a proper bathtub that makes this camping business truly awful!"

"Come, Miss Sallie," called Barbara, quick to change the subject. "I want you to see the wonderful sunset." Overhead Miss Sallie beheld a golden radiance that bathed the hilltop in a wonderful light. In the west the sun was sinking behind a line of blue mountains.

That evening the girls sat around an open campfire piled high with pine logs. It was a cool night, and although they were tired, no one would suggest going in to bed. Every now and then Mollie would tumble forward and awake with a start. She was half listening, half dreaming as Grace's lovely voice floated out through the still night air, singing, while she strummed idly her guitar:

"Lovely moon that softly glides, Through the realms where God abides."

"I wonder," said Mollie to Grace, as she finally followed her into bed, "what wonderful adventures we shall have in this forest? Perhaps we shall awaken a wood nymph and teach her to become a mortal maid. Do you suppose she would like the change?"



Chapter V

A Day In The Woods


Mollie crept to the door of their hut at sunrise next morning. She thought she heard light footfalls outside their door. The other girls were fast asleep, worn out by the long trip of the day before. Yet when Mollie peeped outside no one was in sight; all was silence.

Only the birds had begun to stir in their nests and call their morning greetings across from one tree top to another. As far as Mollie could see stretched the unbroken forest. A narrow path ran down the hill between the trees. A steeper incline rose back of them and this was broken with deep ravines. Mollie could neither see nor hear anyone. Yet it seemed to her that she was not alone. She had a sense of some unknown presence.

She crept back into the room and put on her crimson dressing gown and slippers. She was bent on making a discovery. It could not be Naki or his wife, whose light footfalls she had heard moving swiftly around the house. They were nowhere to be seen. She was nervous about going out, as Miss Sallie had made dreadful suggestions about wolves and wild cats, yet she slipped out on the tiny porch. Far away through the trees and up the steep hillside she saw flying like a deer, a thin, brown creature. Was it human or a sprite? Mollie could not guess. She caught a glimpse of it, but it had been impossible to observe it accurately, so fast it flew. There was only a whirr of flying feet, and a flash of brown and scarlet to be seen. Could it be the famous ghost of Lost Man's Trail?

At this same moment Naki came around from the back of the house. "I thought I heard some one," he grumbled, looking suspiciously at Mollie.

"Yes, so did I," she answered. "And I saw some one or something fly up the steep side of that hill."

Naki did not answer. Mollie thought he looked at her queerly.

"You must have been mistaken, Miss," he declared. "Nothing could have gone up that ravine over yonder. There's only an Indian trail back there. Nobody travels much over that hill. It's all cliffs and dangerous."

Mollie shook her pretty head. She did not argue, but she knew what she had seen.

"I am going to try climbing it, some day, just the same," she thought to herself, "but of course, I must get used to finding my way about first. I must find out just what I saw this morning."

"Where have you been, Mollie?" asked Grace, opening her eyes as Mollie came back to bed.

"What's up?" called Ruth from the next room, where she slept with Miss Sallie.

"Oh, nothing," Mollie answered, fearful of being thought superstitious. "I thought I heard a sound at the door, but I was mistaken."

"Girls," Ruth demanded later, as they sat over their breakfast, "is there anything in the world so good to eat as bacon fried by Ceally over an open fire?" Ruth helped herself to all that was left on the dish.

"Ruth Stuart!" called Barbara. "How dare you take all the bacon, when you have just declared it was so delicious? Miss Sallie, make her divide with me."

Miss Stuart looked up from her eggs and toast: "What are you children quarreling about?" she asked placidly. "Suppose you bring us another dish of bacon, Ceally. The mountain air certainly creates an appetite. I am sure I don't see what benefit I am to get from 'roughing it!' The one thing I hoped to do by living outdoors was to reduce my figure, but, if my appetite continues at the present rate, I shall certainly not lose an ounce."

"Don't you be too sure, auntie," Ruth demurred. "Wait till we get through with you to-day. Think you can climb the hill back of us?"

Mollie interrupted. "Naki warns us against that particular hill. He says it is unpopular for climbing because of its cliffs and ravines. But he hints that there is an Indian trail over it, so I am dying to explore it. Aren't you, Bab?"

"Well, it's not for me!" laughed Ruth hastily. "I am not any too devoted to scaling cliffs, you may remember."

"What's the programme for to-day?" Grace asked.

"Somebody must go down the hill with me this afternoon," Ruth answered. "The automobile is to meet us there you know, to take us to a postoffice to mail our letters to our beloved families. This morning we can just poke round the camp. I want Naki to teach us how to make a camp fire."

Mollie looked down at her dainty hands. "It is rather dirty work, isn't it?" she asked.

"Not a bit of it, Mollie," put in Bab. "Don't be finicky, or we shall put you out of camp. It's a good thing to know how to build a first-class fire. Suppose one of us should be lost in the woods some day!"

"We will suppose no such thing," protested Miss Stuart.

Early in the afternoon Miss Sallie and the four girls started down the hill. Bab, Mollie and Miss Stuart were to go only a part of the way with Ruth and Grace, the two girls continuing their walk until they met the chauffeur, who was to bring the motor car up to the point of the road where Ruth had told him to meet her.

Mollie and Bab begged off from the excursion. "I don't want to know," Bab argued, "how near we still are to civilization. If I go to town with you to-day, no matter how long the drive is, it will take away a part of the romance of living in the hills."

Miss Stuart was not much of a walker. Before they had gone half a mile she decided that it was high time to turn back.

"Good-bye girls," she called to Ruth and Grace, who were hurrying on. "Do not stay too late. You must be back by dusk, or I shall be most uneasy. At five-thirty I shall expect you in camp. These are my orders." Miss Sallie turned to Bab and Mollie. "Seriously, children," she explained, "I think I shall establish military rules. If one of you stays out after dusk, I believe I shall shut you up in the guard house for twenty-four hours."

"But where is the guard house please, Miss Sallie?" inquired Mollie meekly.

Miss Sallie laughed. "In this case the guard house means only the cabin. The girl who fails to appear when the roll is called in the evening must remain within the limits of the camp all the following day."

Bab and Mollie left Miss Stuart before the log fire in the living room of their hut. Miss Sallie, who had a taste for romance in the lives of other people, was deep in the reading of a new novel. A part of the camping supplies had been a collection of new books for her.

"Come on, Mollie," cried Bab gayly. "Let's go over in the woods and gather some pine and cedar branches for our fire this evening." Barbara walked ahead, pulling a small wagon behind her with all the ardor of a young boy. "You see," she avowed to Mollie, "I don't have to remember I am sixteen, or a girl, while we are living in the woods. I can be just as independent as I like."

The two sisters were deep in their task. The little wagon was piled high with evergreens. Suddenly Mollie started. She thought she heard a voice calling from somewhere above their heads. "Hi, there! Hello! Hello!"

"Did you hear some one calling?" asked Mollie.

"Why, no," responded Barbara. "What is the matter with you, Mollie? This morning you heard a 'spook' outside the door, this afternoon you believe you hear a voice calling you. Beware, child! Perhaps you are already afflicted with the wood madness, and may see that wonderful ghost."

"Hi, there! Hi, there!" A voice was surely floating down from the sky.

This time Bab stared. Mollie looked triumphant. As far as they could see around them, there was no other human creature. And the sound did not come from the ground. Mollie was right. The noise was from overhead. But it was so far off and faint, it could not come from the trees above them.

Bab and Mollie ran out into an open space. There was a strange, rattling, swinging noise above their heads, as though a pair of mammoth wings were beating in the sky. The two girls looked up. There, about twenty yards above the tops of the highest trees was the strangest object ever seen by Mollie and Bab!

"What on earth is it?" Bab breathed faintly. The voice sounded more distinctly this time. "Is there some one down there in the woods?"

Bab caught the words. The sound was coming from a megaphone from the strange ship in the air. But Mollie and Bab had no megaphone at their command through which to answer back -- only two frightened girl voices.

"Yes, yes!" they called together as loud as they could shout. The sound was ridiculous even to their own ears, and was lost in the vast spaces of the forest. The strange vehicle over their heads was gliding a little closer to the ground. Bab and Mollie could faintly see the figure of a man -- two men -- when they looked again.

This time the voice came through the megaphone: "Can you get me help? I have broken the rudder of my balloon. We cannot alight without assistance. If we come too close to the ground we will catch in the trees. I want some one to pull us down with ropes."

"Well," Mollie spoke to herself, "it is a relief to know that that object is an airship, not some hideous hobgoblin. I would like to know, Bab, how you and I are to get the thing to the ground?"

"Run, fly, Molliekins!" cried Bab, whose mind was always quick in action. "Go to the cabin for Naki and Ceally. Tell them to come here as fast as they can tear. We can manage together."

Mollie was off in a flash.

Barbara's voice could now be heard by the men in the balloon above her. "Drop me a line," she called to them, "before you float too far away. I will tie you to a tree."

Bab had realized that with a broken rudder it was impossible for the dirigible balloon to remain poised in the air.

A long coil of rope floated down from the sky. Barbara caught it and ran to a tree which was bare of branches. Then she knotted the rope with all her skill and strength. There was nothing to do, now, but wait. Bab fastened her gaze upon the strange white bird she had captured, which hung fluttering and quivering in the sky above her.



Chapter VI

"The Great White Also"


Two minutes later Naki came running along the path. Even his solemn face was aglow with excitement. Ceally was close behind him. Just after them danced Mollie, who was followed by Miss Sallie. The latter had deserted her novel at the critical moment of the story. She must discover what Mollie was talking about. The child was too excited to explain.

A Long Coil of Rope Floated Down from the Sky.

When the little party reached the clearing where Bab stood it was easy to see what had happened. An aerial navigator had come to grief and was calling for assistance.

As Naki joined Bab, the aeronauts dropped more ropes from their basket, which hung beneath the great balloon. The big guide seized hold of one; his wife grabbed another; before Miss Sallie could stop her, Bab was swinging on a third.

"Great heavens child, let go!" Miss Sallie called out in tones of intense alarm. "You will be rising up in the air in another moment!"

"Oh, no!" laughed Bab out of breath. "There's no danger now. Don't you smell something horrible?"

The delicious air of the woods was being permeated with a detestable odor. The great balloon above their heads was shrinking. It was growing smaller and smaller. The gas was being allowed slowly to escape from it.

"Why, it looks like an enormous slug," cried Mollie, "now that we can see the thing closely."

By this time the balloon had neared the ground. Two men sprang over the sides of the basket, both alighting on their feet. Half a moment later the older of the two was bowing politely to Miss Sallie and wiping his glasses. Landing from a balloon on top of a mountain was apparently an ordinary occurrence with him. His companion was busy with the airship, which now lay on one side on the ground. It was shuddering and exhaling deep breaths.

"Madam," said the aeronaut addressing Miss Sallie, but looking at Barbara, who stood by her side. "More than I can express I thank you for your assistance. We were, I think, in rather a dangerous position and we might very easily have been killed. At best, in trying to alight without help, I should have torn my balloon in the branches of the trees. Perhaps you ladies would like to examine the balloon more thoroughly. This is my nephew, Reginald Latham."

A young man arose from the ground. He wore a close fitting tan costume, a cap with a visor and short trousers.

He brought his heels together with a click, and bowed low to Miss Sallie. Then he extended his hand to Mollie and Barbara. "It was immensely clever of you," he spoke, with a slightly foreign accent, "to have helped us out of our difficulty. Tying us to the tree, while we were obliged to wait, really saved the situation. I do not think the balloon is injured at all, except for the broken rudder."

The young man spoke of his balloon as tenderly as though it were a cherished friend. He looked about twenty-three or four years old. He was thin and dark, with clever eyes; but an expression of restlessness and discontent spoiled an otherwise interesting face.

"I am Winthrop Latham," his uncle continued. "I have a summer place down here, but my nephew and I spend most of our time, both summer and winter in Lenox. We have a house in my grounds where we are both working on models for airships."

Mr. Latham paused. It was natural that he should expect some explanation. What was a handsome, middle-aged woman doing on top of a mountain? Why were her only companions two charming young girls and a rough looking man and his wife?

"I suppose," Miss Stuart replied, laughing, "that you are almost as much surprised at our appearance as we are at yours! I am sure no thanks are necessary for our part in your rescue! We were delighted to assist in such a novel and up-to-date adventure." Miss Sallie looked smilingly at Mollie and Barbara. She was rather enjoying their unusual experience. Moreover, she had heard of Mr. Latham's beautiful home in Lenox. And was assured they were in the best of company.

"We are camping on this hill for a few weeks," she continued. "I am Miss Stuart, of Chicago. My niece and I, and three girl friends, are the entire camping party, except for our guide and his wife. Won't you come to our hut? Can we be of any assistance to you?"

"Indeed, you can!" heartily declared Mr. Latham, who was evidently an old bachelor of about fifty-five years of age, with charming manners. "I wonder if you will take care of my balloon for me until my nephew can get down the hill to send a wagon up for it. That very inferior looking object you now see collapsed on the ground is really my latest treasure. It is one of the best dirigible balloons invented up to the present time."

Barbara was already down on her hands and knees beside the balloon. As her new acquaintance explained the details of its construction to her, his face burned with enthusiasm. Mollie, watching him, thought he looked almost handsome. Nevertheless she didn't like Reginald Latham. Bab, however, was delighted. She had a thirst for information and here was a young man who could intelligently talk to her about the most marvelous inventions of the century, the airship and the aeroplane.

"I think," Bab volunteered, "if the balloon can be folded without harming it, we might carry it to the house in our small express wagon. We could each hold up a side of it, and it would be better than carrying it altogether."

The queer procession started for the cabin. Miss Sallie and Mollie walked on in front. Mr. Latham, Reginald Latham, Naki and Ceally, each supported a corner of the balloon, while Bab solemnly dragged the express wagon. Her pile of evergreens had been rudely dumped out on the ground.

"Well, for goodness sake!" Ruth and Grace stood at the door of their cabin, transfixed with surprise. "What on earth has happened this time?"

"Let nothing surprise you, girls, in this world of strange adventure," called Barbara. She had forgotten the strangers when she saw the amazed faces of Ruth and Grace. "Sometimes it is the stay-at-homes who have the exciting experiences come to them."

"Do come in and have tea with us, Mr. Latham!" urged Miss Stuart. "Naki will go down to a farmhouse, only a mile or so away, where he keeps his horses, and will bring up his wagon to take your balloon home for you. You really must explain matters to my niece and her friend, Miss Carter, or they will perish with curiosity! If traveling in the air makes one as hungry as living on a hilltop, the tea may be acceptable for its own sake."

"Of course I want to come into your castle," laughed Mr. Latham. "I feel so certain I have run across a party of fairies that I must peep into your dwelling to see if you are real people."

"You are not ahead of us, Mr. Latham," laughed Barbara, "Mollie and I thought you were angels calling down to us from the sky."

"I hope, Miss Stuart," begged their visitor, as he was making his adieus, "that you will soon come down from your high retreat and bring these young ladies to see my place in Lenox. Reginald and I promise not to talk airships incessantly. But, if you refuse to descend the hill very soon, my nephew and I shall climb up to see you. Next time I promise to appear in a more conventional fashion."

That night, when the girls were undressing, Mollie announced unexpectedly: "I don't like that Reginald Latham."

"Why not, Mollie?" asked Bab. "He is a very interesting fellow. His mother is a German and he has been educated in Germany. His father, who was Mr. Latham's younger brother, is dead. I think Reginald is his uncle's heir. He told me he and his uncle mean to devote all their time to inventing airships. He studied about them in Germany, even before he came to live with his uncle three years ago."

"Mercy!" Mollie ejaculated. "Then he is even more queer than I thought him. What a useless life for a man of his age. I don't like him even if he is ever so clever, and though his uncle is a dear. Girls, if I tell you something will you promise me not to laugh? Cross your heart and body. I won't tell you unless you do."

"Oh, then we have no choice, Mollie," laughed Grace.

"You may laugh a little," relented Mollie, who was giggling softly to herself. "Do you know what I suddenly thought, when Bab and I saw that great white object come sailing over our heads this afternoon? Like a flash it popped into my mind. Here comes 'The Great White Also!'"

Barbara shrieked with laughter in spite of her promise. "Oh, you funny Mollie!" she exclaimed.

"What is the child talking about?" inquired the puzzled Ruth. "The Great White Also! What utter nonsense!"

Mollie blushed. "Do you remember," she asked, "a paragraph in the first geography you studied at school? It read: 'The brown bear, the black bear, and the great white also inhabit the northern regions of North America.' Well, when I was small child I always thought 'the great white also' was some strange kind of animal. For a long time I wondered and wondered what it could be. Finally I asked mother and Bab to explain the sentence to me. Of course they thought it a lovely joke; but, just the same, I never could get over my first impression. It flashed into my head this afternoon, when I saw that strange white thing struggling in the air -- at last here comes 'The Great White Also!' Wasn't it too absurd? I have been laughing to myself ever since."

"Children, what on earth is the matter?" inquired Miss Sallie, appearing at the bedroom door in her dressing gown. "You will waken the dead with your racket. Ruth, come to bed, at once, and tell me what you are laughing about."



Chapter VII

Mollie Follows The Trail


"Mollie have you seen my red sweater?" called Grace a few days later. "I can't find it anywhere; yet I am sure I left it out here on this bench last night. Naki and Ceally haven't seen it. Horrid thing! It has taken wings and flown away just when I wanted it. Do come with us. Ruth, Bab and I are going over into the forest to try to learn to shoot. Naki is to teach us."

"Does Miss Sallie know?" asked Mollie, who was not in a good humor. Bab had been lecturing her for her sudden dislike of Reginald Latham. It seemed to Mistress Barbara unreasonable that Mollie had taken such an unaccountable prejudice against a young man whom they had barely met.

"You talk, Mollie, as if he were a villain in a play," Bab protested.

Mollie knew she had been obstinate. All she had answered was: "Well, he would probably be a villain, if he had the opportunity. I hope I shan't see him again. I don't see, Bab, why you should be so interested in him. He's lots older than you are."

"I am not interested in him," Bab retorted indignantly. And the two sisters had separated.

"Of course, Miss Sallie knows we are going to practise shooting?" mimicked Grace. "What is the matter with Miss Mollie Thurston this morning? Don't you know Mr. Stuart sent us a rifle. He told us learning to shoot might prove a useful part of our education. Do come on with us Mollie."

"No, thank you," Mollie declared. "I hate the noise of a gun. Oh, I am not afraid, Grace Carter, so you needn't tease; but I prefer more ladylike amusements. I am going for a walk."

"Don't go too far by yourself, Mollie," pleaded Grace, who didn't mind Mollie's tantrums. "You don't know your way about these hills, yet, and it isn't safe to wander any distance. How I wish I could find my coat."

"Here, take Aunt Sallie's," cried Ruth, appearing suddenly in the doorway. "It is not such a charming color as your scarlet one, and it may be a trifle large, but it will keep you warm. Coming, child?" she asked Mollie.

Mollie shook her head. Without waiting for Bab to join them she started on her walk. The child wanted to be alone. Besides being in a bad humor she had several things to think about. She certainly would not tell Bab and the other girls, just to be laughed at; but again that morning she had heard a light noise outside their window. It didn't sound like an animal. Mollie wrinkled her pretty forehead, and a puzzled expression crept into her blue eyes. How absurd even to dream of a thief, here on their beautiful hillside far away from the rest of the world. And, she, a great girl of fourteen, knew better than to believe in ghosts.

Mollie slipped down the path and crossed the gully that divided the nearer hill from the higher one back of it. Already her bad humor was disappearing. She had no idea of going far from their cabin; another day she might persuade the girls to explore this mysterious hill, with its lost Indian trail; but she should not attempt it alone. This morning she wanted only to creep away for an hour or so into the woodland quiet.

Mollie Thurston had a curious passion for the woods. When she was alone in them she would stand still a long time, calling to the birds, and she delighted in having them steal near and shyly listen to the sweet sounds she made in return for theirs. No one knew of this accomplishment of Mollie's, not even Bab.

Up the steep hillside Mollie clambered. Below her she could hear the pop, pop, pop, of a rifle. The girls were evidently taking their lesson in target practice from Naki.

"I suppose I am fairly safe up here," Mollie chuckled, "but I wouldn't care to be too near those shooting experts. I know they will hit everything near them except their target."

She sat down on the root of an old tree that jutted out from an overhanging bank, and drew a sheet of paper from her pocket. She would write to her mother of their rescue of an airship. Mollie bit the end of her pencil -- she was not in a writing mood. Why had she taken such a dislike to Reginald Latham? He had been polite enough, and was rather good-looking. It was Bab's habit to feel prejudices, not hers. She wouldn't say anything to her mother about him, but certainly Bab seemed to like him unusually well.

Crack! Crack! The sound came from the bushes! She looked quickly around. It must have been a gust of wind that stirred. In another minute there tumbled over her head a shower of leaves and acorns, that for an instant blinded her. But she could hear plainly this time; light feet were running along the bank above the ravine where she sat.

Without pausing a moment she jumped to her feet and ran up the path that led from the bottom of the ravine to the hilltop. Nothing was in sight; but further on through a thicket of trees, she caught the distant sound of flying footsteps. She could see the underbrush move, as though shaken by something in passing.

A shivering sense of mystery possessed the girl. Could it be the ghost?

Without stopping to think Mollie flew in pursuit; determined to discover what had disturbed her. Once she saw a bright object flash ahead of her, brown and scarlet, through the trees. It was gone in an instant. Surely it was but a shadow from the autumn leaves.

For some distance Mollie had been following what seemed to be a pathway through a tangled thicket of bushes and trees. Suddenly she stopped. So far as she could see the path ended abruptly. Yet, at this very moment, she heard a faint hallo!

It was the voice of temptation to Mollie, and she let her curiosity get the better of her. Without in the least knowing where she was going she pushed on. Ducking her head through an opening in one place, turning and twisting wherever she found it possible to make her way, the child came at last into a thick forest. On every side of her stretched endless avenues of trees. Now no sound of flying feet urged her on; no voice called her.

Poor Mollie was entirely alone.

"What an utter goose I am!" she declared out loud. "I don't believe I ever heard anyone, or saw anything. It was just my imagination that led me on. Now, I hope," Mollie gave a rueful smile and sat down to pull the brambles out of her dress, "I hope my imagination will kindly show me the way home again!"

Which way should she go? There were half a dozen different directions open to her. Which was the right one?

"I wonder," thought Mollie, "if, somehow, I have struck the famous 'Lost Man's Trail?' It is a lost girl's trail all right!"

She turned this way, then that. In front of her between the sumach and the holly trees was an open space, which might lead somewhere toward home. Mollie pushed her way through. There were trees, trees, trees! No path was visible between them.

For half a mile Mollie walked on blindly, feeling sure that, at any minute, she would catch a glimpse of their familiar hillside. A sense of sinking warned her that luncheon time had passed. High overhead she could see by the sun that noon had passed.

Several times she called aloud. But Naki had warned her. This hill was entirely deserted. No one ever walked or rode over it.

"I don't wonder," the little girl thought, with a lump in her throat. "No one except myself would be such a goose as to try to find her way about up here, or be silly enough to go on a ghost hunt."

She called again. "Hello! hello! I am lost! Is anyone near?" There was no answer. Once Mollie thought she heard a strange sound, half-wild, half-human, and called more loudly. This time there was no reply.

After several hours of walking, Mollie found her way out of the woods. As she came again to an open hilltop she thought she could see the smoke curling out of the chimney of their little, brown cabin, but far and near, there was no familiar object. She had followed the wrong trail, and was in an entirely different part of the country. There was nothing to do but to return to the woods.

Wearily she walked back. "I am sure the girls must be looking for me," she said, trying to revive her courage. "When I wasn't home in time for lunch Bab would know I was lost."

On and on, Mollie wandered. Finally, toward dusk, she found herself again in the heart of the forest where she had lost her way in the morning. She was so tired, there was nothing to do but to sit down and rest, but she had not given up. Of course, she would find her way out of this labyrinth of trees somehow. However, just for the time, she must wait.

Mollie sank down on a pile of leaves that had been blown in a heap under the shelter of a great cedar tree. It was growing cold, and the September day was closing. All morning and afternoon the little girl had wandered alone in the woods. How many miles she had traveled she did not know.

The child shivered, as she dropped on the ground. Tired as she was, she had plenty of courage left. Not a tear had been shed in these miles of weary tramping; indeed she had often laughed at her own mistakes, though the laughter had sometimes been close to tears; but Mollie knew that she must not lose her head.

"Suppose, I do have to stay in the woods all night?" she reflected. "It wouldn't kill me. I have wanted to have adventures in a forest; here is my opportunity. I wish, though, I knew how to make a fire; I'm so cold and hungry; but I haven't a sign of a match, so there is no use of thinking about it."

If Mollie could but have kept awake a little longer! No sooner had she dropped on the soft leaves than fatigue overcame her, and she was fast asleep.

Suddenly a figure came out of the underbrush -- a strange young figure all brown and scarlet. It moved so softly that scarcely a leaf trembled. For a minute it paused and gazed down on the sleeping child. The little girl stirred in her sleep. With a bound the wood sprite vanished. It need not have hurried; Mollie was too utterly weary to awaken soon.

What had happened at the log cabin, meantime?

All morning Ruth, Bab and Grace had been practising under the instruction of Naki. Bab was growing into a clever shot, and Ruth was playing her a close second, when the luncheon gong sounded. The girls had given no further thought to Mollie, supposing she had grown tired of her walk, and was at home with Miss Sallie. The latter naturally was not worried, as she thought Mollie was with Naki and the others.

When the girls filed into the living room for their lunch Bab asked carelessly: "Where's Mollie?"

"Where's Mollie?" repeated Miss Sallie. "Hasn't she been shooting with you? Perhaps she is somewhere near. Here is Ceally; I will ask her."

At this moment Ceally entered with a great bowl of vegetable soup that looked most inviting to the hungry girls.

"I haven't seen Miss Mollie all morning," she explained. "Not since she started for a walk up that hill over 'yond'."

Barbara, Grace and Ruth stared at each other with white, frightened faces. They remembered Mollie had gone off for a walk early that morning; but she had promised not to go far up the hill.

"Call Naki, at once," said Miss Stuart hurriedly. "He will probably know where Mollie is."

"No, auntie." Ruth shook her head. "Naki doesn't know. He has been teaching us to shoot all the forenoon."

Bab jumped up from the table. "Please, Miss Sallie," she cried hastily, "may Naki and I go out to look for Mollie? I am afraid she is lost on the hill."

"Sit down, Bab," quietly said Miss Sallie, in the voice the girls recognized as final. "You and the other girls must each eat a plate of this soup. You are not to start out to look for Mollie when you are tired and hungry. Ceally, see that Naki has some food at once, and bring the coffee to me."

Barbara was almost crying. "Oh, Miss Sallie," she pleaded, "I can't eat. Don't make me wait. I must go at once."

"Eat your soup, Barbara," was Miss Sallie's reply.

Poor Bab obediently choked it down, while Ruth and Grace followed her example. Then they each drank a cup of coffee.

It was Miss Sallie who ate nothing. She was more frightened than the girls; for the woods were more terrible to her than to the young people. Then, Mollie was the youngest of the party, and Miss Stuart felt she was less able to look after herself. Besides, Ceally had hinted strange tales of the haunted mountain back of them. At the time, Miss Sallie had refused to listen; it had seemed utter nonsense, that tale of a ghost which haunted a lost Indian trail. Now, the idea came to Miss Stuart, that perhaps the ghost on the mountain was some criminal, a fugitive from justice, who made his home on the deserted hill.

It was Bab who led the way up to the top of the ravine. But there she stopped and waited for Naki and the girls to join her.

Looking for lost people in the woods was an old business with the guide. He did not take the fact of disobedient Mollie's disappearance any too seriously. Once up the hill, he blew on a great horn which he carried. Once, twice, thrice! There was no response. He blew again, then waited. Evidently the young lady was out of earshot.

Then Naki made a mistake. Instead of going into the woods, where Mollie had pursued her will-o'-the-wisp, he turned in the opposite direction. It did not dawn on him that she had been led astray by a forgotten Indian trail.

"You must keep close to me, young ladies," Naki insisted. "None of ye know your way about up here. If we should separate, I should soon be searching for the whole lot of ye, instead of just one."

All afternoon they searched and searched for the lost one, yet all in vain.

If Mollie shed no tears while she was lost, Barbara shed plenty in the effort to find her. Poor Grace and Ruth tried vainly to comfort her.

"If only we hadn't quarreled this morning over that horrid Reginald Latham!" Bab sobbed, running on ahead of the others. "I told Mollie she was foolish to say she hated anyone whom she did not know. Yet I do it all the time myself."

"Oh, do cheer up, Bab," said Grace, choking back her own tears. "You didn't quarrel with Mollie. I never saw two sisters who fussed so little. I know we shall find her soon."

"There's nothing up here can harm your sister, Miss," Naki explained to frightened Bab. "The country around here is perfectly peaceful."

At dusk Naki and his searching party returned alone to the top of the ravine from whence they had started. Looking down, they could see their log cabin, where Miss Sallie and Ceally stood at the open door. There was no sign of Mollie.

"It is harder work than I expected to find the young lady," Naki apologized to Ruth. "I am sorry, but you had better go back to your aunt. I must go down to the farm for help. It will take a number of people to make a thorough search of this place to-night. The underbrush is so thick that it is hard work traveling about."

"Oh, I can't go home without Mollie!" sobbed Bab. "I am not a bit afraid to stay up here alone. Leave me, Ruth, you and Grace. I'll just sit at the top of this ravine and call and call! Then, if Mollie comes anywhere near me, she will hear. You and Grace go and have supper with Miss Sallie. You can bring me something to eat afterwards, if you like." Barbara smiled feebly.

Ruth and Grace both turned on her indignantly. It was a relief to pretend to be offended. "Oh, yes, Bab, we are both delighted to go down and comfortably eat our supper! It is so pleasant to think of your sitting up here alone, like a stone image, and poor little Mollie lost -- goodness knows where!"

Ruth kissed Bab for comfort. Then she turned to Grace. "Grace," she asked, "will you be a perfect dear? I know Naki is right; he must get some one to help him search for Mollie, and one of us must go to Aunt Sallie, who is terribly worried. See! she has already seen us, and is waving her hand. But if you will go tell her what has happened, I shall stay up here with Bab, and Ceally can bring us some dinner. You can come back afterwards. By that time Naki will have returned with assistance and we can go on with our search again."

"I hate to leave you," Grace protested, "but I will go."

"Wait for me," Naki cautioned. Both girls nodded. They were too tired to speak.



Chapter VIII

End Of The Search


When Grace and Naki had finally disappeared Bab put her head down on Ruth's shoulder and cried bitterly.

"I am so frightened!" she sobbed. "If only I were lost instead of my little sister! Mother always trusts me to look after Mollie. I ought not to have let her go off alone!"

Ruth wisely allowed Bab to have her cry out, before she said: "Bab, dear, remember father said he relied on us to keep cool heads and strong hearts in any case of emergency. Now let's gather ourselves together. Let's say over and over again: 'We will find Mollie! We will find Mollie!'"

Bab braced up at once and repeated quietly, "Certainly we will find her, Ruth dear."

Both girls were looking toward the woods. It was not yet night, but the dusk was falling quickly. Suddenly, off through the trees, the two girls distinctly saw a light that shone on a level with their eyes. Once, twice, then again, it sparkled through the underbrush.

"What is it?" Bab breathed faintly.

Ruth shook her head. "I don't know," she answered, under her breath.

The light advanced toward them; then it drew back again, never ceasing to sparkle. It seemed to be beckoning to them.

"Oh, Ruth," cried Barbara, "could it be a signal from Mollie?"

"How could it, Barbara, dear?" Ruth replied.

Both girls waited a little longer. The light came again. It seemed almost to call to them. Barbara started to her feet impatiently. "I must go and see what it is," she declared.

"Wait a minute, Bab!" pleaded Ruth. It was second nature with Ruth to be ready for emergencies. Rapidly she tore from a pad in her leather knapsack a sheet of paper and wrote on it: "Bab and I are going into the woods at the left. Follow the trail of the paper I shall drop as we walk."

Like a flash she pulled off her white petticoat, and tied it to a bush near the place where she and Bab had been sitting. The skirt fluttered and swung in the breeze. Beneath it, under a small stone, Ruth placed her note.

"Come on, Bab!" she cried. "Let's be off!"

Barbara bounded ahead; Ruth closely followed, leaving behind her a trail of white paper which she tore into bits as she ran.

The light ahead of the two girls beckoned them deeper and deeper into the forests. They must have followed it for more than a mile. Ruth's paper was giving out. Suddenly the light dipped to the ground and was gone!

At the same moment, Ruth and Barbara heard a sizzling crackling noise. A tongue of flame darted up between two distant trees, and a warm glow like that of a camp fire lit up the shadows of the forest.

Ruth and Bab rushed to the spot. In the center of a small open space some one had lighted a fire. Sitting on a bank of autumn leaves, slowly rubbing her eyes was a girl. A scarlet coat caught Bab's eyes; then a tangle of yellow curls.

"It's my Mollie!" she cried, springing toward her and gathering her in her arms.

"Why, Bab," asked Mollie sleepily, "when did you and Ruth find me? I must have been dreaming. I did not hear you make the fire. How did you happen to light a fire before you awakened me?"

The girls stared at Mollie. "Build a fire?" they queried in amazement. "Surely, Mollie, you made the fire yourself."

Mollie shook her head. "How could I possibly light a fire?" she inquired. "I haven't a match." Then she smiled faintly. "I am not enough of an 'early settler' to know how to make a light by striking two flints together. But please take me home." The little girl was too tired to care about anything beyond the blessed fact that she had been found.

It was Bab and Ruth who were overcome with the mystery of the dancing light that led them through the forest straight to Mollie. And who could have started the fire, that now roared and blazed, lighting the woods with its many tongues of flame. What did it all mean? The mystery of it all gave them long, creepy thrills.

Barbara helped Mollie to her feet. The child was so stiff she could hardly move, but as she arose something red dropped to the ground. Ruth picked it up. "Why, it is Grace's sweater!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad you found it, Mollie, before you went for your walk. What a blessed thing you had it to keep you warm!"

"Grace's sweater! What are you talking about, Ruth? I didn't have it with me. I was nearly frozen. You or Bab must have brought it with you. I found it over my shoulders when I awoke," protested Mollie.

Ruth and Bab said nothing. There was nothing to be said. It was all a puzzle! Where was the clue to the mystery?

The two girls were leading poor, tired Mollie through the thick tangle of shrubs, along which Ruth's bits of torn paper gleamed white and cheerful pointing their pathway home. Even Mollie smiled on seeing them.

"If only I had remembered to play 'Hop-o-my-thumb,' Ruth, dear," Mollie whispered, "I needn't have created all this trouble. Do you think Miss Sallie will ever forgive me?"

"Indeed she will," Ruth assured her. "She will be so happy to see you again, you poor, tired Mollie, she'll forget to scold!"

By this time the girls could hear the noise of voices and the beating of bushes. "Here we are!" Ruth called out cheerfully. "Don't worry. We have found Mollie!"

Naki burst through the opening. Ceally and Grace were with him and two strange men from the farm below them on the hill.

Naki picked up Mollie in his arms as though she had been a baby, and the party trudged on to their little log cabin.

At the top of the fateful ravine they found Miss Sallie. She could bear the suspense of waiting no longer and had climbed up alone.

"Home for sure!" proclaimed Naki briefly, as he deposited Mollie, still wrapped in Grace's red sweater, on the couch before the fire in their cosy living room.



Chapter IX

Spirit Of The Forest


"It is perfectly incredible!" exclaimed Miss Sallie.

She and Bab were discussing Mollie's adventure the next morning at breakfast.

"The more I try to reason out the whole thing, the more in the dark I am," Bab answered.

"Have you talked with Mollie?" Miss Sallie inquired.

Bab nodded, and replied thoughtfully: "The truth of the matter is, Mollie knows less on the subject than the rest of us. All that she can tell is that she was sitting quietly at the bottom of the ravine, when suddenly a shower of leaves fell over her head, and she heard the noise of feet running along the bank above her. Determined to discover what had startled her, Mollie climbed up the ravine and kept on with her pursuit until she was completely lost. She must have wandered around all day. Finally she was so tired she sat down to rest. When she awoke Ruth and I had found her."

"But Grace's sweater! Where did it come from?" asked Miss Sallie weakly.

Ceally who entered the room at this moment, with her arms full of logs for the fire, caught the end of the conversation. She looked about her cautiously. Naki, her husband, was some distance away, cutting down the underbrush which was growing too high near their cabin.

"Miss," whispered Ceally cautiously, "they do say there is a ghost up on that mountain. It must have been a ghost that led Miss Mollie on that lost trail. Once you strike that trail, there ain't no way of finding your way back again, unless you follow some such clue as Miss Ruth's bits of paper."

"Ghosts! Utter nonsense, Ceally!" scolded Miss Sallie. But under her breath she confessed to herself: "If anything in this world could bring me to believe in ghosts it would be this mysterious occurrence."

Ruth flew in at the door.

"Aunt Sallie," she cried, "here is a man on horseback, with a note from Mr. Latham. He wants us to come down and spend the afternoon with him. He says he will send for us in a carriage that can come almost all the way up the hill, so we need only walk a little way. Do let's go! Want to, Bab?" Ruth finished.

Miss Sallie looked dubious. "It is a good deal of a task, child, to go down this hill, except when we mean to stay down," she protested.

"Oh, no, Aunt Sallie!" Ruth begged. "You know Naki goes down the hill every day, on some errand or other. I have been to Lenox twice myself and to Pittsfield once. I won't give you and Bab these letters, unless you promise to accept. One is for Bab, from her mother; the other is for you, from father."

Miss Stuart was reading Mr. Latham's note.

"My sister-in-law is with me," it read. "She joins her entreaties to Reginald's and mine to beg our hillside fairies to come down to the earth and have afternoon tea with us. We are to have no other guests, except a few young people whom I am sure your girls will like to meet. Later on, when you condescend to spend a few weeks in Lenox, it may be a pleasure for you to know them. Certainly it will be a pleasure for them to know you."

"The man is waiting outside for your answer," proclaimed Ruth, dancing first on one foot and then on the other. "Here are pen and paper. Do write and let me take the note out to him."

Miss Stuart allowed herself to be persuaded into accepting Mr. Latham's invitation. Life on the hill was growing a bit dull for Miss Sallie. She dreaded the long trip, but Mr. Latham's place lay between their hill and the town of Lenox.

Mollie came into the room as Ruth ran out to deliver the note of acceptance. "Who is out there?" she inquired languidly. The little girl was not yet rested from her experience of the day before.

"We are invited to the Latham place this afternoon, Molliekins!" Bab explained.

"Are you going, Miss Sallie?" Mollie asked.

Miss Stuart nodded. "Yes, I think so, child," she declared. "It is a dreadfully long journey, but Ruth is determined to go, and I am as wax in her hands."

"Aunt Sallie Stuart, you are no such thing!" Ruth laughed, as she returned to the little group. "I am the most obedient niece in the world. You know you liked Mr. Latham. And he has a marvelous place, with a wonderful fish pond on it. From his veranda he says you can see over into four states, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts and Vermont!"

"Well, girls, we will start promptly after an early lunch," Miss Stuart remarked.

"Miss Sallie," interrupted Mollie gently, "remember I am in the guard house for the next twenty-four hours. I broke all camp regulations by being lost yesterday. So I can't go with the party to Mr. Latham's."

"Nonsense, Mollie!" said Miss Stuart kindly. "I was only joking when I threatened to establish military discipline in my camp. Besides, if you were disobedient, you were well enough punished for it. Don't you wish to come with us?"

Mollie shook her head. "If you don't mind, Miss Sallie, I would rather not," she replied. "I am a little tired and I would rather stay quietly up here. You can count on my promise this time. I won't go more than a yard from the cabin. Naki and Ceally will both be here to look after me."

"I will stay with Mollie," spoke up Bab. "I prefer not to leave her alone."

Mollie protested energetically. "Bab, you must not stay behind with me. If you insist on doing it, I shall go with you, no matter how tired I feel. You know you are the one original lady rescuer of an airship yet on record! I was only the legs of the rescue, as I ran after Naki and Ceally. You were the brains of the whole business. Besides, you know you are simply dying to see Reginald Latham's airship models, as well as their beautiful house and grounds. Make her go, Miss Sallie!" Mollie ended.

"I see no reason, Bab, why you shouldn't accompany us." Miss Sallie declared. "Naki and Ceally will look after Mollie, and an afternoon's rest will be much better for the child than a long, fatiguing excursion."

Mollie walked to the edge of the hill to see Miss Sallie and her charges start off on their excursion to Mr. Latham's. Then she thankfully crept home to the little cabin and stretched herself out on her cot, with the eider down comfort drawn up to her head. The child, who was not so vigorous as Bab, was worn out from her fright and exposure. An hour later she awakened, feeling bright and rested as though she had never been lost in a strange woods.

It was a lovely, bright afternoon. Mollie could hear the leaves rustling outside, as the wind stirred them and they fluttered to the ground. The little girl had read that a swan sings a wonderful song just as he is about to die. She walked out on the porch with an odd fancy in her head. She stopped and listened again to the sound the autumn leaves made, as they swirled from the trees to the earth.

"I believe," Mollie smiled to herself, "that the autumn leaves sing their swan song, too." She pointed to a beautiful, golden maple leaf, that was fluttering in the air. "See, there is a leaf! It is singing its good-bye song to the tree, which has borne it all summer! The little leaf is traveling to an unknown land down under the ground."

Mollie laughed at her own idea. It was difficult for her to keep her eyes turned away from her ravine. She glanced up the hill. Surely she saw a figure moving there. It was a slight young creature, no larger than Mollie herself. Was it a boy or girl? It was impossible to tell, though the figure was drawing toward her.

The little girl watched with fascinated eyes. Down the ravine crept a thin, brown body. Now it looked this way, then that. Hardly touching the earth, it flew from one high rock to the other. Then it dipped into the hollow between the two hills and was gone.

This time Mollie did not stir from her veranda, but through her brain flashed the thought -- the ghost at last!

In another moment she saw a black head rise up on a level with her eyes. Mollie gave a gasp of surprise, then was silent. A thin, brown creature moved softly toward her on velvet feet. Mollie hardly breathed. Never in her life had she beheld so odd, so exquisite a figure.

A girl about her own age stood before her. Her hair hung over her shoulders, black and straight. Her cheeks were a deep carmine. Her complexion was too dark to be olive, yet it was neither brown nor red. She was dressed in a thin, soft garment that fitted her closely from her bare neck to her ankles. Around her waist she had knotted a crimson scarf. On her head she wore a fantastic wreath of scarlet autumn leaves.

The newcomer stared at Mollie. Once, like a startled fawn, she turned to flee. But Mollie was too wise to speak or to move. Reassured, the quaint visitor drew nearer.

Mollie smiled at her quietly. "Are you afraid of me?" she asked gently. "Come here, I shall not hurt you."

Suddenly the stranger's dark, sad little face burst into a smile. "I am not afraid," she insisted. "I am never afraid. But is it well with you?" She spoke English, but with a strange guttural note Mollie had never heard before.

"Why should it not be well with me?" asked Mollie in surprise.

"Because," the wood sprite answered, "you were lost yesterday in the hills."

"How did you know?" Mollie demanded.

"How did I know?" The girl lifted her head proudly. "I know all things that take place in the woods," she replied. "The woods are my home."

Mollie looked thoughtful; then she spoke in a firm voice: "You know for other reasons, as well. You know I was lost because you led me away yesterday."

The girl's brown face crimsoned, her eyes flashed. Then she lifted her head proudly. "I led you nowhere!" she declared. "You would follow me. No one can run as I do, or capture me when they hunt."

"Who are you?" Mollie asked her.

"I am nobody," the young girl replied. It seemed to Mollie she spoke sadly. But she dropped down on the steps of the porch and waited until Mollie joined her there.

Mollie put out her own soft, white hand and took the other girl's brown fingers in her own. The hands were slender and long, with hard muscles trained to the work of the woods.

"Well," said Mollie gently, "if I would follow you, perhaps my getting lost was my own fault. But was it quite fair of you to come each morning to our windows, and then fly away again before anyone could see you?" Mollie was only guessing at this; but it was easy to see her guess had struck home.

Her visitor turned a deeper crimson and dropped her eyes.

"I am sure you meant no harm by your morning calls," continued Mollie smilingly. "But, if you didn't lead me away into the woods, there is one thing I feel very sure of; you did show my friends how to find me."

"Hush, hush!" cried the wood nymph, rising to her feet and looking around in terror, her slender body poised for flight. "Promise me," she pleaded, "that you will not tell you have seen me, nor that I ever came here to you." The girl dropped on her knees at Mollie's feet. "I am an Indian girl," she explained. "I live on Lost Man's Mountain, but I know no one, and no one knows me. Only Naki your guide has seen me. But he, too, has Indian blood. He will not betray me. My name is Eunice. I have no other name."

"But you cannot live alone," Mollie protested.

The Indian girl shook her head without answering. "If I tell you," she implored, "will you promise me by the stars never to betray me? Promise, promise, or I shall disappear and you will see me never again."

"Oh," Mollie answered thoughtlessly, "I promise."

A swift change swept over the Indian girl's face. She leaned confidingly toward Mollie, who realized for the first time what her promise meant. She was already dying to tell Bab and the other girls of her afternoon's experience, but she vowed to herself to keep the child's secret.

"I do not live alone," Eunice declared. "I have a grandmother, who is an old, old Indian woman. Our hut is far back in the hills. All day I have watched and waited by your cabin, until the others went away. I wanted to see that all was right with you. I trust you with my secret. Now, I must be far away."

"But won't you come again, Eunice?" begged Mollie. "Why not come and see all of us? We are only other girls like you. My sister and her friends have only gone away for a visit to the Lathams'."

Eunice started and shook her black hair. "Latham! You must not speak the name to me!" she cried fiercely. "My grandmother says it is an evil name, and will work harm to me."

Mollie laughed at her. "The name of Latham is nothing to you, Eunice," she protested. "But won't you let me thank you for leading my sister to me? You must have been the will-o'-the-wisp with the dark lantern. You must have made the fire, and -- and -- you must even have put Grace's sweater over my shoulders as I lay asleep. You are my ghost!"

The Indian girl drew herself up proudly, but her dark face turned curiously white. "Yes," she muttered, "I took the red cloak away. My grandmother says that I stole it, and Indians of royal blood do not steal. I am no ghost, I am a princess!" Eunice looked at Mollie with haughty grace.

"I did not know I was stealing," she insisted. "I saw the soft, red thing. I did not think. I love the scarlet colors in the world." She touched the crimson leaves in her hair. "When I found that I had stolen I meant to bring the cloak back. Then I saw you asleep in the woods. You looked so cold and white that I put the cloak over your shoulders to keep you warm. Now you have your own again."

"But, Eunice," Mollie inquired, more and more puzzled by the girl's appearance and conversation, "are you a pure-blooded Indian? You do not look like one. Your eyes are as big and brown as my sister Bab's, only a little darker. And your features are so fine and pretty. Then you speak such good English and your name is Eunice. Have you ever been to school?"

Eunice shook her head. "A long time a woman stayed in the tent with my grandmother and me. She taught me to speak and to read books. She comes again each winter with the snows. My teacher is part Indian and part white. My grandmother says that an Indian princess must know, these days, all that the white race knows, and she must have the knowledge of her own people as well. But I go now. You will not tell you have seen me. Then, some day when you are alone, I may return."

"Wait a second, Eunice?" begged Mollie and disappeared inside their cabin. She came out with a lovely red silk scarf in her hand. "Take this, Eunice, it is for you!" she explained.

Eunice shook her head. "An Indian princess does not accept gifts," she demurred.

"Oh," laughed Mollie, throwing her gift over Eunice's brown shoulder, "you are a proud little goose! I am sure it is a small enough gift. I want to thank you for the service you did for me in the woods."

Ceally was stirring about in the kitchen. Like a flash the Indian girl was gone. Mollie sat on the veranda steps rubbing her eyes. Had her visitor been a real girl, or was Mollie bewitched by a brown elf?



Chapter X

A Knock At The Door


The moon had come up over the tree-tops before Miss Sallie, with Ruth, Bab and Grace returned from their visit to Mr. Winthrop Latham.

"Well, you certainly have missed it, this time, Miss Mollie!" cried Bab, running into the room where Mollie sat reading. "We have had the most wonderful time, and met the most charming people. I never saw anything so beautiful as the village of Lenox. We had a splendid view of it from the tower in Mr. Latham's house. Lenox is called a village of seventy hills, but I am sure we counted more than seventy."

"I am truly sorry you were not with us, Mollie," declared Miss Sallie, coming into the house with the other two girls. "But you will have plenty of opportunity for seeing what we did later on. It will not be long now, before we shall go down in the town to stay. Did you have a nice, quiet time by yourself?" Mollie felt embarrassed. She had hardly been alone. But the other girls did not give her an opportunity to answer.

"Mollie, we have the finest plan!" Ruth broke in. "We are going to have a coon hunt up on the hill. Mr. Latham says it is just the thing to do on these early autumn nights. All the people we met at his house this afternoon are to come up to supper with us to-morrow evening. Afterwards, we are to start out after Br'er Possum and Br'er Coon. Won't it be a jolly lark?"

"I don't approve of it, Ruth," said Miss Sallie. "I am sure young girls never before took part in such an excursion. I shouldn't allow it, except that Mr. Latham and his sister both assured me it was done by the best people in Lenox. Then the English ambassador's daughters are to join you."

Ruth looked solemnly at Bab and Grace. The girls were secretly amused at Miss Sallie's social ambitions.

"Mollie," Ruth explained, "we did meet two such nice English girls this afternoon -- Gwendolin and Dorothy Morton -- and an awfully funny, little man, a secretary at the German embassy. They say that ambassadors are as common in Lenox, in the season, as millionaires!"

"Did you like Reginald Latham to-day, Bab?" Mollie inquired, as the two sisters walked into their bedroom together.

"Why, yes," admitted Bab. "I liked him as usual. He is a peaceable kind of man, but rather queer. He is too learned for me. His mother seems terribly vain of him. She does nothing but talk about his inventive skill. I believe she encourages the airship business just to get on the good side of his uncle. Mr. Winthrop Latham is simply crazy on the subject and does not seem to care about anything else. And he must have a tremendous lot of money. But Mrs. Latham, the German sister-in-law, as good as told Aunt Sallie she and her son were dreadfully poor. They had always been obliged to live on the income Mr. Winthrop Latham allowed them, since her husband lost his money. But I shouldn't think she and her son need worry; Reginald assured me that he was his uncle's only heir."

"Bab," Grace asked, joining the two sisters, "why did you spend so much time out in that shed looking at airship models? You know you did not understand them in the least; but our host and his blessed nephew were certainly pleased at your interest. Mrs. Latham showed Aunt Sallie and Ruth and me over the house. They have an art gallery and rooms full of curios, just like a museum. The house is a perfect palace."

"There was an older Mr. Latham once!" Ruth announced, sticking her head in from the door of her bedroom to join in the conversation. "But I don't think he was a credit to the family. They are silent about him. I asked one of the girls we met this afternoon if Mr. Winthrop Latham and his nephew were all of the Latham family. Just as she started to tell me, Reginald Latham came up to us, and she stopped talking in a hurry."

"Miss Ruth Stuart, I believe I was talking," interrupted Grace severely. "Kindly allow me the floor! Mollie is most certainly not interested in the Latham family history. Who is? Nor does she care a fig for Mr. Reginald Latham and his toy balloons. But, Mollie, I was endeavoring to tell you about the wonderful curios they have in their house. The late lamented brother, we were informed, has left behind him one of the most famous collection of Indian relics in the world. If I am obliged to mention the stupid subject of family history, I must say that the Lathams are an old family up in this part of the country. They do not belong to the 'newly rich.' The queer elder brother devoted his life to the study of the history of the Indians in this part of the world, and has written a book about them."

"Grace, have you finished making your speech?" inquired Ruth, with mock politeness. "Poor Mollie must be bored stiff with all this useless information. How did you spend the afternoon, dear? We have talked so much about coon hunts and Indian relics and the Lathams that you have had no chance to answer."

"Oh, I took a nap!" responded Mollie, vaguely, and led the way into supper.

Late that evening, as the girls sat by the fire, they heard a sudden knocking at their cabin door. Miss Sallie, who was in bed, bounded out again. For the first time since their arrival in the woods the camping party was alone. Naki had been obliged to go down the hill on an errand. No one had dreamed of any possible danger in his absence.

The knocking continued. "Open! Open!" cried the voices of two men.

"Who on earth can they be?" Grace asked of the circle of girls. No one answered. Ceally came hurriedly in from the kitchen. Miss Sallie stood at her door.

The knocks were repeated in quick succession.

Ceally had taken the precaution, earlier in the evening, to close and bolt all the doors and windows except one. The shutters of this were open on the outside.

"Sh-sh!" whispered Bab, creeping on tiptoes to the window. Before their front door, she could dimly outline the figures of two men, who were evidently arguing and protesting about something.

"Open! Open!" cried the voices again. "We are friends, and will do you no harm."

"Then go away at once!" Miss Sallie commanded.

There was a muffled sound outside the door. Could it be laughter? Then a voice called more roughly. "How long must we wait?"

Ruth and Bab looked at each other blankly. Miss Stuart had gone back into her own room. "What on earth shall we do? Shall we open the door?" Ruth inquired.

Mollie and Grace both shook their heads.

"Ruth," whispered Barbara resourcefully, "your rifle is behind that door, and Naki's big shotgun is next to it. Of course, we don't know how to shoot either one of the guns very well at present, but, if you will hold your rifle pointed toward the door, I shall try to shoulder this heavy shotgun. Oh, I have a splendid idea!"

"Out with it, child!" ordered Ruth. "I believe the knocking on the door will keep up all night, unless we open it."

"Who's there?" inquired Grace, timidly, before Bab could answer.

"Friends!" responded the men on the outside.

Barbara motioned silence. "Listen to me," she said. "We have no way of knowing if those men on the outside are friends, whatever they may say. Here is my scheme! Remember the story of the women in a town near here, who once defended their fort against an attack by the Indians, when the men were all away at work in the cornfields? The women dressed up in their husbands' clothes and frightened the Indians away. Ruth, let's disguise ourselves as men and then let Ceally open the door."

"Bab, you and Ruth are both crazy!" protested Mollie, half-laughing, and half-frightened.

Bang! Bang! The blows on the door were tremendous. "If you don't let us in, you'll be sorry!" called one of the men.

Bab had already found an old hat of Naki's conveniently near. Ceally, who was giggling nervously, produced a hunting jacket of her husband's, which had seen much service. It was not clean, but Bab slipped into it, determined to see her plan through.

Nor was Barbara the only hero. While she was making her extraordinary costume, Ruth had torn down a squirrel skin, which some previous hunter had tacked on their cabin wall and twisted it around her head so that the tail hung down to one side. Then she slipped on her own leather coat, which she gave a more dilapidated appearance, by wearing it wrong side out.

Both girls got behind chairs to hide their skirts.

"Good gracious, Ruth!" giggled Bab, in spite of her excitement. "You look like Daniel Boone."

During their preparation not a word was heard from Miss Sallie, who was closeted in her own room.

"Ceally, open the door!" cried Ruth, raising her rifle and leveling it in front of her.

Bab put her elbow on the back of her chair to steady her shotgun.

"Girls!" cried Miss Stuart, unexpectedly. "Don't dare to open that door!"

But she spoke too late. Ceally had already drawn the heavy bolt back and the door swung aside.

There rushed into the room two men -- or to be strictly truthful, two boys.

They looked first at Mollie and Grace, then at Ruth and Bab. Without a word they dropped into two chairs.

"Oh, oh, oh!" they shouted. "Did you ever see anything in the world so funny? Ralph, look at Ruth!" cried Hugh.

"Ralph Ewing and Hugh Post, where did you come from?" demanded four girls' voices together. "We took you for highwaymen."

Bab set down her shotgun and Ruth her rifle. Both girls began pulling off their masculine disguises.

"Don't take off those terrifying garments, Bab!" cried Ralph Ewing. "You, Ruth, should have your picture taken in that hat."

By this time, Miss Stuart, fully dressed, with her pompadour neatly arranged appeared at the door. Highwaymen or no highwaymen, Miss Sallie had no intention of appearing before strange men without being properly dressed. Now she was mistress of herself and of the situation.

Both Huge Post and Ralph Ewing stopped laughing when they saw Miss Sallie's face. She did not appear overpleased to see her two young friends, whose doings were fully described in the preceding volume. "The Automobile Girls at Newport."

"Where did you come from?" she asked politely, but without enthusiasm. "And why did you knock on our door at this time of the evening, without informing us who you were?"

"Ruth," continued Miss Sallie severely, "what are you and Barbara doing in those clothes? Take them off at once."

"Please, ma'am," responded Bab meekly, but with a twinkle in her eye, "we dressed up as men to frighten the highwaymen."

"You are enough to frighten them, I am sure," retorted Miss Stuart scornfully.

Here, Ralph Ewing spoke in his most charming manner: "Miss Sallie, we do owe you an apology and we make it with all our hearts. We had no intention of playing any pranks when we came up the hill to see you. Several days ago we were informed that 'The Automobile Girls' were camping in the Berkshires. Well, Hugh and I are on our way to Boston to join Mrs. Post, and --  -- "

"Ralph, do let me do my share of the apologizing," interrupted Hugh. "See here, Miss Sallie, this nonsense to-night is all my fault. Ralph was dead against my pounding at the door and refusing to give our names; but I thought it would be fun to stir the girls up. I knew two such valiant girls as Ruth and Barbara would not be really frightened, even if we had been a whole band of outlaws. It was a stupid practical joke and I am ashamed of it."

"But how did you find us, Hugh?" put in Ruth, who was embarrassed by her aunt's lack of cordiality to their old Newport friends.

"Please, Aunt Sallie, say you'll forgive us!" Hugh pleaded. "See how many miles we have traveled to see you. We would have been here in the broad daylight, only one of the tires in my machine would get a puncture. The man at the garage told us which hill to climb to find you. We met your guide coming down the hill, and he gave us further instructions. So here we are! Aren't you just a little glad to see us?"

"Of course, I am," laughed Aunt Sallie, amiably. "But there is one thing certain: you can't get down our hill again to-night, and we have no place to offer you to sleep."

"Is that what is preying on my hospitable aunt's mind all this time?" cried Ruth, throwing her arms about Miss Sallie. "I thought she wasn't her usual charming self. Of course the boys shan't go down the hill again to-night. I don't know where they will sleep, either; but Bab will bring her fertile brain to bear upon the situation."

"Why, Miss Stuart!" Ralph spoke in relieved tones. "Is this why you are not pleased to see us? We expect to go down the hill a little later. On our way up we stopped at a farm house, and the people promised to take us in for the night. We'll come back early in the morning, since Hugh and I must be off again by afternoon. Mrs. Post is waiting for us in Boston."

"Oh, must you go so soon, boys?" pleaded Ruth. "We are planning the jolliest lark. We are to have a coon hunt up on the hill with some acquaintances we have just made in Lenox. They are to have supper with us, and are to bring up a guide and some coon dogs for our hunt later on. And you simply must stay at the cabin to-night. See, there is a lounge here in the living room, and we have plenty of quilts and steamer rugs. One of you can have the couch and the other can sleep on the floor by the fire."

"May we, Miss Sallie?" Hugh queried.

"As you like, boys," declared Miss Stuart, now completely restored to good humor.

"Then let's stay by all means!" urged Ralph. "What should we expect to sleep on except the floor or the ground? This is the most effete camping party I ever saw," he declared, looking around their cosy little cabin. "You have all the comforts of home, here!"

"Do you think you and Ralph can stay for our coon hunt, Hugh?" asked Bab.

"Oh, for sure, Barbara," Hugh asserted. "I will fix things up with the mater for a day; but we shall have to be off the next day without fail. Now, I have an awful confession to make."

"What is it Hugh?" Ruth demanded.

"Ralph and I are starving!" he answered. "We were so bent on getting up to your hut before it was too late, we didn't have time to get any dinner. Could you, would you, just give us each a hunk of bread to stay our appetites?"

"You poor souls!" cried Ruth. "Come on out in the kitchen with me, Mollie. Let Bab and Grace do the entertaining. We'll fix you some eggs and bacon in no time, the best you ever tasted. Our cook has gone to bed."

"Let's have a feast for everybody," proposed Bab. "May we, Miss Sallie? I am dreadfully hungry again. I haven't had anything to eat for at least two hours and a half."

"Come, turn in then, everybody," Ruth called cheerily. "Here, Bab, you undertake the Welsh rarebit and get out the pickles and crackers. Mollie, get Hugh to help you open these cans of soup. Grace, you and Ralph, set the table and talk to Aunt Sallie, while I fry my precious bacon."

"I never heard of such an extraordinary combination of things to eat. You will ruin your digestions," was Miss Sallie's comment. But she ate just as much as anyone else.

At midnight the girls were at last in bed. Hugh and Ralph, both wrapped in blankets, were in blissful sleep before the camp fire. They had scorned to accept the offer of the couch, wishing to enjoy camp life to the fullest extent. So peace followed good cheer in the hut.



Chapter XI

The Coon Hunt


"Ere in the northern gale The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of autumn all around our vale Have put their glory on."

chanted Ralph bowing low to Barbara, as she joined him in the clearing in front of their house before breakfast next morning. "See, mademoiselle, what a fine poem I have thought out for you! Behold in me the poet of the Berkshires!"

Barbara laughed. "You are a second-hand poet, I am afraid, Ralph. I happen to know that those lines were written by William Cullen Bryant. But come into breakfast and stop your poetizing. We have a busy day ahead of us."

Ralph and Barbara found Ruth with a big sheet of paper in her hand and her brow wrinkled into a serious frown.

"We must decide at once what to have to eat at our supper party to-night. Naki is in a hurry to get off to the village, so as to be back in time to help with the preparations. Listen, chilluns, while I read you my menu," commanded Ruth solemnly. "I am going to have a regular, old-fashioned supper party with everything on the table at once. Naki and Ceally can't serve so many people in any other style. Besides, if we have to eat supper at eight and start off on our coon hunt at nine, there won't be time for many courses. So here goes: Roast chicken, 'ole Virginy' ham, sent by Mr. Robert Stuart for just such a special occasion, roast pig and apple sauce, chestnuts, sweet potatoes, jellies, pies, doughnuts --  -- "

"Cease, and give me breakfast ere I perish at the thought of overeating," remonstrated Hugh. While Miss Sallie protested, as she sat down to her breakfast, "My dear Ruth, are you planning to feed an army, or to entertain a few guests at supper?"

"What shall we do to help with the preparations, Miss Sallie?" queried Grace.

"Just keep out of the way as much as possible, child," Miss Stuart answered.

But this suggestion did not agree with Ruth's ideas. "At least, Aunt Sallie," she expostulated, "we may be allowed to decorate the hut as we like."

"Certainly, child. Spend the day bringing the woods into the house, and to-morrow in throwing the trash out again, if you like. Only don't interrupt Ceally and Naki."

At half-past seven everything was ready for supper. As for the coon hunt, no one of "The Automobile Girls" had the faintest conception of what it would be like, and Miss Sallie was as ignorant as the rest of them.

"It is only an excuse for a midnight frolic among the young people," she thought, indulgently. "I presume no mischief will come of it."

A barking of dogs announced the approach of the guests. Four lean hounds, brown and yellow, baying and straining at their leashes, tore up the hill. Already the keen mountain air stirred them. Br'er Possum and Br'er Coon were even now placidly eating their suppers. The dogs longed to be at the night's business.

While the young people feasted inside the cabin, the men who were to conduct the hunt prepared the pine torches to light them on their way.

"You feel sure this is a proper expedition, Mr. Latham?" asked Aunt Sallie nervously. She was standing at the door, waiting to see the party start off. "Hugh," she called at the last minute, "promise me to look after Ruth and Grace. Don't get separated from them, or I shall never forgive you. Ralph, I trust you to take care of Mollie and Bab."

But Reginald Latham was standing near Miss Stuart and overheard her instructions to the two boys.

"Oh, I say, Miss Stuart," he quizzed in the affected fashion that so angered Mollie, "can't you trust me to look after Miss Thurston? I have a score to pay back to her for her rescue of me in my airship."

Mollie put her arm in Ralph's as they walked out the door together. "Don't mind that Latham man," she whispered. "I can't see why Bab likes him. See, they are starting off together."

The great horn blew; the dogs barked violently.

Twenty people, each carrying a pine torch, lit up the shadows of the quiet woods.

"When I count three," said Mr. Latham to the keepers, "you can let the dogs go."

One! two! three! and the hounds were off, their noses pointed along the ground, their tails standing out straight behind them.

"Is coon hunting a cruel sport, Ralph?" Mollie inquired. "If it is, I would rather stay home."

"I don't know; this is my first experience," Ralph replied. "But hurry along, little girl!"

"Hurrah! The dogs have a coon on the run!" shouted some one in front. A poor old coon had been driven from his comfortable hollow tree, and was running for his life over the hard ground, pursued by excited dogs. Close behind followed the hunters with their horns. And, tumbling over one another rushing pell-mell after them, came the crowd of heedless young people. The party separated. Two of the dogs tracked another coon.

"I half hope Mr. Coon will win this race!" panted Barbara, close behind Reginald Latham. "Remember Uncle Remus says, 'Br'er Coon, he was wunner deze here natchul pacers.' Certainly he has me outclassed as a runner. Do wait for me, Mr. Latham!"

Reginald Latham had run ahead of the rest of the party, and was tearing down a steep hill with no light except from his pine torch. The moon had gone behind a cloud.

Barbara, farther up the hill, could see the reflection of a sheet of water. Into it the poor little hunted coon jumped, swimming for dear life to the opposite shore. The dogs hesitated a minute, then went into the water after it. But Reginald Latham was now going so rapidly he could not stop himself.

With a rush he was in the water, just as Bab's warning cry rang out.

"Help me! I am drowning!" he shouted. For the minute he and Barbara were alone. The rest of the party had followed the two dogs, whose baying sounded some distance across through the woods.

Barbara was down the bank, and out in the stream in a second. To her disgust she found the water only up to her waist. They were at the edge of a small pond, but Reginald Latham clutched at Barbara, panic-stricken.

"Why, Mr. Latham," cried Bab in disgust, "you are not drowning. This water is not three feet deep. We have only to walk out."

At this instant, Ralph Ewing and Mollie came rushing down the hill.

"What on earth's the matter, Bab?" asked Mollie.

"Oh, nothing," said Bab loyally, "except that Mr. Coon has led us into a nice mud bath. I expect Mr. Latham and I had better return home. I don't believe I am a first-class hunter. My sympathies are too much on the side of the coon."

"Can I help either of you?" asked Ralph Ewing courteously. But when Bab said "no," he and Mollie were off through the woods again.

"It was good of you, Miss Thurston," Reginald Latham apologized, as he and Bab made their way up the hill again, "to take part of the responsibility for our plunge into the pond on yourself. I am an awful coward about the water. I would take my share of the blame, except that my uncle would be so angry."

"But you are not afraid of your uncle, are you?" Bab inquired impetuously. "You seem grown up to me, and I don't see why you should be afraid. Mr. Latham is awfully nice anyhow."

"Oh, you don't understand, Miss Thurston," declared Reginald Latham peevishly. "Everything in the world depends on my keeping on the good side of my uncle. My mother has talked of nothing else to me since I was a child. You see, uncle has all the money in the family now. He doesn't have to leave me a red cent unless he chooses."

"Well, I would rather be independent than rich," protested Bab. "Oh, I beg your pardon," she said blushing. "I am sure I don't know you well enough to say a thing like that to you. But do let's hurry back to camp."

On their way back they met Gwendolin Morton and the young German secretary, Franz Heller. Gwendolin had sprained her ankle in getting over a log, and had given up her part in the hunt.

By midnight nearly all the coon hunters had returned to the log cabin for repairs before making their way down the hill again. Reginald Latham sat before the fire drying his wet clothes.

"What is the matter with you, Reginald?" asked his uncle, sharply. "We've bagged three coons, Miss Stuart, but I am afraid we have had more disasters than good luck. Now, we must be off home again. Look here, young ladies," said Mr. Latham, turning to Ruth and Mollie, who were saying good-bye to their guests, "is there a wood nymph, who lives anywhere about in these woods? Several times to-night I thought I spied a little figure flying between the trees."

"Nonsense, Mr. Latham," laughed Ruth. "Our woods are not haunted."

But Mollie answered never a word.

"Miss Thurston," called Reginald Latham, as Barbara, who had gone out to change her wet clothes came into the room to say good night to her guests, "may I come up and see you and your friends in the morning?"

Barbara hesitated. She did not object to Reginald Latham as the other girls did; she even thought Ruth, Grace and Mollie were prejudiced against him, but she had an idea that something disagreeable might grow out of a further intimacy.

"I am sorry, Mr. Latham," she exclaimed politely, "but we have planned to do some target practice in the morning? We are going to stay but a short time up here in the woods, and Mr. Stuart, Ruth's father, is anxious that we should learn to shoot."

"But I am a fairly good shot myself," protested Reginald Latham. "Why can't I come up and help with the teaching? May I, Miss Stuart?" he asked, turning to Ruth, who much against her will, was obliged to consent.

"Never again shall I allow you to engage in such an unladylike and cruel sport as a coon hunt!" announced Miss Sallie, when the last guest had gone. The girls agreed with her, as the baying of the hounds and the noise from the hunters' horns at last died away in the distance.



Chapter XII

The Wounded Bird


"Good-bye Ralph!" said Barbara, extending her hand to her old friend.

"Good-bye, Barbara," Ralph answered, politely. "It has been a great pleasure for Hugh and me to see you and the other girls in your forest retreat. I am sorry we must be off so soon."

"But you will come back again, in a week or two won't you?" begged Ruth. "I heard you promise those lovely English girls, Hugh, to take part in the autumn sports at Lenox."

"Oh, we shall be back if possible, Ruth." Hugh assured her. "I think we can promise to give Lenox a taste of our charming society, say near the first week in October."

"Let's be off, Hugh," called Ralph. "Here is that Latham fellow coming up the hill."

Bab laid her hand on Ralph's sleeve. "You are not angry with me for going off with Reginald Latham last night are you? Truth of the matter, Ralph, I don't believe I like Mr. Latham any better than the others do. But I am rather sorry for him; he seems queer and nervous. Why, the other day, even at his own house, all the young people except me ran away from him. I don't think he is very happy. That's why he is always fooling with inventions and things. He's a weak kind of fellow, Ralph, but I don't think he is horrid."

Ralph laughed and his face cleared. "Good for you, Bab. Always looking after the oppressed. But I don't think you need feel sorry for a fellow who has such a lot of money coming his way as Reg Latham."

"He hasn't it yet!" was Bab's wise comment.

As Ralph and Hugh disappeared, Reginald Latham joined the four girls. He wore his shooting clothes, and his dark face was transformed with pleasure. He knew he was not popular with young people and the idea made him unhappy. He had been brought up in a foreign country and was shy and ill at ease. His mother had always kept him in her society. Now, he was delighted with the independence and courage of "The Automobile Girls" and longed to be friends with them.

"I hope I am in time for the shooting," he declared. "My uncle sent me up to apologize for the chapter of accidents that occurred last night in our coon hunt. Gwendolin Morton is laid up with a bad ankle, Franz Heller has influenza, and everyone else is tired out with the long tramp. But you look entirely rested." He turned to Barbara and spoke under his breath. "Forgive me for last night's performance."

"Come, Naki," called Ruth to their guide, "we are ready for our target practice. Mr. Latham is here."

Ruth led the way over the hill. At a little distance from the house Naki set up a pasteboard target, which he nailed to the side of a big cedar tree, at the edge of a slight embankment. Below it was nothing but underbrush. No one was near. It seemed a perfectly safe place for the rifle practice.

Mollie sat on the ground back of the eager sportsmen. Nothing could induce her to handle a gun. "I suppose I am safe, back here," she laughed, "so, I shall sit here and watch this famous shooting match. Only, for goodness' sake, all of you be careful!"

Bab, Ruth and Grace were each to have ten shots at the target, Naki showing them how to load and fire. Reginald Latham would keep the score. The girl who hit the bull's eye the greatest number of times was to be proclaimed champion.

Bab fired first. She hit the second ring from the center of the bull's eye.

"Good for you!" Ruth cried, taking aim. But she missed the target altogether. The shot from her rifle went down the hill.

Mollie thought she saw something stir. "Isn't this a dangerous business?" she asked Reginald Latham.

"There is nothing in these woods to harm, Miss Mollie," he explained. "Most of the birds have already flown away."

For an hour the girls fired at the target. Grace had grown tired and had taken her seat by Mollie, but Ruth and Barbara were both enthusiastic shots. Ruth's score stood two ahead of Bab's, who still had three more shots to fire.

Suddenly Barbara raised her rifle. "No, don't show me, Naki," she protested. "I think I can take aim myself." As Bab fired Mollie rose to her feet with a cry. She had seen something brown and scarlet moving in the underbrush on the hill below them.

Bab's shot had missed the target. But did they hear a low moan like the sound of a wounded dove?

Barbara turned a livid white. "I have hit something!" she called to Ruth. But Ruth was after Mollie, who was scrambling down the hill.

The whole party followed them, Barbara's knees trembling so that she could hardly walk.

There were tears streaming from Mollie's eyes as she looked up at Bab. The child's arms were around a little figure that had fallen in the underbrush, a little figure in brown and scarlet, with a wreath of scarlet autumn leaves in her hair.

"I have been afraid of this," said Naki, pushing the others aside.

"It's my little Indian girl!" Mollie explained. "She couldn't bear to keep away from us, and at first I thought her the ghost of Lost Man's Trail. I have seen her around our hut nearly every day; but I promised not to tell you girls about her. Is she much hurt, Naki?"

The man shook his head. "I can't tell," he said. "Better take her to the house and see."

At this Eunice opened her eyes. Her lips were drawn in a fine line of pain, but she did not flinch.

"I will go home to my own tent," she protested. "I will not enter the abode of my enemies." The little girl struggled out of Mollie's hold and rose to her feet. One arm hung limp and useless at her side.

When Reginald Latham touched her, she shuddered. Tiny drops of blood trickled down to the ground.

"Give me your handkerchief, please?" asked Bab as she went up to Eunice. "It is I who have hurt you," she said, "though I did not mean to do so. Surely you will let me help you a little if I can."

She tore open Eunice's sleeve and tenderly wiped the blood. Naki brought two sticks, and, with his assistance, Bab bound up the wounded arm, so the blood no longer flowed. "Now you must go home to our cabin with us!" she pleaded.

But Eunice broke away from them and started to flee. She trembled and would have fallen had not Mollie caught her.

"See, you can't go home alone, Eunice dear," Mollie remonstrated. "And you must see a doctor. The bullet from the rifle may still be in your arm."

Eunice was obstinate. "Indians do not need doctors," she asserted.

But Naki came and took her in his arms. "We will take you to your own tent," he declared. "She will rest better there," he explained to the girls, "and I know the way over the hills. You may come with me. The Indian squaw, her grandmother, will be hard to manage."

"But how shall we get a doctor up there?" asked Grace.

"I will go down for him later," Naki answered briefly. "You need have no fear. An Indian knows how to treat a wound. They have small use for doctors."

"Is your guide an Indian?" asked Reginald Latham of Ruth.

Ruth shook her head. "He may have some Indian blood," she said. "I didn't know it. But this Indian child, where did she come from? And to think her name is Eunice!"

"Eunice!" cried Reginald Latham in a strange voice. "Impossible. Why Eunice is not an Indian name!"

"But it is what Mollie called her," protested Ruth. "And Mollie seems to know who she is."

Reginald Latham's face had turned white.

Ruth felt her dislike of him slipping away. He seemed very sympathetic. Mollie, Bab and Grace were hurrying along after Naki, over whose broad shoulder hung the little Indian girl. Her black hair swept his sleeve, her broken arm drooped like the wing of a wounded bird.

Once she roused herself to say. "My grandmother will not like these people to come to our tent. We live alone like the beasts in the forest."

But Barbara, Ruth, Grace and Mollie trudged on after Naki. While silently by their side walked Reginald Latham.



Chapter XIII

The Wigwam


"How much farther must we walk, Naki?" asked Mollie, after an hour's hard tramping. "Surely Eunice and her grandmother must live somewhere near. Eunice could not have traveled such a distance to our hut every day."

"An Indian girl flies like the wind," Naki answered. "But another half hour will find us at the wigwam. The Indian woman lives in her tent. She will have nothing like the white race, neither house, nor friendships. She is the last of a lost race. She and the child live alone on the hill. Sometimes other Indians visit them, those of the race who have studied and become as white men. They have taught the child what she knows. But Mother Eunice, as the grandmother is known, still smokes her pipe by an open fireside."

"Is the old woman also named Eunice?" Ruth inquired curiously. "I do not understand. Eunice is not an Indian name."

Reginald Latham, who was walking next Ruth, panted with the exertion of climbing the hill; his breath came quick and fast. He seemed intent on Naki's answer to Ruth's simple question.

"Eunice is a family name in these parts among a certain tribe of Indians. But you are right; it is not properly speaking an Indian name. Many years ago a little girl named Eunice, the daughter of a white man, was stolen by the Indians. She grew up by their firesides and married an Indian chief. In after years, she would never return to her own people. And so her children and her children's children have from that day borne the name of Eunice. The Mohawk Indians have the white man's blood as well as the red man's in their veins."

Mollie was walking near Eunice, whom Naki still carried in his arms, and then Mollie would lean over every now and then and gently touch the child. Once or twice, during their long walk, she thought the little Indian girl lost consciousness. But never once did Eunice moan or give a cry of pain.

"Over there," said Naki finally, "lies the Indian wigwam." He pointed in front of him, where a solitary hill rose before them, shaded by dense woods.

"But I can't see an opening there," Ruth cried; "neither smoke, nor anything to suggest that people are living on that hill."

Naki smiled wisely. "The Indians have forgotten much of their father's wisdom," he declared. "But not yet have they forgotten how to hide in their own forests."

"Do you think I had better go ahead, Naki?" Bab queried. "Some one ought to tell the grandmother that Eunice is hurt. Since I am responsible for the accident, it is my place to break the news to her. I will run on ahead."

"Not alone, Bab!" protested loyal Ruth. "You are no more responsible for Eunice's injury than the rest of us. It just happened to be your shot that wounded her. It might just as easily have been mine. How could we have dreamed the child was hiding in the underbrush? I shall go ahead with you."

"Better keep with me," enjoined Naki. "You could not find your way to the wigwam. We have followed the 'Lost Man's Trail.' When we get up to the tent, keep a little in the background. The Indian woman is very old. She cannot forgive easily. It is best that I explain to her as well as I can. I will go first, alone, with the child."

Eunice stirred a little on Naki's shoulder. "The little one," she declared feebly. "She of the pale face and the hair like the sun. I wish her to go with me to the tent of my grandmother." And Eunice pointed with her uninjured arm toward Mollie.

Under a canopy formed of the interlaced branches of great hemlock trees stood an Indian wigwam. It looked as much a part of the landscape as the trees themselves. The rains and the sun had bleached it to an ashen gray. Outside the tent hung a bunch of arrows. Against the side leaned a long bow. A fire near by had been hastily covered over. But nowhere about was there a sign of human life.

"Your grandmother has heard the footsteps of strangers approaching," Naki said to Eunice. "Let her know that you are here."

Naki set the little girl down on her feet. Mollie stood by her; but Bab, Ruth, Grace and Reginald Latham were concealed by some thick bushes a few yards away.

Eunice spoke a few words in the Indian tongue. Suddenly the flap of the wigwam opened, revealing an aged Indian woman. She looked older than anyone that the girls had ever seen before. Her brown face was a network of fine wrinkles; but her black eyes blazed with youthful fire. She was tall and straight like the pine trees in her own forest. The old woman wore an ordinary woolen dress. Over her shoulders she had thrown an Indian blanket, striped in orange, black and red. She knew that strangers were near. But her grandchild called her!

At the sight of Eunice the Indian woman gave a curious cry, which she quickly stifled. In a voice that only Mollie, who stood near, could hear she asked: "My little wood pigeon is wounded? I have long feared it."

Mollie marveled that the old Indian squaw spoke English.

Mother Eunice gathered her child in her arms and carried her within the wigwam, laying her on a bed of cedar boughs covered with a heavy blanket. Naki explained that Eunice had been accidentally shot by a rifle. The old woman grunted. Without a word she tore down a bunch of herbs that hung at the side of a wall. Placing them in an iron pot she went out of her tent and stirred her fire into a quick blaze.

All this time the Indian woman had not spoken to Mollie, nor had she appeared to know that anyone else was near.

Mollie had followed Eunice into the wigwam and knelt by her side. The child moved restlessly. Mollie leaned over her and unfastened her dress. Around Eunice's neck was an amulet of gold, each link in the chain carved with curious Indian characters. At the end of the amulet, on a square of beaten gold about an inch in size, was a monogram in English lettering. Mollie had only time to see that the letters, looked like E. L. or E. S. She could not tell which, for the Indian squaw was back in the room, scowling at her.

As the grandmother tore the bandage from the little Indian girl's arm and washed the wound with her healing herbs, Mollie saw that under the clothing, the child's skin was several shades fairer.

At last the Indian woman rose up from her knees. "Let them come," she requested of Naki. "Let those who linger in the bushes outside my wigwam draw near to it. But beware how they cross the threshold of my tent!"

The squaw stood at her own door, waiting to speak to the girls and Reginald Latham, as they drew near. "You have injured my child!" she said bitterly. "Even in times of peace no Indian seems safe before the bullets of the white man."

Bab colored deeply. "I am dreadfully sorry!" she declared. "It was I who hurt your grandchild. Naki has told you what happened. How could we know she was hiding near us? But, now that I have hurt her, you must at least let us do what we can for her. Naki shall go down the hill and send a doctor up here to look at Eunice's arm."

"Ugh!" grunted the squaw. "An Indian has no need of the white man's doctor. I shall tend my child. Begone, all of you!"

Reginald Latham moved back a few paces; but Bab, Grace and Ruth did not stir.

"Naki," Ruth gave her order quietly, "go down the hill at once and see that a doctor comes up to look at this child's arm. An Indian's treatment for a bullet wound may be a good one. I do not know. But I do know I am not willing that this child should not see a doctor. Bab and I would feel responsible all our lives if anything serious resulted from this accident. Go immediately, Naki," Ruth ended. She was her father's daughter. Though she seldom asserted her authority, there were times when she insisted on obedience.

"We want no doctor here," the Indian woman repeated, rocking back and forth. "No good comes to the Indian from his white neighbors. Therefore, have I tried to keep my child away from them."

But Eunice's voice was heard calling inside the tent.

"Let the ladies come in, grandmother. I wish to have a talk with them."

Sullenly the old woman moved aside and let the girls and Reginald Latham enter the wigwam.

"Little brown one," Eunice cried, smiling at Bab, "you would be almost as brown as I am, if you lived always in the woods. Do not be so sorry that you hurt my arm. It was my fault, not yours. I should not have been in hiding. I disobeyed the commands of my grandmother. See, I am better. She will not let a white doctor look at me, perhaps, because my skin is too fair for an Indian."

"Mr. Latham," Bab turned to Reginald, who had not spoken. He was looking curiously at the furnishings of the wigwam, at the Indian squaw and at Eunice. He did not hear Bab.

"Mr. Latham!" Bab called more distinctly, "can't you persuade --  -- "

A curious guttural noise interrupted her. The old Indian woman's eyes were blazing. She had seized a pine stick in her hand and held it over Reginald Latham's head. "Out of my wigwam! Shall your name forever sound in my ears? Am I not safe in my own house? Out with you!"

Reginald Latham had not waited before the old woman's wrath. He was already several yards down the hill.

The girls were thunderstruck. Why had the name of Latham fired this old squaw to such a burst of fury?

"Come on, Ruth," said Grace, finally. "Let us go back home. We shall do no good by staying here. I suppose we can find our way home! The old Indian woman seems dreadfully upset, and our staying can only make matters worse. Naki will bring the doctor and attend to everything. Then he will let you know about Eunice."

"I think we had better go," Mollie agreed. "I know it will be best for Eunice." She kissed the little Indian girl good-bye. "Tell your grandmother," Mollie explained, "that Mr. Latham had nothing to do with the injury to you. She may have thought he was responsible."

"I told you," whispered Eunice in Mollie's ear, "the name of Latham must not be mentioned in my house. When I first learned to read I found it written in an old book that told only the story of the Indian races. My grandmother tore it from my hand and threw it into the fire, and said I must never hear that English name again."

"Oh!" Mollie faltered. "I remember you did say something about this to me, the first time I saw you, but I did not think about it. I do not understand it now. But never mind. Good-bye."

"The Automobile Girls" joined Reginald Latham farther down the hill.

"What a crazy old thing that Indian woman is!" he muttered, laughing nervously. "She was only making a scene. She never heard the name of Latham before in her life."

"I wonder if that is true?" pondered Mollie to herself all the way back to their cabin.



Chapter XIV

Give Way To Miss Sallie!


"Aunt Sallie," declared Ruth mournfully about two o'clock the next day, "we are in great trouble!"

"My dear child, what is the matter now?" demanded Miss Stuart.

"Well," continued Ruth, "you remember about the little Indian girl whom Bab accidentally shot yesterday? Naki has come back from a visit to her and says she is very ill. He found the doctor there, who says he won't answer for the child's life unless she is taken to a hospital in the village, where he can see her often, and where she can have the proper care. The doctor told Naki we waited too long yesterday to send for him. He had to probe Eunice's arm to get out the bullet. But she will be all right if she is only properly looked after."

"Then," declared Miss Sallie, "the matter is a very simple one. Have Naki see to it. The child must be taken to a hospital in Lenox at once. Everything shall be done for her comfort."

"Indeed, auntie, this is not such a simple matter to attend to as it seems. The Indian grandmother positively refuses to let Eunice be moved. She has kept the child hidden in these hills all her life, until she believes Eunice will be eaten up, or run away with, if once she allows her to go among white people."

"Nonsense!" sniffed Miss Sallie.

"It is all very well for you to say nonsense, Aunt Sallie, but you do not dream how obstinate this old woman is. She declares an Indian does not need treatment from a doctor. In the meantime, poor little Eunice's temperature is going up, and she is delirious from the fever. What shall we do? Poor Bab is feeling perfectly miserable."

"Take me to this obstinate old woman," said Miss Stuart, firmly.

"You?" cried Ruth, in astonishment.

"Certainly!" answered Aunt Sallie. "I said, 'take me.'"

"But, auntie, you will so hate the climb up that trail," Ruth argued. "And the wigwam is dreadful after you get there. Only the little Indian girl is exquisite, like a flower growing in some horrid place. I don't believe you will ever be equal to the trip."

"Ruth," insisted Miss Stuart in stately tones, "since I have thrown in my fortunes as chaperon to 'The Automobile Girls' I have had many strange adventures. Doubtless I shall have many others. Persuading an obstinate woman to do what is best for the child she loves is not an impossible task. It does not matter in the least whether the woman is white or an Indian. Tell Naki to take me to the wigwam at once."

"Aunt Sallie, you are an angel!" cried Ruth, throwing her arms around her aunt. "Now, Bab, don't you worry any more," she called into the next room.

"Aunt Sallie does not know what she promises!" said Barbara, joining Ruth and her aunt.

"Just let's leave her alone, Bab," whispered Ruth. "We will go along with her to see Eunice. I think I am counting on my Aunt Sallie to win."

Miss Stuart paused to draw one deep breath, when she finally reached the Indian woman's wigwam. Then she quietly entered the tent and walked over to Eunice's bedside. Crouched on the floor by the child was the old Indian squaw, who did not even lift her eyes to look at Miss Sallie.

Eunice was lying on her cedar bed, with her cheeks the color of the scarlet leaves that once crowned her black hair.

"How do you do?" asked Miss Stuart politely, bowing to the Indian woman. As Miss Sallie put her soft hand on Eunice's hot head, the child stopped her restless movements for a second. The grandmother looked up.

"Your little girl is very ill!" Miss Stuart continued quietly. "I have come to see that she has proper care. She must be taken to a hospital at once. Naki will see to the arrangements. The doctor says the child must be moved to-day."

The Indian woman shook her head. "The child shall not leave my wigwam!" she declared, obstinately.

"Listen to me!" commanded Miss Stuart, quietly. Ruth and Barbara stood near her, trembling with excitement. "We mean no harm to your little girl. Naki will explain matters to you. But she must be properly looked after. You are too old to attend to her, and your wigwam is not a fit place. You declare your Eunice shall not go away from you even for a little time." Miss Sallie spoke slowly and impressively. "If you do not allow the child to go away, now, for a short time, so that the doctor can make her well for you, she will leave you forever!"

But still the Indian woman muttered: "My child shall not leave my wigwam. Indians have no need for white men's doctors."

"You are alone, aren't you?" inquired Miss Stuart, gently. "Are not you and your grandchild the last of your race? Perhaps, if you had allowed it, the doctors might have kept other members of your family for you."

The Indian woman shivered. Miss Stuart had touched some chord in her memory. She raised her black eyes to Miss Sallie and spoke mournfully. "You are right!" she asserted. "My grandchild and I are the last of a great race. I am very old and I am now afraid. Let your white medicine man make my Eunice well again. But I must follow where the child goes. Down in the village they will steal her from me."

"Why, who would wish to steal her from you?" inquired Miss Stuart.

The old woman mumbled. "An enemy came to my door but yesterday." Then a look of cunning crossed her face. She spoke childishly. "The lady is wise!" she declared. "Who could wish to steal a poor little Indian girl? Who in all this world has a claim on her but her poor old grandmother? Enough has been said. An Indian does not like too much talk. The child and I will go down into the valley to ask the service of the white doctor. Naki is my friend. I will do as he says. An Indian can keep a secret. Naki has long known that my child and I lived on this hilltop, but he has not betrayed us. He has not even told his own wife. An Indian can keep a secret." The old woman rocked back and forth as though well pleased with herself.

"Keep whatever secrets you will!" Miss Sallie replied. "It is enough that you will permit the child to have proper care."

"Girls!" Miss Stuart spoke from the depth of the largest chair in the living room of their log cabin. It was nearly dusk and she was worn out from her long walk to the Indian wigwam. "Girls, I want to ask you something."

"Attention, girls!" cried Bab. "What is it, Miss Sallie?"

"What do you say," continued Miss Stuart, "to our going back to civilization? We have had a beautiful time on our hill. I, for one, shall long remember it. But the days are growing shorter. If we are to enjoy Lenox, and all the delights it offers, don't you think it is about time we were moving there? To tell you the truth, I have already engaged our board at the hotel."

"Well then, Aunt Sallie, we have no choice in the matter, have we?" asked Ruth, ruefully. "I want to enjoy Lenox, too, but I do so hate to leave this heavenly hill."

"I vote for Lenox with Aunt Sallie!" Grace exclaimed.

"Sensible Grace!" Miss Stuart murmured.

"See here, Ruth, dear," protested Grace, "please don't look as if you were offended with me. We have had a simply perfect time in the log cabin, but I am just longing to see the lovely places down in Lenox, and to meet the delightful people."

"Ruth," Barbara spoke sadly, "I, too, want to go down into Lenox now. If Eunice is to be laid up in the hospital I want to be near her, so I can find out how she is each day. I shall never be happy again until I know she is well."

Mollie put her arm round her sister. "Don't you worry so, Bab, dear," she pleaded. "I don't believe your shooting poor little Eunice in the arm is going to do her harm in the end. Poor little thing! It was simply dreadful for her to have to spend all her time with her old Indian grandmother. She never had a chance to see anybody, or to learn anything. She was simply sick for companions of her own age. That is why she was always haunting our cabin. I don't believe Eunice is more than part Indian, anyway!" Mollie ended impressively. "I've a feeling that we shall do her more good, in the end, from this accident than we have done her harm."

"You are a dear!" cried Bab, already comforted by her sister's prophecy.

"You are all against me!" quoth Ruth, rising. "I surrender, as usual, to my beloved aunt. I want to go to Lenox, but -- I want to be here on the hill, too. So runs the world. We can't manage to have all the things we want at the same time; so hurrah for Lenox and the gay world again! Come here to the door with me, children. Let us say farewell to our sweet hillside!"

The girls stood arm in arm on their front porch. The evening wind swept up the hill and rustled through the pines. The brook near their house hurried down the slope into the valley as though it were late for a night's engagement.

"Ruth," Barbara declared solemnly, "whatever happens to 'The Automobile Girls,' one thing is certain, nothing can ever be lovelier than the weeks we have spent together on this beautiful hill. Let us kiss all around. Call Aunt Sallie. She must be a party to the agreement. We will never forget our little log cabin -- never, no, never, in all our lives."



Chapter XV

Society In Lenox


"Miss Sallie, is Lenox the oldest summer resort in the United States?" inquired Barbara, as they sat on a private veranda which opened into their own sitting-room, in the most beautiful hotel in Lenox.

"I am sure I don't know, Bab, dear," Miss Sallie answered complacently. "I think modern Lenox has been transformed by the wealth that has come into the place in the last fifty years. I am told that it once had more literary associations than any other town in the country. As Ruth tells me you are ambitious to become a writer some day, this will interest you. You girls must go about, while you are here, and see all the sights."

Barbara blushed and changed the subject. She did not like to talk of her literary ambitions.

"Ruth and Mollie are late in getting back, aren't they?" she asked. "You know they have gone over in the automobile to inquire for Eunice. I hope they will be back in time for tea. Did Ruth remember to tell you that the British Ambassador's daughters, Dorothy and Gwendolin Morton, are coming in to tea? And perhaps Mr. Winthrop Latham and Reginald Latham will be here also."

Miss Sallie nodded. "Yes; I am expecting them," she declared. "It is most kind of them to call on us so promptly. I was afraid we would know no one in Lenox, as I have no acquaintances here. I did not expect you and little Mollie to pull friends down from the sky for us, as you seem to have done by your rescue of Mr. Latham and his nephew. What a strange thing life is!"

"Do you know, Miss Sallie," Barbara continued, "it seems awfully funny for Mollie and me to to be associating with such important people as the daughters of the English Ambassador. I am even impressed with that funny little German Secretary, Franz Heller, just because he is attached to the German Embassy. It makes me feel as though I were a character in a book, to even meet such clever people. Dear me, what a lot you and Ruth have done for us!"

"Barbara, dear," replied Miss Stuart, kindly, "we have not done much more for you than you girls have done for us in a different way. True, through my brother, we happened to have the money to pay for our good times; but poor Ruth and I couldn't have had those good times without the other three 'Automobile Girls.' How is Grace's headache? Will she be able to see our friends this afternoon?"

"Shall I ask her?" Bab suggested, going in to the bedroom through the French window which opened onto their porch.

She came out, shaking her head. "Grace is not well enough to get up yet," she explained. "She says she may be able to join us for a few minutes when our guests arrive; but you are not to worry. Her headache is better."

"Shall we have tea out on our veranda, Barbara?" Miss Sallie asked. "I cannot tear myself away from this view. How exquisite the lake looks down between those mountains. And what is the name of that hill over there? Oh, yes, I know you girls have told me the name of it many times before, but as I cannot remember it, you will probably have to tell it to me repeatedly. Monument Mountain, did you say? Oh, I recall the story now. An Indian girl is supposed to have flung herself off of it on account of some love affair. Curious people the Indians," she continued. "Do you know, Bab, I am much interested in our little Indian girl? She is a very beautiful child, and her race is not usually beautiful. I don't understand the girl looking as she does. I shall go to the hospital with you to see her soon. Now, hurry along, child, and order the tea." Miss Sallie paused for an instant. "And tell the waiter to see that the service is good. English people are so particular about their tea!"

Barbara was back from her errand just in time to see a pony carriage drive up in front of the hotel. She went forward to meet their guests, sighing a little to herself. "I do wish Ruth and Mollie would come. I am sure I shan't know how to talk to these English girls by myself. I hardly spoke to them the night of our famous coon hunt."

Gwendolin and Dorothy Morton came half shyly forward. They were tall, willowy girls, with soft, brown hair and lovely complexions.

"I know why English girls are thought to look like roses," flashed through Bab's mind. "These girls are just like roses bending from long stems." Barbara came forward, speaking in her usual frank fashion. "I am so glad to see you," she declared. "Will you come to our little private balcony? If it is not too cold for you, Miss Stuart wishes to have tea out there."

Gwendolin and Dorothy Morton followed Bab in silence. As English girls do not talk so much as American girls on first acquaintance, Barbara felt compelled to keep up the conversation.

"I am ever so sorry," she went on; "but my friend, Ruth Stuart, and my sister, Mollie, are not yet back from the hospital. They have gone to ask about our little Indian girl."

"Your little Indian girl!" exclaimed Dorothy Morton, surprised into talking. "Why, what do you mean?"

Bab glanced back over her shoulder as the three girls started into the hotel. "There come Ruth and Mollie now!" she exclaimed. "They can tell you about our little Eunice better than lean."

A crimson motor car was speeding up the avenue.

"How well Miss Stuart drives her car!" laughed Gwendolin Morton. "But she will have to be very careful; the road laws are very strict in Lenox. I must tell her that, if she is arrested, she will surely be taken to prison. I don't know how to drive a car. My sister and I are more fond of horses. Do you ride, Miss Thurston?"

Barbara colored. She wondered what these wealthy English girls would think of the kind of riding to which she had been accustomed. An old bareback horse, a Texas pony, once even a mule had been Barbara's steeds. So she answered shyly: "Yes, I do ride a little. But, of course, I don't ride in the beautiful way I know you and your sister do."

"We are very anxious to have you and your friends take part in our autumn sports at Lenox," urged Dorothy Morton.

Barbara and the two English girls were waiting at the hotel door for Ruth and Mollie.

In another moment Ruth jumped from her car, and, followed by Mollie, came hurrying up to her guests.

"I am so sorry not to be here when you arrived," she explained. "We just flew home. I was afraid of being held up every minute. But we were kept waiting so long at the hospital that I knew we were late. Do let's join Aunt Sallie. She will grow impatient."

Miss Stuart came forward from her veranda into their private sitting-room. "I am so glad to see you," she said to the two English girls.

"And we are delighted to be your first guests, Miss Stuart," said Gwendolin, who was the elder of the two girls. "Mr. Heller wishes to come in and pay his respects to you later, and I believe Mr. Winthrop Latham and his nephew are on their way now. We passed them as we drove here."

"Aunt Sallie," Ruth spoke softly a few moments later, when she thought no one was listening, "little Eunice is better. But Naki had to take her to the hospital at Pittsfield. He could not find a place for her here. Fortunately, Pittsfield is only a few miles from Lenox over a simply perfect road, so we shan't mind going back and forth in the car. Naki and Ceally are keeping the poor old Indian grandmother with them. Ceally says she seems subdued and frightened."

Ruth turned rosy red. From the silence in the room she knew her guests were hearing what she said. "I beg your pardon," she explained, turning to Dorothy Morton, who was nearest her. "Please forgive my bad manners. We are so interested in our new protégée that I forget that you know nothing of her."

"But we should like to know, awfully!" Dorothy declared. "Who is this Indian girl? I thought all the Indians had vanished from the Berkshires."

But Mr. Winthrop Latham and his nephew Reginald were at the door.

Behind them was a plump little German, with blond hair parted in the middle, a tiny waxed mustache and near-sighted blue eyes. He was Franz Heller, the Secretary at the German Embassy. He could usually be found somewhere in the neighborhood of Gwendolin Morton.

Reginald Latham came up to Bab and sat down next her.

"Please," he whispered immediately, "do not speak of the little Indian girl before my uncle."

"Why not?" queried Bab, in astonishment.

"I can't explain to you now!" Reginald faltered. His uncle's eyes were fastened on him.

Miss Stuart announcing that tea was waiting on the balcony, the little party adjourned to the veranda and stood talking and admiring the view. It was a wonderful, clear October day, radiant with warm sunshine.

Mr. Winthrop Latham stood near Miss Stuart, assisting her to serve the tea. The young people were talking in a group near them.

"I say, Ruth!" exclaimed Dorothy Morton. "Forgive my calling you Ruth so early in our acquaintance, but if I call you Miss Stuart, your aunt may think I am speaking to her. Do please tell us about the mysterious little Indian girl, who is your protégée. Where did you find her?"

Reginald Latham, who was near Barbara, broke into the conversation.

"Tell Miss Stuart about our fall sports, Dorothy!" he urged.

"Tell me of them afterwards," said Dorothy. "I must hear about this Indian child first."

"Well, the story of our little Indian girl is a long and rather odd one," Ruth asserted. "As she is really Mollie's discovery, not mine, Mollie must tell you about her."

Mollie was embarrassed at suddenly finding herself the center of so many eyes.

Mr. Winthrop Latham had turned around, and was also watching her. He had caught Ruth's last speech.

"Why," confessed Mollie, "the story of our little Indian girl is simple enough, but it is very strange."

The little girl paused. Reginald Latham's eyes were fixed on her in a strange gaze; but she had started to tell her tale and must go on. Mollie looked over at Aunt Sallie, and the latter nodded her approval.

Quietly Mollie told of her wood nymph first leading her astray on the mountain; of Eunice's visit to her, next day, and of Bab's accidental shooting of the child afterwards.

"I don't think our discovery of the little Indian girl was so odd," said Mollie. "What I think is strange is that no one around here ever knew of her before. Just think, Eunice is thirteen or fourteen years old and she has been kept hidden in these hills by her old Indian grandmother all her life. She had never been to a town until she was taken to the hospital by our guide, Naki. Yet she is so pretty and gentle. I love her already." The little girl had a queer feeling as if she were defending Eunice -- she did not know why.

A voice broke into the conversation. "You say, my dear" -- Mr. Latham spoke sternly -- "that you and your friends have found an old Indian woman and a child called Eunice hidden in the woods back of you? The thing is impossible. The old woman and the girl are probably gypsies or tramps. They cannot be Indians. I have reason to know the history of the Indians in this part of the country very well. My eldest brother married an Indian girl. She was the last of her people in this vicinity, and she died about fifteen years ago."

Mollie did not answer. A sudden silence fell upon the little group.

Barbara looked at Reginald. She understood, now, why he was often afraid of his uncle. The older man would not endure contradiction.

"Reginald, we must say good-bye to Miss Stuart," his uncle commanded.

"Don't go just yet, Mr. Latham," pleaded Gwendolin Morton. "You promised to help me explain to Miss Stuart the plan for our day of sports. You see, Miss Stuart, every season at Lenox we have an annual entertainment for the benefit of our hospital fund. This year father is to take charge of the sports, which we try to make just as informal and jolly as possible. One of the reasons for my call was to ask you to let your girls help us out with our amusements. As soon as I told my father we had met some delightful American girls who were camping near here, he suggested that we invite them to join in our sports. We intend to have some really good riding; but the other games are only jokes. Did you ever hear of a dummy race or a thread-and-needle race?"

Miss Stuart shook her head, smilingly, as she said, "Miss Morton, I don't even try to keep up with the ways young people have of entertaining themselves these days; but I am sure, whatever your Lenox sports may be, my 'Automobile Girls' will be happy to take part in them."

"That's awfully jolly of you, Miss Stuart!" declared Dorothy Morton, who was the younger and more informal of the English girls. She turned to Ruth.

"Won't you come in and have a game of archery with us to-morrow afternoon? Father and mother will both be at home. We can tell you all of our plans for next week."

"We'll be happy to come," laughed Ruth, "but none of us know how to use the bow. That is an English game, isn't it? We shall be delighted to look on."

"Oh, archery is all the rage at Lenox," little Mr. Heller explained. "Perhaps you will let me show your friends how to shoot."

Ruth shook her head. "We shall have plenty to learn if we are to take part in your queer races next week. If my friend, Miss Carter, is better to-morrow you may expect us."

Grace came out on the porch. "I am well, already!" she apologized. "At least I decided that, headache or no headache, I couldn't miss all the fun this afternoon. So here I am!"

"Now, we must positively say good-bye, Miss Stuart," declared Mr. Latham, extending his hand. "I want to take you and your girls for a drive to Lake Queechy. Then you must see the place where the Hawthorne's 'little red house' formerly stood. The house burned down some years ago, but the site is interesting, for Hawthorne lived in the Berkshires a number of years and wrote 'The House of Seven Gables' here. We have plenty of literary associations, Miss Stuart. My people have lived here so long that I take a deep interest in the history of the place."

"Lake Queechy," Miss Sallie exclaimed sentimentally, "is the lake named for Susan Warner, the author of 'Queechy' and 'The Wide, Wide World.' Dear me, I shed quantities of tears over those books in my day. But girls don't care for such weepy books nowadays, do they? They want more fire and adventure. I am sure I should be ashamed of my 'Automobile Girls' if they fell to crying in the face of an obstacle. They prefer to overcome it. We shall be delighted to drive with you. Good-bye!"

"Curious, Reginald!" declared Mr. Winthrop Latham, when the two men had walked several yards from the hotel in silence. "That is a very remarkable story that your friends tell of the discovery of an unknown Indian child. Did they call her Eunice? That is strangest of all! You have been up on the hill with these girls a number of times. Have you seen this girl?"

Reginald mumbled something. It was not audible. But his uncle understood he had not seen the girl.

"Oh, well, the old woman is probably a gypsy tramp," Mr. Latham concluded, "but I will look up the child, some day, for my own satisfaction. Reg, boy, the rudder of our airship will be repaired in the next few days. Do you feel equal to another aerial flight?"

"Most assuredly I do," the nephew replied. The two men walked on. But, for once, they were not thinking of their favorite hobby. The mind of each man dwelt upon Mollie's story of a poor little Indian girl. What connection could she have with these two men of wealth and position?

Reginald Latham's suspicions were growing. The Indian girl might be an obstacle in his path.

"I must tell mother all I have heard and guessed," he reflected. "Under no circumstances must uncle be allowed to see this child. Mother will know how to manage. We may have to spirit the girl away, if she is the child I fear she is. But we must make sure."

Reginald Latham was not a pleasant man, but he was clever. If he had reason to fear little Eunice he would work quietly. What chance had the child and her ignorant, uncivilized grandmother against him?

Mr. Winthrop Latham's thoughts were of a different kind. "The young Indian girl," he assured himself, "can have no further possible interest for me."



Chapter XVI

At The Ambassador's


"Shall we walk down to the postoffice, Ruth?" Barbara asked. "I am awfully anxious for a letter from mother."

"Let's all go!" urged Grace. "We have just time enough before dressing for our call at the Ambassador's. I am told that everyone goes for his own letters in Lenox. We shall see all the social lights. They say titled foreigners line up in front of the Lenox postoffice to look for heiresses. Ruth, you are our only heiress. Here's a chance for you!" teased Grace.

Ruth looked provoked. "I won't be called horrid names, Grace Carter!" she asserted, indignantly. "Heiress or no heiress, when my turn comes for a husband I won't look at any old foreigner. A good American citizen will be a fine enough husband for me!"

"Hear! hear!" laughed Mollie, putting on her hat. "Don't let us quarrel over Ruth's prospective husband just at present. It reminds me of the old maid who shed tears before the pot of boiling fat. When her neighbor inquired what troubled her, the spinster said she was thinking that if she had ever been married her child might have played in the kitchen, and might have fallen into the pot of boiling oil! Come on, 'old maid Ruth,' let's be off."

The girls walked briskly through the bracing mountain air.

"I expect you will have a letter from Hugh or Ralph, Ruth," Barbara suggested. "They told you they would write you if they could come to Lenox for the week of games."

Ruth went into the postoffice to inquire for their mail. The other girls waited on the outside. A tall young woman swept by them, leading a beautiful English deerhound on a long silver chain. She had very blond hair and light blue eyes. Her glance rested on Barbara for the space of half a second.

"Dear me!" Barbara laughed. "How very young and insignificant that intensely superior person makes me feel! Maybe she is one of the heiresses Grace told us about."

"Here is a letter for you, Grace!" said Ruth, returning to her friends. "The one addressed to you, Bab, is probably for you and Mollie together. It is from your mother. Then I have two letters for myself and two for Aunt Sallie. It is all right; Hugh and Ralph will be here the first thing next week," announced Ruth, tearing open one of her notes.

"What would Aunt Sallie say if she could see us opening our mail on the street?" queried Barbara, as she promptly followed Ruth's bad example. "But this is such a quiet spot, under these old elms, that I must have a peep at mother's letter. Mother is having a beautiful time in St. Paul with Cousin Betty, Molliekins," continued Bab. "And what do you think? Our queer old cousin is sending us another present. What has come over her? First she sends the beautiful silk dresses and now -- but mother doesn't tell what this last gift is. She says it is to be a surprise for us when we come back from Lenox."

"What fun!" cried Mollie. "Our crabbed cousin is having a slight change of heart. She has always been dreadfully bored with Bab and me," Mollie explained to Ruth and Grace, "but she is devoted to mother, and used to want her to live with her. But she never could make up her mind to endure us girls. Tell me some more news, Bab."

"Well," Barbara read on, "mother has had a letter from Mr. Stuart; but Ruth's letter will give her this news. He writes that his new gold mine is a perfect wonder. I am so glad for you, Ruth, dear!" Barbara ended.

"Oh!" Ruth exclaimed. "Father is so lucky! But we really don't need any more money. Just think, father only has Aunt Sallie and poor me to spend it all on. If he only had a big family it would be worth while to grow richer and richer. I wish you were really my sisters. Then you would let me share some of all this money with you, Bab dear," whispered Ruth in her best friend's ear, as the two girls dropped behind Mollie and Grace.

Barbara shook her head. Yet the tears started to her eyes in spite of the fact that she was out on the street. "You generous darling!" she replied. "If you aren't sharing your money with us by giving us all these good times, what are you doing? But, of course, we couldn't take your money in any other way. Mollie and I are used to being poor. We don't mind it so very much. Let's hurry. Aunt Sallie will want us to put on our best clothes for our call at the Ambassador's. Thank goodness for Cousin Betty's present to Mollie and me of the silk suits. We have never had such fine clothes before in our lives."

"Miss Sallie," inquired Barbara, an hour later, "will Mollie and I do for the call at the Ambassador's? You know this is the great event in our lives. Who knows but the Ambassador may even shake hands with humble me! Do Ambassadors shake hands, Aunt Sallie? Why, 'The Automobile Girls' may meet the President some day, we are getting so high in the world."

"Who knows indeed, Barbara?" responded Miss Stuart complacently. "Far more unlikely things have often happened. You and Mollie look very well, dear. Indeed, I never saw you in more becoming frocks. They are very dainty and stylish."

"Aunt Sallie," confessed Mollie, "I never had a silk dress before in all my life. Bab had one made over from an old one of mother's, but this is positively my first appearance 'in silk attire.'"

Bab's costume was of apricot rajah silk, made with a plaited skirt and a long coat, which fastened across her chest with a single gilt ornament. With it she wore a delicate lace blouse over silk of the same shade as her suit. Her hat was a large black chip with one long curling feather.

Mollie's dress was like Bab's, except that it was a delicate shade of robin's-egg blue, while her hat was of soft white felt, trimmed with a long blue feather.

"Let us look at ourselves in the mirror, Bab, until Miss Sallie is ready," whispered Mollie. "I want to try to get used to my appearance. Maybe you think this wealthy-looking person you now behold is some relative of yours -- possibly your sister! But just understand that, as I look at myself in that mirror, nothing can make me believe I am poor little Mollie Thurston, of Kingsbridge, New Jersey! Why, I am now about to call on the English Ambassador, younger brother to an earl. But I am a brave girl. I shall put on as bold a front as possible, and I shall try not to disgrace Aunt Sallie by making any breaks."

"You goose you!" laughed Bab. "But to tell you the truth, sweet Mistress Mollie, I feel pretty much as you do. There is Ruth calling us. They are ready to start."

"Come on, children!" cried Ruth. "The automobile is waiting. My goodness!" she exclaimed, as Mollie and Bab appeared before her. "How very elegant you look! Don't tell me fine feathers don't make fine-looking birds! Aunt Sallie, I am not magnificent enough to associate with these two persons." Ruth had on a beautiful white serge suit and Grace a long tan coat over a light silk dress; but, for the first time, Mollie and Barbara were the most elegantly dressed of the four girls.

"People will be taking you for the heiress, and marrying you to some horrid titled foreigner!" teased Ruth, pinching Mollie's pretty cheek.

Miss Stuart and her girls found the English Ambassador and his wife in the stately drawing room of their summer place in Lenox. The room was sixty feet in length and hung with beautiful paintings. The walls and furniture were upholstered in rose-colored brocade. Flowers were arranged in every possible place.

The newcomers had a confused feeling that there were twenty or thirty guests in the drawing room; but as the butler announced their names their hostess moved forward from a group of friends to speak to them. In another moment Dorothy Morton spied them, and came up with her arm through that of a tall, middle-aged man, very slender, with closely cut blond hair and a long drooping mustache. He looked very intellectual and impressive.

"Miss Stuart, this is my father," said Dorothy simply. The Ambassador bowed low over Miss Stuart's hand. He was then introduced to each of "The Automobile Girls" in turn.

The Ambassador's eyes twinkled. He saw his young guests were a little awed at meeting so great a diplomatic personage.

"You are the girls, aren't you, who have been camping on one of our Berkshire hills?" the Ambassador inquired. "My daughters have told me about your delightful hut. Curious, I never heard of the little cabin's existence. I want you to show me the place. Some day I may follow your example and run away to the woods for a few weeks. Dorothy tells me you will help us with our games next week."

Miss Stuart excused herself. Mrs. Latham wished to talk with her in another part of the drawing room.

"May we count on you for the Gymkana races, Ruth?" asked Dorothy Morton.

"Gymkana races!" questioned Ruth, shaking her head. "What in the world can you mean?"

"Remember," laughed her hostess, "I told you our sports were to be a huge joke. You must have a sense of humor, or you won't want to take part. You know we have horse show grounds here in Lenox. Well, the Gymkana race this year will take place over their meadow. Indeed, all the sports are to be held there. Father, you explain what the games are like," Dorothy requested.

The Ambassador looked very grave.

"Miss Stuart," he asked, "will you or your friends drive a turkey, a duck, a hen, or a gander in our Gymkana race? My daughter, Dorothy, has, I believe, reserved an old gray goose as her especial steed; but you can make any other choice of racer that you may desire. The only point of the game is to get the nose of your steed first under the blue ribbon. It may take a good deal of racing and chasing on your own part to accomplish it."

Dorothy inquired, turning first to Ruth, then to Bab, Mollie and Grace, "May I put down your names for this race?"

Ruth laughed. "Certainly I shall enter," she declared. "I have as good a nerve as anyone else. You must give me time to decide on what animal I shall drive."

"I'll join, too!" Grace agreed. "Is this game for women only?"

"Yes," Dorothy replied. "Other distinguished sports are reserved for the men. What do you think of my serious-minded father? He is down for the 'egg and spoon' race. So are Franz Heller and Mr. Winthrop Latham. I mean to ask your two men friends, Mr. Post and Mr. Ewing, to enter, too. It's great sport. The men have to run across the track carrying a raw egg in a desert spoon. The man who first gets to the winning post without a mishap is the winner. But there will be other games as well. I am just mentioning a few of them."

Gwendolin Morton approached with Franz Heller and the tall blond girl whom "The Automobile Girls" had seen for a moment at the postoffice.

"We have to come to believe in the American fashion of introducing our friends," declared Miss Morton. "You know, in England it is not the custom to introduce people to one another at a tea party. May I present my friend, Maud Warren, to you, Miss Stuart, Miss Carter, and the Misses Thurston."

The four girls bowed. Maud Warren inclined her head slightly, giving each girl in turn a supercilious stare.

"I suppose father and Dorothy have been persuading you to take part in the nonsensical side of our entertainment next week," inquired Gwendolin. "I am trying to look after the riding. Do any of you ride horseback well enough to go in for the hurdle jumping? I warn you, you will find it difficult to win. Miss Warren is one of the best riders in New York. She has taken prizes at hurdle jumping before, at her riding school."

Ruth declined. "I am afraid no one of us rides well enough to go in for this contest. I ride, of course, but I am not equal to the jumping."

Ruth spied Barbara looking at her with longing eyes.

"I beg your pardon, Bab!" Ruth laughed. "I had no right to decline the hurdle jumping for all of us. Would you like to try?"

"Of course, I should like to try!" Barbara exclaimed. "But I know it is out of the question. I have no horse, and I haven't a riding habit here." Barbara turned shyly to the Ambassador. "I have never done any real hurdle jumping," she explained. "But I have jumped over all kinds of fences riding through the country."

The Ambassador smiled. "You need no better training for hurdle races," he replied.

"If a horse is what you need," cried Dorothy Morton, "why not use one from our stables. We have a number of riding horses. Do let me lend you one and enter the hurdle jumping contest. It is a dangerous amusement, however. I won't try it."

"Oh, I am not in the least afraid," Bab declared. "Only, if I am left at the post, and can't take a single hurdle, you must forgive me."

"Well, you understand," finished the Ambassador, "our amusements are only for our own friends."

"Come here, Mollie," called Miss Stuart, from her corner of the room, where she was seated near Mrs. Latham.

"Mollie," explained Miss Sallie, as the child approached, "Mrs. Latham is much interested in our little Indian girl. Her son, Reginald, has told her of the accident to Eunice. Mrs. Latham is anxious to know to what hospital in Pittsfield Naki has taken the child. I did not ask Ruth. Can you tell us the name?"

Mollie looked at Mrs. Latham steadily. The older woman dropped her eyes. "Eunice is not yet allowed to see visitors," she answered.

"Oh, I have no wish to call on the child," Mrs. Latham protested, "but if the Indian girl and her old grandmother are in want I shall send a man to look after them. My brother is most generous to the poor, Miss Stuart."

But Mollie went on. "Thank you, Mrs. Latham, but Eunice and her grandmother are not poor. Ruth is looking after them now. The grandmother wishes to take Eunice back to their wigwam on the hill, when the little girl is well enough to be moved."

Mrs. Latham frowned. She had her own reasons for wishing to discover the address of the Indian woman and her child. Yet she did not want to appear to be much interested.

Barbara came up to join Mollie.

"Your sister seems determined that no one shall take interest in your little Indian protégée except her own friends," declared Mrs. Latham, smiling at Bab. "Perhaps you would not object to telling me where the child is located."

"Why certainly not!" Barbara exclaimed frankly, looking in surprise at Mollie.

But Mollie interrupted her. The little girl's cheeks were burning hot. She was conscious of her own bad manners, and of Miss Stuart's look of disappointment. Yet she spoke before Bab could continue.

"I am sorry for Mrs. Latham to think I am rude in not telling her where Eunice is staying; but it seems to me that, if her old Indian grandmother has kept Eunice hidden all these years, she must have had some good reason. It does not seem fair to me for us to talk about her just because, through an accident, we had to send her to town. I think, if the grandmother wishes to keep Eunice hidden, we ought at least to ask the old woman's permission before we tell anyone where she is staying. I am awfully sorry," Mollie ended, apologetically, "but I do feel that I am right."

Mrs. Latham was very angry. "I am sure I beg your pardon, Miss Thurston," she rejoined icily, before she moved away. "I meant nothing by my harmless inquiry. I can assure you I am not unduly interested in your protégée. If you wish to keep the gypsy girl's hiding place a secret, do so, by all means."

"Mollie, I am exceedingly angry with you!" said Miss Sallie.

"How could you be so horrid, Mollie?" whispered Bab.

Mollie's blue eyes were swimming in tears, but she would not let them fall on her flushed cheeks. She knew she must say good-bye to her new acquaintances, so she dared not answer Miss Sallie then.

But on the way back to their hotel, seated next Miss Stuart in the automobile, Mollie tried to offer an explanation for her rude behavior.

"Miss Sallie," she pleaded softly, "I know you are dreadfully angry with me; and I am afraid you won't forgive me; but I just couldn't make up my mind to let Mrs. Latham know where to find Eunice and her old grandmother. I know you will think I am foolish. Perhaps I am. But I have a feeling that Reginald Latham and his mother mean no good to Eunice. I can't help remembering how the old squaw acted when she first heard the name of Latham. I cannot believe she was just acting for effect as Reginald Latham said she was. There is some mystery about little Eunice. Do you think, Miss Sallie, we girls have a right to betray the old Indian woman's secrets?"

"My sympathies are all with Mollie, Aunt Sallie!" Ruth declared. "I shall have to come in for a share of her scolding."

But Barbara shook her head. "I never knew anyone so prejudiced as Mollie is against Reginald Latham. What on earth do you suppose he and his mother could have against a poor old squaw and her little girl? Would you have helped pulled Reginald down out of his airship, if you had known how you would dislike him, Mollie?" Bab asked.

But Mollie was looking wistfully at Miss Sallie, and did not heed Barbara's question.

"I don't care what a young girl may think on any subject," Miss Stuart declared firmly, "she has no right to be rude to an older woman. And Mollie was undeniably rude to Mrs. Latham in refusing to answer her simple question. It could have done no harm to have told her the name of the hospital where Eunice is being treated."

"No, it wouldn't have done Eunice any harm to tell that much, Mollie," Ruth agreed, "because, if that very determined Mrs. Latham wishes to discover where little Eunice is, she will certainly accomplish it. Why, she rules her grown-up son with a rod of iron!"

"Mark my words!" said Grace, joining quietly in the conversation -- Grace was not often given to expressing an opinion, so even Miss Sallie listened to her with respect. "I would like to bet a great big box of candy that Mrs. Latham sees Eunice and her Indian grandmother before they are many weeks older. The Lathams have some connection with little Eunice, though goodness knows I can't guess what it is."

Mollie had nothing more to say. She was in the motor car now. Her tears could flow freely.

Miss Sallie pretended, for a few moments, not to see that Mollie was crying. A breach in social etiquette was a sore offense to Miss Stuart. But after a little while she put her arm around the little girl and gave her a gentle squeeze.

"I will forgive you, this time, dear," she murmured, "but I never want you, Mollie, to be rude to a grown person again. And I don't think, my dear, it is a good idea to have a suspicious nature."

"I didn't mean to be rude," Mollie sighed, putting her head against Miss Stuart's arm. "I was only trying not to tell Mrs. Latham what she wanted to know." Because it was now dark, and Mollie could not see her face, Miss Sallie smiled.



Chapter XVII

A Visit To Eunice


"O girls, I have had the most splendiferous time!" cried Bab, bounding into the hotel sitting room. She wore Ruth's tan colored riding habit and a little brown derby. Her curls were drawn up in a knot at the back of her head. Her brown eyes were sparkling. She pranced into the room, as though she were still on horseback.

"Miss Sallie, I never knew what horseback riding could mean until to-day. Dorothy Morton has lent me a perfect dream of a horse. Its name is Beauty. It is black and slim and has a white star on its nose. My, don't I wish it were mine! Well, Beauty and I took our hurdles to-day, at the Ambassador's farm, as though we had been jumping together all our lives. See, here!" Barbara vaulted lightly over a low stool, and stood in the center of the room, brandishing her riding crop.

"Barbara Thurston!" Mollie exclaimed.

"Good gracious!" protested Bab. "I didn't dream we had a visitor. I am so sorry! I have been practising for the hurdle jumping next week," Bab ended tamely.

A stout man, with iron gray hair and a kindly expression, smiled at Barbara.

"Oh, don't mind my presence," he said. "I have a daughter of my own who is fond of horseback riding."

"Barbara," explained Miss Stuart, "this is Doctor Lewis. He has been good enough to come over from the hospital to tell us about Eunice."

Barbara noticed that Ruth, Grace and Mollie had been listening to the doctor with absorbed attention.

"The Indian girl has asked for her friends several times in the last few days," the doctor continued, "but she has not been well enough to be permitted to talk. The nurses tell me the child had been most patient. They are much attracted toward her. Now, I think it may do the little girl good to see you. Naki, your guide has explained to me the circumstances of your finding of the child. It is most remarkable. But I wonder if you are really interested in the girl, or whether you are being kind to her, now, only because of her accident?"

"Why do you ask me, doctor?" Miss Stuart inquired quietly.

"Because," the doctor answered honestly, "I am much interested in the child myself. I would like to know that she has friends. The grandmother, stupid and ignorant though she is, seems devoted to the child. As for Eunice herself, she is an enigma. She is not in the least like the grandmother. The old Indian woman is probably of mixed white and Indian blood, but the child has less Indian blood. Eunice must have had a white mother or father. I have asked the child about her parents, but she knows absolutely nothing about them, and the Indian woman will not tell. She told me, very decidedly, that it was not my business to inquire; that I was to make Eunice well after which she and her grandchild would go back to their wigwam and live in peace. But that beautiful little girl ought not to grow up in entire ignorance. She should be educated, and given an opportunity to develop."

"I agree with you, doctor," Miss Sallie rejoined, "but the case will present difficulties. The old grandmother is the child's natural guardian. She will never be persuaded to give her up."

"Doctor," declared Ruth shyly, "if it were possible I should love to educate little Eunice. I could send her to school and do whatever is best for her. But I am afraid we have no right to do it for her."

"Well, I cannot recommend kidnapping the child, Miss Ruth," the doctor replied, "but, perhaps, you girls can persuade the old Indian to be less obstinate. Come and see my little charge when you can. She is quite well enough to see you. I shall not have to keep her at the hospital a great while longer. Her arm is still bandaged. She will soon be able to walk about."

"Aunt Sallie," Ruth asked, as soon as the doctor left, "may I have Eunice up at the hotel with us, as soon as she is well enough to leave the hospital?"

Miss Sallie demurred. "I must see the child again first, Ruth, dear. She can come here for the day, but not longer. She will be best with Naki and Ceally for a time. Now, Ruth, don't be so impetuous. You must not plan impossible schemes. Remember, this Indian child is entirely uneducated. She does not know the first principles of good manners. But I am perfectly willing that you should do what seems best for her."

"When shall we go to see Eunice?" Ruth asked, turning to the other three girls.

"Oh, let us go this afternoon, please, Ruth," pleaded Mollie.

"But Mr. Latham has asked us to go driving with him," Barbara objected.

"Mr. Latham has only asked Aunt Sallie and one of us, Bab," Ruth rejoined. "Suppose you go with Aunt Sallie. Reginald Latham would rather have you along. And, to tell you the truth, Grace and Mollie and I would much rather go to see Eunice."

Mollie and Grace both nodded.

"But I don't want to be left out of the visit to Eunice, either," Bab protested. "Never mind," she went on, lowering her voice; "if Reginald Latham has any connection with Eunice, see if I don't find it out this afternoon."

"Never, Bab!" cried Grace.

"Well, just you wait and see!" ended Mistress Barbara.

"Mollie, you go into the room to see Eunice first," said Ruth as they reached the hospital. "Grace and I will wait outside the door. You can call us when you think we may come in. Eunice may be frightened."

But Ruth need not have feared.

As Mollie went into her room, Eunice was sitting up in bed. Her straight black hair was neatly combed and hung over her shoulders in two heavy braids. The child had on a fresh white night gown. Already she looked fairer from the short time spent indoors.

Eunice stretched out her slim brown hands to Mollie.

"My little fair one!" she cried rapturously.

"I feared never to see you again. My grandmother told me I must return to the wigwam as soon as I am well; but I do not want to leave this pretty bed. See how white and soft it is."

Mollie kissed Eunice.

The child looked at her curiously. "Why do you do such a strange thing to me?" asked Eunice.

Mollie was amazed. "Don't you know what a kiss is, Eunice? I kissed you because I am fond of you."

Eunice laughed gleefully. "Indians do not kiss," she declared. "But I like it."

"Shall I ask the other girls to come in?" Mollie inquired. "My two friends, Ruth and Grace, are waiting in the hall. They wish to see you."

Eunice nodded. "I like to see you while grandmother is away," she confided. "Grandmother says it is not wise for me to talk so much. But it is hard to be all the time so silent as the Indians are. Some days I have talked to the wild things in the woods."

Ruth dropped a bunch of red roses on Eunice's bed.

The child clutched them eagerly. "It is the red color that I love!" she cried in delight.

"Eunice," Ruth asked, "do you remember your father and mother?"

Eunice shook her head. "I remember no one," she replied. "Long ago, there was an old Indian man. He made canoes for me out of birch bark. He was my grandmother's man -- husband, I think you call him in your language."

The three "Automobile Girls" were disappointed. Eunice could remember no associations but Indian ones. There was nothing to prove that Eunice was not an Indian except the child's appearance.

Mollie decided to make another venture.

"Eunice," she asked, "do you still wear the gold chain around your neck? I saw it the day you were hurt. It is so pretty I should like you to show it to my friends."

The Indian girl looked frightened. "You will not tell my grandmother?" she pleaded. "She would be very angry if she knew I wore it. I found the pretty chain, one day, among some other gold things in an old box in the wigwam." Why! Eunice pointed in sudden excitement to the watch Ruth wore fastened on the outside of her blouse -- "there was a round shiny thing like that in the box. The other golden ornaments are at the wigwam. Only this chain is Indian. So there seemed no wrong in my wearing it."

Eunice slipped her chain from under her gown. Ruth and Grace examined it closely.

"Eunice," Grace exclaimed, "there are two English letters engraved on the pendant of your chain. They are E. L., I am pretty sure."

"The same letters are on all the gold things," Eunice declared.

"Well, E. stands for Eunice plainly enough," volunteered Ruth, "but I can't guess what the L. means."

Mollie said nothing.

"You know, Ruth," protested Grace, "the initials may not be Eunice's. The child only found the chain at the wigwam. There is no telling where the jewelry she speaks of came from."

"Oh!" Ruth cried, in a disappointed tone, "I never thought of that!"

"Eunice, we must go now," announced Ruth, "but I want you to promise me not to go back to the wigwam with your grandmother until you have first seen me. Tell your grandmother I wish to talk with her. I want you to come to see where I live."

Eunice shook her head. "I should be afraid," she replied simply.

"But you are not afraid with me, Eunice," Mollie said. "If you will promise to come to see us, when you are better, you shall stay right by me all the time. Will you promise?"

"I promise," agreed the child.

"Naki is to let me hear as soon as you are well enough to leave the hospital," said Ruth.

"O Ruth," whispered Mollie. "Eunice will have no clothes to wear up at the hotel, even to spend the day. Shall I send her a dress of mine?"

"Eunice," Ruth asked, "do you know what a present is?"

"No," was the reply.

"Well, a present is something that comes in a box, and is soft and warm this time," Ruth explained. "Eunice must wear the present when she is ready to leave the hospital. When you are well enough to come to see us, I am coming to the hospital for you. I am going to take you flying to the hotel where we are staying, on the back of a big red bird."

"You make fun," said the Indian solemnly.

"You just wait until you see my motor car, Eunice!" cried Ruth. "It is the biggest bird, and it flies as fast as any you have ever seen. So do please hurry up and get well."

"I will, now. I did not wish to get well before," Eunice replied. "It is cold and lonely up on the hill in the snow time."



Chapter XVIII

Plans For The Society Circus


"Ralph and Hugh! I am so delighted to see you!" cried Mollie Thurston, a few days later. She was alone in their sitting room writing a letter, when the two friends arrived. "We girls have been dreadfully afraid you would not arrive in time for our Society Circus. You know the games take place to-morrow."

"Oh, it is a 'Society Circus' we have come to! So that is the name Lenox has given to its latest form of social entertainment?" laughed Hugh. "Sorry we couldn't get here sooner, Mollie; but you knew you could depend on our turning up at the appointed time. Where are the other girls and Aunt Sallie?"

"They are over at the Fair Grounds, watching Bab ride," Mollie explained. "Ralph, I am awfully worried about Bab. One of the amusements of the circus is to be a riding contest. Of course, Bab rides very well, but I don't think mother would approve of her undertaking such dangerous riding as jumping over hurdles. Ambassador Morton has told Aunt Sallie that there will be no danger. He is used to English girls riding across the country; and I know, at the riding schools in New York, they give these same contests; but we have never had any riding lessons. I can't help being nervous."

"I wouldn't worry, Mollie," Ralph replied kindly. "I am sure Bab is equal to any kind of horseback exercise. Remember the first time we saw her, Hugh? She was riding down the road in the rain, astride an old bareback horse. We nicknamed her 'Miss Paul Revere' then and there. There isn't any use trying to keep Bab off a horse, Mollie, when she has the faintest chance to get on one."

"Come on, then," laughed Mollie, smiling at the picture Ralph's remark had brought to her mind. "We will walk over to the Fair Grounds. You will find nearly everybody we know in Lenox over there. You remember that you boys gave Ruth and Bab liberty to put your names down for any of the games; come and find out what trouble they have gotten you into. You never dreamed of such absurd amusements as we are to have."

"Oh, we are game for anything," Hugh declared. "Lenox sports are the jolliest I have yet run across. Don't think any other place can produce anything just like them. Certainly the amusements are a bit unconventional, but they are all the more fun. 'Society Circus' is a good name for the entertainment. Anything goes in a 'Society Circus.'"

"What curious amusements people do have for the benefit of charities!" reflected Mollie. "But I expect the Lenox Hospital will receive a great deal of money from the sports this year. You see, they are in charge of the English Ambassador. That alone would make the entertainment popular."

"Is Mollie growing worldly wise, Hugh?" asked Ralph, with mock horror.

"Looks like it, Ralph," was the reply.

The boys and Mollie found Barbara in the midst of a gay circle of young people. Grace and Ruth were nowhere to be seen.

Aunt Sallie sat with Mrs. Morton in the grandstand. The Ambassador and Mr. Winthrop Latham wandered about near them. Many preparations were necessary for the next day's frolic.

In front of the grandstand stretched a wide, green field, enclosed with a low fence. A little distance off stood the club house.

Bab came forward with both hands extended to greet her friends. She gave one hand to Ralph, the other to Hugh.

"I am so glad to see you!" she declared. "I can't wait to shake your hands in the right way. We girls were so afraid you had turned 'quitters'! Come, this minute, and see Aunt Sallie. You must be introduced, too, to Ambassador and Mrs. Morton."

"But where are Ruth and Grace?" inquired Ralph.

"Over yonder," laughed Bab, pointing to the green inclosure in front of them.

The boys spied Ruth and Grace some distance off. The two girls were deep in conversation with a farm boy. Strutting around near them were a fat turkey gobbler and a Plymouth Rock rooster.

Just at this moment Ruth was giving her instructions. "Be sure you bring the turkey and the rooster over to the Fair Grounds by ten o'clock to-morrow morning."

The boy grinned. "I'll have 'em here sure, Miss."

"Ruth," asked Grace, as the two girls started back across the meadow to join their friends, "do you suppose it will be unkind for us to try to drive these poor barnyard fowls across a field before so many people? I presume the poor old birds will be frightened stiff. Whoever heard of anything so utterly absurd as a Gymkana race."

"Oh, no, you tender-hearted Grace," Ruth assured her. "I don't think the kind of pets we are to drive to-morrow will be much affected by our efforts. Indeed they are likely to lead us more of a chase than we shall lead them. And I don't believe the annoyance of being run across this field by us for a few yards equals the nervous shock of being scared by an automobile or a carriage. That alarm may overtake poor Brother Turkey and Mr. Rooster any day. I think our race is going to be the greatest fun ever! Why! I think I see Ralph Ewing and Hugh over there with the girls. Isn't that great?"

"Miss Morton!" Hugh was protesting gayly, as Grace and Ruth joined the crowd of their friends. "You don't mean to say that Barbara and Ruth have put Ralph's name and mine down for three of your performances? How shall we ever live through such a tremendous strain! Kindly explain to me what is expected of us."

Dorothy Morton got out her blankbook, where she had written each item of the next day's programme. "Well, Mr. Post, you and Mr. Ewing are down for three of our best events, 'The Egg and Spoon Race,' 'The Dummy Race' and 'The Thread and Needle Race.'"

"All right," declared Ralph, meekly accepting his fate, "but will you kindly tell me what a Thread and Needle Race is?"

"It is a very easy task, Ralph, compared with what Grace and I have undertaken," Ruth assured him. "All you do, in the 'Thread and Needle Race,' is to ride across this field on horseback carrying a needle. Of course, the real burden is on the woman. It always is. Some fair one is waiting for you at the end of your ride; she must sew a button on your coat. The sooner she can accomplish this, the better; for back you must ride, again, to the starting place, with the button firmly attached to your coat."

"Will you sew the button on for me, Mollie?" Ralph begged. He saw that Mollie was taking less part in the amusements than the other girls.

"Certainly!" agreed Mollie. "I accept your proffered honor. To tell you the truth, you stand a better chance of winning with my assistance. I am a much better seamstress than Bab."

"Oh, Bab, will be busy winning the riding prize," declared Ralph under his breath, smiling at his two friends, Mollie and Barbara.

Maud Warren, the New York girl famous for her skillful riding, was standing near them, talking with Reginald Latham. As she overheard Ralph's remark, a sarcastic smile flitted across her pale face. She had ignored Bab since their introduction at the Ambassador's; but the thought of this poor country girl's really knowing how to ride horseback was too much for her.

Barbara caught Maud Warren's look of amusement and blushed furiously. Then she turned to Ralph and said aloud, "Oh, I am not a rider when compared with Miss Warren."

"I don't believe in comparisons, Miss Thurston," declared the Ambassador, who had walked up to them. "But I think you are an excellent horsewoman. And I much prefer your riding in the old-fashioned way with a side saddle. I have observed that it is now fashionable, in Lenox, for the young women to ride astride."

"Girls," Miss Stuart declared, "it is luncheon time. We must return to the hotel."

"Now, does everybody understand about to-morrow?" asked Gwendolin Morton, when the last farewells had been said. "Remember, the Gymkana race is first. We started with this spectacle for fear the girls who have promised to take part might back out. Then, immediately after lunch, we shall have our horseback riding and jumping."

"I don't believe I have been wise in permitting you to engage in this horseback riding, Barbara," Miss Stuart declared on their way home. "I am afraid this jumping over fences is a dangerous sport. And I am not sure it is ladylike."

"But English girls do it all the time, Aunt Sallie. Jumping hurdles is taught in the best riding schools."

"You have had no lessons, Bab. Are you perfectly sure you do not feel afraid?" queried Miss Stuart.

"Oh, perfectly, dear Aunt Sallie," Bab assured her.



Chapter XIX

The Old Gray Goose


The day for the Lenox sports dawned clear and beautiful. By breakfast time the mists had rolled away from the hilltops. The trees, which were now beginning to show bare places among their leafy branches, beheld their own reflections in the lakes that nestled at the feet of the Lenox hills.

From their veranda Miss Stuart and her girls could see every style of handsome vehicle gliding along the perfect roads that led toward the Fair Grounds from the beautiful homes surrounding the old township.

The Society Circus could be enjoyed only by invitation. The tickets had been sent out only to the chosen. An invitation meant the payment of five dollars to the Hospital Fund.

Barbara was the first of the girls to be ready to start to the Fair Grounds. She wore the tan riding-habit that Ruth had loaned her. She was not to ride until later in the day, but it would not be feasible to return to the hotel to change her costume.

Miss Stuart and her party had been asked to be the guests at luncheon of Ambassador and Mrs. Morton.

Ruth and Grace were dressed in short skirts, loose blouses, and coats. They, also, looked ready for business. So only Miss Stuart and Mollie were able to wear the handsome toilets suited to the occasion. Mollie appeared in her blue silk costume. Miss Sallie was resplendent in a pearl gray broadcloth and a hat of violet orchids.

At half-past nine, Hugh Post and Ralph Ewing knocked at Miss Stuart's sitting-room door. Barbara had already seen Ruth's and Hugh's automobiles waiting for them on the hotel driveway. The boys were impatient to be off.

"Kindly explain to me, Ruth," asked Hugh, as the party finally started, "why you are carrying those two large bolts of ribbon? Are you going into the millinery business to-day?"

Ruth laughed. "Remember, if you please, that Grace and I are going in for a much more serious undertaking. These ribbons are the reins that we intend to use for our extraordinary race to-day. I shall endeavor to drive my turkey with blue strings. Grace considers red ribbon more adapted to the disposition and appearance of a rooster."

"Well, you girls certainly have nerve to take part in such a wild goose chase!" laughed the boy.

At the Fair Grounds Miss Stuart had reserved seats for her party near the green inclosure. Just in front of them was a little platform, decorated in red, white and blue bunting. On this were seated the Ambassador, Franz Heller, Mr. Winthrop Latham, Reginald and several other prominent Lenox residents.

Grace and Ruth were not allowed to remain with their friends; they were immediately hurried off to the clubhouse, where they found eight other girls waiting for them. The entrance of the ten girls, driving their extraordinary steeds, was to be the great opening event of the Society Circus.

At ten-thirty Mr. Winthrop Latham announced the first feature of their entertainment.

A peal of laughter burst from hundreds of throats.

Marching from the clubhouse were ten pretty girls, "shooing" in front of them ten varieties of barnyard fowls!

Dorothy Morton walked along in a stately fashion, led by an old gray goose. Neither Miss Morton nor the goose seemed in the least degree disturbed by the applause and laughter.

Ruth's turkey was not so amiable. It stopped several times in its promenade from the clubhouse, to crane its long neck back at the driver. The turkey's small eyes surveyed the scene about it with a look of mingled suspicion and indignation. The old rooster, which regarded the occasion as given in its honor, traveled in front of Grace at a lively pace.

Within the inclosed field, just in front of the little stand, where the Ambassador and his friends sat, two poles had been placed ten yards apart. Across the meadow, about an eighth of a mile, were two other poles of the same kind.

The girls were to try to persuade their curious steeds to run across the field from the first posts to those opposite. There the drivers were expected to turn their steeds and come safely back to the starting place.

Of the ten entrances Grace and her rooster made the best start. Ruth's turkey refused to stir; he had found a fat worm on the ground in front of him. His attention was riveted to that. Ruth flapped her blue silk reins in vain.

But a peacock bore the turkey company. Seeing himself and his barnyard acquaintances the center of so many eyes, Mr. Peacock was properly vain. He spread his beautiful fan-shaped tail, and would not be driven from the starting-place.

Dorothy Morton and her old gray goose continued their stately walk across the meadow. Only once did the goose's dignity forsake it. Grace's excitable rooster crossed its path! The rooster had made a short scurry to the side, his driver trying to persuade him back to the straight path. As the rooster hurried past the old gray goose, the latter stopped short, gave an indignant flap of its wings, rose a few inches from the ground, and pecked at Mr. Rooster. A moment later the goose continued its dignified march.

This incident was too much for Grace's irascible rooster. With a terrified crow he darted first this way, then that, until Grace was wound up in her own red silk reins. It seemed a hopeless task to try to reach the goal.

It was another instance of the old story of the hare and the tortoise. While Grace struggled with her rooster, a fat duck waddled past her. The duck's mistress had enticed her nearly the whole length of the journey by throwing grains of corn a yard or so ahead of her steed. Of course, any well disposed duck would move forward for refreshments.

Dorothy Morton arrived safely at the first goal with her old gray goose. But now her troubles really began. Her steed had no disposition to return to the crowd of noisy spectators that it had so cheerfully left behind. Dorothy tugged at one of her heavy white reins. The goose continued placidly on its way across the broad field. A goose is not a pleasant bird in attack, and Dorothy did not like to resort to forcible methods.

Assistance came from an unexpected quarter. Grace's rooster had at last been persuaded to rush violently between the required posts. In one of its excited turns, it brushed close behind the old goose. Here was a chance for revenge! The rooster gave a flying peck at the goose's tail feathers and flew on.

With a loud squawk the goose turned completely around. It flew up in the air, then down to the ground again, and made a rush for its opponent. But the rooster was unworthy game. It tacked too often to the right and left. The old gray goose gave up its pursuit in disgust. Since it was headed toward the starting-place it took up its walk again, Dorothy Morton meekly following it.

Only three of the girls remained in the race. Ruth had given up in despair. Her turkey had wandered off to parts unknown. Another girl sat on an upturned stump feeding crumbs to a motherly hen that had found walking disagreeable and had taken to scratching around the roots of a tree.

Dorothy passed her rival with the duck midway on her journey back home. The duck took no further interest in corn. It had eaten all that a well-bred fowl could desire. Now it squatted in the grass to enjoy a well-earned repose.

Shrieks of laughter rose when Dorothy Morton at last drove her gray goose back to the judge's stand.

"Hurrah for the old gray goose!" shouted the spectators in merry applause.

Franz Heller rushed down from the platform, carrying two wreaths in his hands. One was made of smilax and pink roses; the other a small wreath of evergreens with a silver bell fastened to it. Franz dropped the rose garland over Dorothy Morton's head. The small wreath with the bell he placed on the neck of the old gray goose.

Exhausted, Dorothy dropped into the nearest seat. The old gray goose wandered off toward home, led by a proud farmer's boy.

Scarcely had the laughter from the first event ceased, when the Thread and Needle Race was called for.

Ralph Ewing was an easy winner, thanks to Mollie's skill as a seamstress. Ralph declared the button she sewed on him should ornament his coat for evermore.

But the Egg and Spoon Race was a closely contested event.

The race appeared to be a tie between Ambassador Morton and Mr. Winthrop Latham.

Near-sighted Franz Heller made a brave start, but his eyes betrayed him. Carefully carrying his egg in a spoon which he bore at arm's length, Franz forgot to look down at his feet. He stumped his toe against a small stone. Crash, the egg rolled from his spoon! A yellow stream marked the place where it fell.

Mr. Latham and the Ambassador were painstaking men. They ran along, side by side, at a gentle pace. The man who arrived first at the appointed goal with an unbroken egg was, of course, the victor.

Unfortunately for Mr. Latham, an old habit overcame him. In the midst of the contest he paused to adjust his glasses. The movement of his arm was fatal. His spoon tipped and his egg rolled gently to the earth.

Still the Ambassador continued unmoved on his stately journey. With a smile he solemnly handed an unbroken white egg to Reginald Latham.

"Here, cook this for your breakfast!" he advised Reginald, who was acting as judge of this famous event.

Cutting a lemon with a saber, and the Dummy Race, ended the morning's sports. The afternoon was to be devoted to riding.



Chapter XX

Barbara And Beauty


"Barbara, you are eating very little luncheon," Ralph Ewing whispered in Bab's ear.

Ambassador and Mrs. Morton were entertaining a large number of friends in the dining-room of the clubhouse.

Maud Warren smiled patronizingly across the table at Barbara.

"Are you nervous about our riding this afternoon?" Maud asked. "Mr. Heller, do please pass Miss Thurston those sandwiches. She must want something to keep up her courage."

Kind-hearted Franz Heller hurriedly presented Bab with all the good things he could reach.

"Thank you, Mr. Heller," said Barbara, gratefully. Her cheeks were crimson; her brown eyes flashed, but she made no reply. Mollie, who knew Bab's quick temper, wondered how her sister controlled herself.

A horn blew to announce that the luncheon hour was ended.

"Run along, child," Miss Stuart called nervously to Bab. "Now, do, pray be careful! I shall certainly be glad when this riding contest is over."

While the guests of the Society Circus were at luncheon the field had been arranged for the hurdle-jumping.

Inside the green meadow four short length fences had been set up, a quarter of a mile apart. The girls were to ride around the field on their horses and jump the four hurdles.

Besides Bab and Maud Warren, four other Lenox girls had entered for this race. The riders were all skilled horsewomen.

Ambassador Morton waved his hand to Bab as she cantered by him on his little horse, Beauty. Her friends called out their good wishes. Bab smiled and nodded. She never looked so well or so happy as when she was on the back of a horse.

Ambassador Morton cautioned the girls before they started for their ride. "Remember, this is just a friendly contest," he urged. "We merely want to see you young people ride. No one may allow her horse to cross too close in front of another horse. Two of you must not try to jump the hurdle at the same time."

The six girls cantered bravely down the field.

Maud Warren and Bab rode side by side. Barbara was the youngest and smallest of the girls, but she rode her little horse as though she were a part of it.

"Don't sit too closely in your saddle," Maud Warren leaned over and spoke patronizingly to Barbara.

"Thank you!" Bab replied.

The girls were now riding swiftly across the meadow.

Ralph, Hugh, Ruth, Mollie and Grace left their places and hurried down to the fence that inclosed the riding ring.

At the first fence two of the horses refused to jump. The other four sprang easily over the bars.

By the rules of the contest, the girls were not allowed to urge their horses, so the two riders went quietly back.

At the second hurdle, another horse faltered. This left the riding contest to Bab, Maud Warren, and a Lenox girl, Bertha Brokaw.

Barbara was as gay and happy as possible. She had no thought of fear in riding. Beauty was a splendid little horse accustomed to being ridden across country. The beautiful little animal jumped over the low bars as easily as if she were running along the ground.

Bertha Brokaw was the first of the three girls to go over the third hurdle. Bab was close behind her.

Barbara had just risen in her saddle. "Go it, Beauty!" she whispered, gently.

At this instant, Maud Warren gave a smart cut to her horse and crossed immediately in front of Bab.

Beauty reared on her hind feet. Barbara and the horse swayed an instant in the air.

Miss Stuart rose from the chair where she sat. Mrs. Morton gave a gasp. A sudden terror shook all the spectators. Poor Mollie turned sick and faint. She imagined her beloved Bab crushed beneath a falling horse.

But Barbara was not conscious of anything but Beauty. As her little horse rose trembling on its hind feet Bab remembered to keep her reins slack. With one pull on the horse's tender mouth, she and Beauty would have gone over backwards.

"Steady, Beauty! Steady!" she cried. The horse ceased to tremble, and a moment later stood on all four feet again.

In the meantime Maud Warren had cleared the third fence and was riding across the field. Not a sound of applause followed her. But as Beauty, with Barbara still cool and collected, sprang easily over the hurdle, loud applause rang out.

"Bully for Bab!" cried Ralph, shaking Ruth's hand in his excitement.

"What a trick! I didn't think Maud Warren capable of it," protested Dorothy to her father.

Bertha Brokaw's horse was tired. She did not finish the mile course.

Now again Barbara rode side by side with Miss Warren. Just before the last jump Bab reined in a little. She remembered the Ambassador's instructions. This was only a riding match, not a racing contest. No two girls were allowed to jump a hurdle at the same time.

So Barbara gave Maud Warren the first opportunity to make the jump. But Maud was nervous; she realized she had taken an unfair advantage of Bab. Her horse refused to jump. Bab waited only an instant. Then, urging Beauty on, they rose over their last hurdle like swallows.

Barbara came cantering back to her friends, her cheeks rosy, her eyes shining with delight.

Franz Heller rushed forward with a big bunch of American Beauty roses. Flowers were the only prizes given during the day. Barbara slid down off her horse.

The Ambassador moved forward to shake hands with her; Bab's friends were waving their handkerchiefs; but Bab had eyes for Beauty only. A stable boy had come to lead the horse away.

Barbara and Beauty Swayed an Instant in the Air.

"Good-bye, you little Beauty!" Bab whispered, with her brown head close to the horse's face. "You are the dearest little horse in the world. Don't I wish you were my very own!"

Ambassador Morton overheard Bab's speech.

"Let me give the horse to you, Miss Thurston," he urged. "It will give me the greatest pleasure, if you will allow it. He ought to belong to you for the pretty piece of riding you did out in the field. Let me congratulate you. Beauty's compliments and mine to the young girl who has been her own riding teacher."

A warm wave of color swept over Barbara's face. "I did not mean you to overhear me, Mr. Morton," she declared. "Forgive me. Of course I couldn't accept your horse. But I do appreciate your kindness. Thank you for lending me Beauty to ride."

Bab took her roses from Mr. Heller and made her way to Miss Stuart.

"Child!" protested Miss Sallie, "sit down! I shall ask your mother never to let you ride a horse again unless you promise never to try to jump over another fence rail. Oh, what I went through, when I thought you were about to fall off that horse!" Miss Stuart raised both hands in horror. "There ought to be a law against riding masters being allowed to teach women to jump over hurdles."

"But the law wouldn't act against Bab, auntie," declared Ruth, who was feeling very vain over Bab's success. "Because, you know, Barbara never took a riding lesson in her life."

In a short time Miss Stuart took her party home.

Ralph and Hugh were to return to New Haven on the night train.

"Miss Sallie," begged Mollie, as they made their way through the crowd, "there is Mr. Winthrop Latham. Do ask him to come to tea with you to-morrow."

"But why, my child?" Miss Sallie naturally inquired.

"Please, ask just him, not his nephew, Reginald. Do, Aunt Sallie, dear. I can't tell you why, now, but I shall explain as soon as we get home."

"Very well, you funny little girl." And Miss Stuart complied with Mollie's request.

Mr. Winthrop Latham promised to call on Miss Stuart and her girls at their hotel the next afternoon at four o'clock.



Chapter XXI

Eunice And Mr. Winthrop Latham


"Ruth, may I go with you to get Eunice?" Mollie Thurston asked next day.

"Certainly, Mollie. Are not the four of us going? We want to bring little Eunice back to the hotel in style. We have had a hard enough time getting hold of her. Her old Indian grandmother would not have let us have the child if it had not been for Naki. The Indian woman seems really to be attached to Ceally and Naki."

"I am going to ask you a weeny little favor, Ruth. I won't tell you why I ask you now; but I will tell you as soon as we are in the automobile. Don't ask Bab to come with us for Eunice," Mollie entreated.

"Don't ask Bab? Why, Mollie!" protested Ruth, in surprise. "Bab's feelings would be dreadfully hurt if I did not ask her."

"No, they won't, Ruth. I have already talked to Aunt Sallie. She told Bab she wanted her to stay in the house this morning. Aunt Sallie thinks Barbara is tired from her ride yesterday."

"Oh, very well, Mollie, I won't urge Bab to come with us, then; though I can't understand why you don't want her along. I shall be glad when you explain the mystery to me," Ruth concluded.

"That is why I wish to drive over with you. Sh! Aunt Sallie is coming. Don't say anything before her."

"Ruth," explained Mollie, as the three girls were hurrying toward Pittsfield in their motor car, "I want to tell you why I did not wish Bab to come along with us to the hospital for Eunice. I don't know what you and Grace may think of me; but I intend to try an experiment."

"An experiment, Mollie!" Grace exclaimed. "What experiment do you intend to try?"

"Well girls," Mollie continued, "do you recall that Bab went driving, a few days ago, with Reginald Latham, Mr. Winthrop Latham and Aunt Sallie?"

Ruth and Grace both nodded.

"And you remember Bab said she was going to discover, on that drive, what connection Eunice had with the Latham family?"

"Yes," Grace assented. "Do hurry on to the point of your story."

"No; you must hear it all over again," Mollie protested. "I want you and Ruth to remember just exactly the story Bab told us. Reginald Latham did not wish the subject of Eunice mentioned before his uncle, because Mr. Winthrop Latham's oldest brother had married an Indian girl. It seems the brother met the Indian girl while he was studying the history of the Indians in this neighborhood; so he just married her without mentioning the fact to his family. Of course the Lathams, who were very rich and very distinguished, were heart-broken over the marriage. And I guessed they were not any too good to the poor little Indian woman, when Mr. William Latham brought her back to his home to live. As soon as her husband died, she ran away to her own people. When Mr. Winthrop Latham tried to find her some time afterwards, to give her her husband's property, it seems that the Indian wife was dead. At any rate Reginald declares this to be the case. From that day to this, the Latham family never speak of anything that even relates to Indians." Mollie ended her speech in a slightly scornful tone.

"Why, Mollie, don't you think that is a good enough explanation of Reginald Latham's attitude toward Eunice?" Ruth asked.

"I most certainly do not!" Miss Mollie replied. "And how do you explain the Indian squaw's feeling against the name of Latham?"

"Oh, Bab told us, Reginald explained all that to her, too. It seems that the Indians in this vicinity believed poor little Mrs. Latham had been persecuted by her husband's family. So, if this old squaw ever heard the story, Latham would be an evil name to her," Grace put in.

Mistress Mollie shrugged her shoulders. "I think that story is very unlikely. But, maybe, you believe it, just as Bab did. All I ask of you is -- just be on the look-out to-day! I have been doing a little detective work myself. I do not agree with Bab's explanation. I told you I was going to try an experiment, and I want you to help me. Then maybe, I can convince you, Bab, and Aunt Sallie of something that I believe! I am sure our little Indian Eunice has a closer connection with the Latham family than any of you dream!"

"Dear me, but you are interesting, Mollie!" interrupted Ruth. "I have a suspicion of what you mean. But go ahead, little Miss Sherlock Holmes! We are with you to the end. We shall be delighted to render any humble assistance necessary to your detective work."

"I only want you to watch developments this afternoon, girls!" Mollie asserted mysteriously. "Later on, there may be some real work for us to do. So far, I have planned everything myself."

"Well, Mollie, you are a nice one!" laughed Grace. "Kindly 'put us on,' as the saying goes. What have you planned?"

"Nothing but a meeting between Eunice and Mr. Winthrop Latham," Mollie responded. "We are to take Eunice to the hotel to spend the day with us. She will be looking her best in the lovely clothes Ruth sent to her. And she has grown almost fair from her weeks in the hospital. Mr. Winthrop Latham is to have tea with us this afternoon. I asked Aunt Sallie to invite nobody but him. I shall bring Eunice quietly in, introduce her to Mr. Latham: then we shall see what happens! I did not wish to tell Bab my plan," Mollie continued, "because she might make me give it up. But I believe Aunt Sallie agrees with me, though she did give me a scolding for having a suspicious nature! She declared, this morning, that it would be very well to have Mr. Winthrop Latham see Eunice. So just let's wait, and watch with all our eyes this afternoon."

"Bully for your experiment, Mollie!" nodded Grace. Ruth bowed her head to show how fully she agreed with both of the girls.

A pretty hospital nurse brought Eunice out to Ruth's motor car. The child had on a soft ecru dress, cut low at the throat and simply made. She wore a brown coat, lined with scarlet, and a big brown felt hat with a scarf knotted loosely around it.

And Eunice looked very lovely! Her hair was braided in two plaits, tied with soft scarlet ribbons. Her eyes were big and black with the excitement of entering a strange world. Her complexion was now only a little darker than olive. Her cheeks were like two scarlet flames.

Eunice hugged Mollie close, once she was seated in the automobile. When the big car started, she laughed gleefully, clapping her hands as she cried. "It is truly a red bird, that carries us on its wings!" She remembered what Ruth had told her.

"Always Eunice has longed for wings like the birds!" Eunice whispered softly to Mollie. "Now, behold! We are almost flying!"

"Look overhead, Mollie, Eunice, Ruth!" called Grace suddenly.

The four girls looked up.

A great white object sailed above them.

Eunice clutched Mollie. "Is it the great white spirit, my grandmother has told me about?" she inquired.

"Oh, that is Reginald Latham in his airship," Mollie explained to Grace. "He said the rudder of Mr. Latham's balloon had been mended. He meant to try some short flights to see if it was all right."

"But I do not understand!" Eunice protested. "Is a man riding on that great, great big bird?"

"Yes, Eunice," Mollie assented. "But that object above our heads is an airship, not a bird."

"Then I wish to ride in an airship," Eunice murmured. "It flies up in the air like a real bird. This car runs only along the earth." The child was no longer impressed with the automobile. Reginald Latham's airship was the most marvelous thing she had ever beheld.

After arriving at their hotel "The Automobile Girls" showed Eunice everything they could find to amuse her. They rode up and down with her in the elevator. They gave her a peep into the hotel's splendid reception rooms. Poor little Eunice was in a daze! She wandered about like a child in a dream. Every now and then she would ask Mollie some question in regard to Reginald Latham's airship. She had not forgotten it.

Miss Stuart wisely had luncheon served in the private sitting-room. She did not think it best for Eunice to be seen by so many people; besides, she did not know how Eunice would behave at the table.

To Miss Sallie's unspeakable relief the child had learned at the hospital to eat with a knife and fork. Her manners were those of a frightened child. She was neither noisy nor vulgar.

"The child is certainly an enigma!" Miss Stuart said to herself, half a dozen times during the morning. "What the doctor says is true! The child is almost refined. It is marvelous! In spite of her ignorance, she does nothing to offend one!"

After luncheon, Miss Stuart noticed that Eunice looked white and exhausted. The scarlet color had faded from her cheeks and lips. The little girl was not strong enough for so much excitement after her recent illness.

"Mollie," Miss Sallie suggested, about half-past two o'clock, "take Eunice to your room. Give her a dressing gown, and see that she rests for an hour or so. You may stay with the child, Mollie, for fear she may be frightened, but you other girls keep away. The child is worn out. Mollie, you may bring her back to us at tea-time."

Mollie agreed. She guessed that Miss Sallie was furthering her idea about the experiment.

"Remember, Bab, you have promised me to be here at tea-time," Mollie reminded her sister.

"Certainly, I shall be here, Mollie. Did you think I was going away?"

Mollie then took Eunice away to lie down.

The child was so tired she soon fell asleep on Mollie's bed.

Mollie sat thinking quietly by the darkened window. She had taken a deep fancy to little Eunice, who had seemed to cling to her since their first strange meeting.

Barbara and Mollie Thurston were both unusually thoughtful girls. Their mother's devoted companions for years, their poverty had made them understand more of life. Mollie realized it would not do for Eunice to grow up ignorant and wild, with only her old grandmother for a companion. The little Indian was already thirsting for a different life. And, some day, the grandmother would die. What would then become of Eunice?

A little before four o'clock Eunice awakened, having slept nearly two hours. She was refreshed and happy again.

Mollie made Eunice bathe her face. She herself fixed the child's hair, now smooth and glossy from the care that the nurses at the hospital had given to it.

"We will go back to see our friends now, Eunice," explained Mollie.

Eunice nodded. "It is wonderful here where you live!" she declared. "Sometimes I think I have dreamed of people like you and your friends. I think I have seen things like what you have here in this house. But how could I dream of what I knew nothing?"

Mollie shook her head thoughtfully. "Eunice, dear, you will have to ask a wiser person than I am about your dreams. Who knows what may be stored away in that little head of yours? Come, dear, let us put your gold chain on the outside of your dress. There can be no harm in that. I think Miss Sallie, the lady with the white hair, would like to look at it."

Eunice, who had a girl's fancy for pretty ornaments, was glad to have Mollie pull the chain out from under her dress. The curious, beautiful ornament shone glittering and lovely against the light background formed by the child's dress.

"Wait for me here, Eunice," requested Mollie. "I want to go into the other room for a minute."

Mollie peeped inside the sitting-room door.

Mr. Winthrop Latham was cosily drinking his tea in the best of humor. He had a decided liking for Miss Stuart and her "Automobile Girls."

Bab was joking with Mr. Latham as she plied him with sandwiches and cakes.

For half a minute Mollie's heart misgave her. She was afraid to try her experiment.

The Cup in Mr. Latham's Hand Trembled.

"Good gracious!" she thought, finally, "what possible harm can it do Mr. Winthrop Latham to look at poor, pretty little Eunice? If the child means nothing to him, he will not even notice her. If she turns out to be the child I believe she is, why, then -- then -- it is only right that her uncle, Mr. Winthrop Latham, should know of her existence."

"Come, now, Eunice!" cried Mollie. "Come into the sitting-room with me. The girls have some pretty cakes and sweet things they are saving for you."

Mollie took Eunice's hand. The two girls were nearly of the same size and age. They quietly walked into the sitting-room.

"Where is 'Automobile Girl' number four?" Mollie heard Mr. Latham ask, just as the two girls entered the room.

"Here I am!" Mollie replied.

Mr. Latham glanced up. His ruddy face turned white as chalk.

Mollie never took her eyes from Mr. Latham's face. Miss Stuart, Bab, Grace and Ruth stared at him.

But Mr. Latham did not notice any one of them. His jaw dropped. The cup in his hand trembled. Still he did not speak.

Barbara broke the silence. "Mr. Latham, are you ill?" she asked. "May I take your teacup from you?"

Mr. Latham shook his head. He continued to gaze steadily at Eunice.

Little Eunice was frightened by the strange man's stare. She trembled. Her rosebud lips quivered. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Come to me, Eunice," Ruth called comfortingly. "See the candies I have been saving for you! Mr. Latham, this is the little Indian girl who was hurt. You remember that we have spoken of her before?"

"Will some one take the child away?" Mr. Latham asked, brokenly.

Mollie led Eunice back to her bedroom. Then she hurried in again to rejoin the others.

"Miss Stuart, I owe you and your girls an explanation for my strange conduct," Mr. Latham declared. "I feel, this afternoon, that I have seen a ghost! I do not understand this Indian child's likeness to my dead sister-in-law. I must seek an explanation somewhere. This little Eunice is the living image of my brother's Indian wife -- the poor girl whom our cruelty drove from our home back to the tents of her own people to die. I was told that her little child died with her. There is a mystery here that must be solved. If this little girl is the daughter of my brother and his Indian wife, one-half of my fortune belongs to her."

"Mr. Latham," Miss Stuart quietly interrupted him, "this Indian child has an old grandmother who will be able to tell you whether this child has any connection with you. I have always thought there must be some explanation. The squaw has kept the child hidden for a purpose."

"You are right, Miss Stuart," Mr. Latham interrupted. "You tell me this child's name is Eunice? Eunice was the name of my brother's wife. It is also the Christian name for the female Indians of a certain tribe, but there is little doubt, in my mind, of this girl's identity. The gold chain about her throat was my brother's gift to his wife. That chain has the story of my brother's love and courtship engraved on it in Indian characters. But I am too much upset to discuss the matter any further to-day. When can I see the Indian grandmother?"

"To-morrow," Miss Stuart replied quietly. "I would not advise you to delay."

"Will you go with me to see her at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, Miss Stuart?" queried Mr. Latham.

"Certainly," Miss Sallie agreed.

"I beg of you then not to mention what has taken place in this room this afternoon," Mr. Latham urged. "When we know the truth in regard to this child it will be time to tell the strange story. Good-bye until to-morrow morning."

"Mollie," Bab cried as soon as the door closed on Mr. Latham, "I surrender. And I humbly beg your pardon. You are a better detective than I am. What is the discovery of the Boy Raffles compared with your bringing to light the family history of poor little Eunice! Just think, instead of being a poor, despised Indian girl, Eunice is heiress to a large fortune."

"Then you believe in me now, Bab!" Mollie rejoined. "I have always thought Eunice was in some way connected with the Latham family."

"Girls," Miss Stuart cautioned quietly, "when you take Eunice to her grandmother, at Naki's house, say nothing. Remember, you are to speak to no one of what happened this afternoon."



Chapter XXII

The Automobile Wins


Immediately after breakfast, next morning, "The Automobile Girls" started in Ruth's car for Naki's house in Pittsfield.

Miss Stuart had decided that it would be best to have Eunice out of the way when she and Mr. Latham made their call on the grandmother.

So the girls hurried off after Eunice.

They were in splendid spirits as they approached Naki's house. No one of them doubted, for an instant, that Mr. Winthrop Latham would find little Eunice was his niece.

"You run in and ask the grandmother whether Eunice may take a ride with us, Mollie," Ruth suggested as she stopped her car. "If Naki is at home, ask him to step out here a minute. I want to prepare him for the call of Aunt Sallie and Mr. Latham."

In three minutes Mollie flew out of the house again. She was alone. There was no sign of Eunice!

"O girls!" Mollie cried, "Eunice and her grandmother are gone!"

"Gone where?" Bab queried.

"Back to their own wigwam!" Mollie continued. "Last night Ceally says a woman, heavily veiled, came here, accompanied by a young man. They talked to the Indian woman and Eunice a long time. They told the squaw a man was in pursuit of her. He would come this morning to take her away. She was so frightened that Naki and Ceally could do nothing to influence her. She started with Eunice, last night, for their wigwam in the hills. Who do you think her visitors were?"

"Mrs. Latham and Reginald!" cried the other three girls at once.

"It is all so plain," argued Ruth. "Mr. Latham probably told his sister, last night, that he had seen Eunice, and meant to come here, this morning, and find out who the child really was. Mrs. Latham and Reginald then rushed here to get the squaw and the child out of the way until they could have time to plan."

"But what shall we do now?" asked Mollie, her eyes full of tears. "I do not believe Mrs. Latham and Reginald will be content with sending Eunice and her grandmother back to their own hill. Mr. Latham could follow them up there. I know they will try to spirit Eunice away altogether. They will not wait. Oh, what, what can we do?"

"I know," Ruth answered quietly.

"Have you any money, girls?" she inquired. "I have twenty-five dollars with me."

"I have twenty with me," Grace replied. "I have ten," declared Bab. "And I have only five," Mollie answered.

"Then we are all right for money," said Ruth. "Naki," she continued, turning to their guide, who had now come out to them, "I want you to give this note to Aunt Sallie and Mr. Latham when they come here. It will explain all. Tell them not to worry. I shall send a telegram before night."

Taking a piece of paper from her pocket, Ruth hurriedly wrote a letter of some length.

"Now, let's be off!" Ruth insisted.

"What are you going to do now, Ruth Stuart?" Mollie demanded.

"Why, what can we do," Ruth replied, "except go straight up to the wigwam for Eunice and run away with her before anyone else can."

"Run away with her!" faltered Grace.

"What else can we do?" queried Ruth. "If we delay in getting Eunice out of Mrs. Latham's and Reginald's clutches, they will place the child where no one can ever find her. Mrs. Latham will then persuade her brother to give up his search. We must save Eunice."

"But what will Aunt Sallie say?" cried Barbara.

"I have written Aunt Sallie," Ruth explained, "that we would take Eunice to a nearby town. We can telegraph Aunt Sallie from there."

"But, suppose, Ruth," Grace suggested, "the Indian grandmother will not let Eunice go with us."

"Never mind, Grace," Bab retorted, "'The Automobile Girls' must overcome obstacles. I believe the old grandmother will let Eunice come with us, if we tell her the whole story. We must explain that Mr. Winthrop Latham wants to see Eunice in order to be kind to her and not to harm her, and ask the squaw if Eunice is Mr. William Latham's child. We must make her understand that Mrs. Latham and Reginald are her enemies, we are her friends --  -- "

"Is that all, Bab?" laughed Grace. "It sounds simple."

"Never mind," Mollie now broke in to the conversation, "I believe I can somehow explain matters to Mother Eunice."

By noon "The Automobile Girls" were halfway up the hill that led to the wigwam.

Mollie, who was walking ahead, heard a low sound like a sob. Crouched under a tree, several yards away, was little Eunice. At the sight of Mollie she ran forward. A few feet from her she stopped. A look of distrust crossed her face.

"Why did you come here?" she asked in her old wild fashion.

"Why, Eunice," Mollie asked quietly, "are you not glad to see your friends?"

At first, Eunice shook her head. Then she flung her arms around Mollie's neck. "I want to give you that strange thing you called a kiss," she said. "I am so glad to see you that my heart sings. But grandmother told me you meant to sell me to the strange man, who looked at me so curiously yesterday. So I came back up the hill with her. You would not sell me, would you? You are my friends?"

"Look into my eyes, Eunice," Mollie whispered. "Do I look as though I meant to harm you? You told me once that if you could see straight into the eyes of the creatures in the woods you would know whether their hearts were good. Is my heart good?"

"Yes, yes!" Eunice cried. "Forgive me."

"But we want you to have a great deal of faith in us, Eunice," Mollie persisted. "We want you to go away with us this very afternoon. Take us to your grandmother. We must ask her consent."

Eunice shook her head. "I cannot go," she declared, finally.

"But, Eunice, if you will only go with us, you can buy more pretty gold chains. You can buy beads and Indian blankets for your grandmother," coaxed Grace. "Who knows? Some day you may even own a big, red bird like Ruth's, and fly like 'The Automobile Girls.'"

Still Eunice shook her head.

"But you will come with us, if your grandmother says you may?" Ruth urged.

"No," Eunice declared. "I cannot."

"Why, Eunice?" Mollie queried gently.

"Because," said Eunice, "to-day I fly up in the sky!" The child pointed over her head.

"Why, the child is mad from her illness and the fatigue of her long walk up here," Grace ejaculated in distress.

But Eunice laughed happily. "To-day I fly like the birds, high overhead. Long have I wished to go up into the big blue heaven away over the trees and the hilltops. To-day I shall fly away, truly!"

The girls stared at Eunice in puzzled wonder. They could understand nothing of the strange tale she told them. Was the child dreaming?

A light dawned upon Mollie.

"Girls!" Mollie cried, "Reginald Latham is going to take Eunice off in his airship!"

"Can it be possible?" Bab exclaimed.

"Eunice," asked Mollie, "are you going for a ride in the big balloon I showed you yesterday as we rode away from the hospital?"

"Yes," Eunice declared. "Last night the young man who came to Naki's house talked with me. He whispered to me, that if I were good and did not tell my grandmother, he would take me to ride with him in his great ship of the winds. But he will bring me home to my own wigwam to-night. I will go with you in your carriage to-morrow. Now, I wait for the man to find me. He told me to meet him here, away from my grandmother's far-seeing eyes."

"Eunice," Mollie commanded firmly, "come with me to your wigwam."

"But you will tell my grandmother! Then she will not let me fly away!" Eunice cried.

"You cannot fly with Reginald Latham, Eunice," Mollie asserted. "He will not bring you back again to the wigwam. He will leave you in some strange town, away from your own people. You will never see your grandmother. You will never see us again!"

Eunice, trembling, followed the other girls to the wigwam.

"I believe," Bab said thoughtfully as they walked on, "that Reginald Latham planned to get Eunice away from this place forever. He did not mean to injure her. He would probably have put her in some school far away. But Mr. Winthrop Latham would never have seen her. Eunice would not then take half of the Latham fortune from Reginald. Just think! Who could ever trace a child carried away in an airship? She might be searched for if she went in trains or carriages, but no one but the birds could know of her flight through the air."

The old grandmother heard "The Automobile Girls" approaching.

She was standing in front of a blazing fire. With a grunt of rage, the old woman seized a flaming pine torch and ran straight at Mollie.

"Put that down!" commanded Barbara, hotly. "You are a stupid old woman. We have come to save Eunice for you. Unless you listen to us she will be stolen from you this very afternoon. You will never see her again. There is no use in your trying to hide Eunice any longer. We know and her uncle knows, that she is the child of your daughter and of Mr. William Latham. You told Mr. Winthrop Latham that Eunice died when her mother did." Barbara had depended on her imagination for the latter part of her speech, but she knew, now, that she had guessed the truth.

Under her brown leather-like skin the old squaw turned pale.

Then Mollie explained gently to the old woman that Mrs. Latham and Reginald were Eunice's enemies; that they wished to be rid of Eunice so that they might inherit her father's money. She told of Reginald Latham's plan to carry Eunice away that afternoon.

"Now, Mother Eunice," Mollie ended, "won't you let little Eunice go away with us this afternoon, instead? We will take good care of her, and will bring her home to you in a few days. But Eunice must see her uncle, Mr. Winthrop Latham. You will not stand in the way of little Eunice's happiness, I know!" Mollie laid her hand on the old squaw's arm.

But the squaw had bowed her head. She did not notice Mollie.

"It is the end!" The old woman spoke to herself. "I give up my child. The white blood is stronger than the Indian. She will return to the race of her father. Her mother's people shall know her no more."

"May Eunice go away with us now?" Ruth urged. "And won't you go down to the village, and stay with Naki and Ceally until Eunice comes back?"

"Take the child, when you will," assented the Indian woman. "She is mine no longer."

"Then come, hurry, Eunice. We must be off," Bab cried.

Eunice got her new coat and hat. Then she flung her arms around her grandmother, and kissed her in the way Mollie had taught her.

The old Indian woman hugged the child to her for one brief instant; then she relaxed her hold and went back into her wigwam.

"The Automobile Girls" and Eunice ran down the hill.

In half an hour they found "Mr. A. Bubble." He was patiently awaiting their return.

"Jump into the car in a hurry," Ruth cried. "Put Eunice in the middle. We have a long distance to travel before night falls."

The girls leaped into the automobile. It sped away through the autumnal woods.

"Look, do look up above us!" Mollie exclaimed.

Away above their heads something white sailed and circled in the air.

"It is Reginald Latham in his airship," cried Grace.

"Well, Mr. Reginald Latham," laughed Mollie, "an airship may do the business of the future; but for present purposes I'll bet on the automobile."

For hours "The Automobile Girls" drove steadily on. The roads were well marked with signposts. Ruth wished to make a nearby town away from the main line of travel.

At dusk they arrived in North Adams.

Ruth drove at once to a telegraph office, where she telegraphed to Miss Sallie: "Safe in North Adams with Eunice. Had a fine trip. Expect you and Mr. Latham in the morning. All is well. Do not worry. Ruth."

Ruth and her friends put up at the Wilson House in North Adams. They explained to the hotel proprietor that they were staying in Lenox. Their aunt would join them the next day.

Five weary girls slept the sleep of the just.



Chapter XXIII

The Recognition


Miss Stuart and Mr. Winthrop Latham did not arrive in North Adams the next morning.

A little before noon, Miss Sallie telegraphed to Ruth: "Must see Indian woman before we join you. Proof of child's identity required. Wait."

Ruth showed her telegram to the girls.

Barbara shook her head. "More of the work of Mrs. Latham and Reginald," she suggested.

Soon after the receipt of Ruth's telegram, the afternoon before, Miss Stuart telephoned Mr. Winthrop Latham, "Will you please come to the hotel to see me immediately?"

Now, Miss Sallie realized her difficult position. How was she to protect the interests of Eunice without accusing Mr. Latham's relatives of evil designs against the child?

She called up Naki in Pittsfield and told him to come to her hotel that evening. "Naki can tell Mr. Latham what I cannot," Miss Sallie reflected. "He can report the visit of Mrs. Latham and Reginald to the Indian squaw, and can make Mr. Latham see his sister's intentions."

Mr. Latham arrived first for the interview with Miss Stuart. He looked worn and tired.

"My 'Automobile Girls' have run off with Eunice!" Miss Stuart at once informed him.

"Why should there be any running away with the child?" Mr. Latham asked impatiently. "I could very easily have gone up to the wigwam in the morning. I think, in many respects, it will be wisest to see the Indian woman and child on their own ground. To tell you the truth, Miss Stuart, I shall require positive proofs that this Indian girl is the child that my brother's Indian wife carried away from our home years ago."

"Certainly, Mr. Latham," Miss Stuart replied quietly. "I entirely agree with you; but I think it may be possible to secure such proofs."

"I have been talking to my sister and nephew of this child," Mr. Latham continued. "They regard the idea that this little Eunice is the daughter of my brother's wife as absurd. They recalled the fact that we were positively assured of the child's death. They do not believe it possible that the Indian relatives would not have claimed the child's fortune for her. There were a number of educated Indians living in the town of Stockbridge at the time. My brother's wife took refuge with them after leaving us."

"Then, Mr. Latham," Aunt Sallie rejoined, "if the Indian grandmother cannot give you satisfactory proofs of the child's parentage, possibly you can find the additional proofs in Stockbridge."

Mr. Latham was silent. He had not been sorry to be persuaded by Mrs. Latham and Reginald that Eunice was an impostor.

Naki knocked at the door.

"I would rather not see visitors, Miss Stuart," Mr. Latham declared. "I am entirely upset by this present situation."

"It is only our Indian guide, Naki," Miss Sallie explained. "I sent for him."

"Naki," Miss Sallie began, as soon as the man entered the room. "My niece has taken Eunice away for a few days. She told me to ask you to go up to the wigwam and bring the Indian woman down to your house again."

Naki shut his lips together. "The Indian woman will not return to my house," he said.

"Why not?" Miss Stuart asked, angrily. "It is much better for her to be with you. She will die up there."

"She wishes to die up there," Naki avowed.

"Nonsense!" retorted Miss Stuart. "We cannot let her suffer so because of the child."

"She is afraid to come down the hill again," Naki continued. "She is afraid of the law."

"Why should she be afraid of the law?" inquired Mr. Latham.

"I cannot tell," Naki replied; "but the woman who came to my house with her son told the old squaw she must hide. If her secret was discovered she would be sent to prison."

"What woman and her son came to your house to see this squaw?" asked Mr. Latham.

Miss Sallie sat with her hands tightly clasped, scarcely daring to breathe. She had not dared to hope that her plan would work out so well.

"I do not know the lady," said Naki sullenly. "But the young man was Reginald Latham. He was on the hill the day Eunice was hurt. He went with us to the Indian woman's wigwam. She was angry at his coming." Naki paused.

Mr. Winthrop Latham was frowning and looking down at the pattern of the carpet. Miss Stuart knew he realized that his sister and nephew were playing a double game which, for the time being, he preferred to ignore.

"Good-night, Miss Stuart," said Mr. Latham, a few minutes later. "I shall join you in the morning. If the Indian woman is at Naki's house, I will see her there; if not, I shall go to her wigwam. Notwithstanding all that has happened, she must have satisfactory proofs."

Miss Stuart knew Mr. Latham now suspected that both his sister-in-law and nephew were convinced of Eunice's identity.

"Naki," Miss Sallie asked, "at daylight, to-morrow, will you go to the old squaw's wigwam? Tell her that she shall not be punished," continued Miss Stuart. "I am very sorry for her."

Naki was looking at Miss Stuart. His solemn face expressed surprise. "Do you mean you have found out about Eunice?" he asked.

"Certainly, Naki," Miss Stuart rejoined. "If you have known Eunice's story, and have not told it before, you have behaved very badly. Tell the Indian woman to bring what proofs she has to convince Mr. Latham that little Eunice is the child of her daughter."

"I will," Naki promised. "But I knowed of Eunice in another way. There is a man in Stockbridge as knows who the child is. He was a preacher once. He is part Indian, part white. He was with Eunice's mother when she died. She told him about the child, but begged him to keep it a secret. The Indian mother did not want the child to go back to the Lathams. She was afraid they would be unkind to her baby. The man told me the story several years ago."

Miss Sallie was deeply interested. "Naki, when you bring the squaw to your house in the morning, go to Stockbridge. Then find the man who knows the story of Eunice, and bring him, too."

"You can count on me," were Naki's last words.

The next morning Miss Stuart and Mr. Latham drove to Naki's home. Neither Naki nor the Indian woman was there!

Naki had left for the wigwam before five o'clock that morning. It was now ten. There was nothing to do but wait.

At eleven o'clock Miss Sallie sent her telegram to Ruth. At noon she and Mr. Latham still waited. There was no sign of Naki or the squaw.

"Don't you think we had better go up to the wigwam?" Mr. Latham asked impatiently.

"We cannot find our way there without Naki or one of my girls," Miss Sallie answered.

"What do you think has happened?" Miss Stuart asked Ceally. Ceally shook her head.

"Something is the matter," she declared, "or Naki would have been here with the old woman hours ago."

What had become of Naki?

At daylight he reached the hilltop, but no sound of life came from the silent tent.

Naki called to the Indian squaw. There was no answer. "I come to bring you news of Eunice!" he shouted. Still no answer.

He stalked inside the wigwam. The tent was deserted. The Indian woman had disappeared.

Naki was puzzled. He searched the woods near the tent.

Half way down the hill Naki came across a small wooden box, half covered with leaves. Naki opened it. In it he found half a dozen pieces of old jewelry, and an old fashioned daguerreotype of an Indian girl holding a baby in her arms.

Naki had been born and brought up in the woods. He kept his eyes turned to the ground, thinking to trace the footprints of Mother Eunice down the hill. On her departure she had, as she thought, buried her box of treasures. Then she had gone -- where?

Naki discovered, midway on the hill, two pairs of footprints, which seemed to indicate that two persons had lately started up the hill. But they must have given up and gone down again.

Naki made up his mind to go at once to Stockbridge. Even though he could not trace the squaw, the testimony of the man who had seen Eunice's mother die, the box of jewelry Naki had found -- these proofs of Eunice's identity would convince even Mr. Winthrop Latham.

Miss Stuart and Mr. Latham were at luncheon when Ceally entered the room. Miss Sallie knew, at once, something had happened.

"What is it, Ceally?" she asked.

"They have come!" said Ceally.

"Who?" Mr. Latham demanded.

"Naki, the Indian woman, and another man," was Ceally's reply. There was a short pause, and then the two entered.

Naki spoke first. He explained that he had found the Indian woman at Stockbridge when he had given her up for lost. Then she told in her own way that she had made up her mind to return to Stockbridge and ask help from the man who, alone, knew the story of her grandchild's parentage. The old squaw had completely broken down. She said that she knew that it was best for Eunice to be allowed to come into her inheritance. She said she remembered that Barbara had told her of Mrs. Latham and Reginald's wish to keep Eunice concealed. She finished by telling that midway on the hill, in the early dawn, she had met Reginald Latham and his mother climbing up to her tent. The old squaw, who was wise, had told Mrs. Latham that there was one man in Stockbridge who could prove who Eunice was and that she would go and implore him to keep the child's parentage a secret. Mrs. Latham and Reginald were delighted, and urged the old woman to go.

Mr. Latham listened quietly to Mother Eunice's story and to that of the man from Stockbridge, who bore the old woman witness.

It was a simple story. The Indian grandmother thought her daughter had been unhappy because of her marriage into the Latham family, believing the girl had been persecuted because of her Indian blood. So she wished to spare her grandchild the same fate.

Mr. Latham was entirely convinced. Eunice was his niece.

"Come," he said, finally, to Miss Stuart. "Let us be off to our girls!"

"Mother Eunice," he said solemnly, shaking the old squaw's hand, "I promise to be good to your child. You shall not be separated from her. But she must be educated as other girls are. Stay here with Ceally and Naki."

The Indian woman bowed her head. She had given in forever when she surrendered Eunice to "The Automobile Girls" the afternoon before.

But what about Eunice and her protectors? They had not dared to leave the hotel for fear that Aunt Sallie and Mr. Latham might arrive in their absence.

So the girls were waiting with the best patience possible, curled up in the chairs and on the sofa. Barbara was reading aloud. Little Eunice had fallen fast asleep on the bed.

Suddenly Miss Sallie and Mr. Latham walked in unannounced.

"Well, this is a cosy party!" declared Mr. Latham, smiling.

Bab dropped her magazine, Ruth sat up straight in her chair, while Mollie and Grace nearly rolled off their sofa.

Their noise wakened Eunice, who sat up in bed with her cheeks flushed. Her black hair was massed about her face. She wore a red dressing gown that Ruth had bought for her the night before. She was so pretty that Mr. Latham was moved by her appearance.

But Eunice was frightened when she saw Mr. Latham -- he was the man who had stared at her so strangely -- he was the man who meant to steal her, so, at least, Reginald Latham had told Eunice. The little girl began to cry softly.

Mollie started up to go to Eunice, but she stopped at a frown from Miss Sallie. Mr. Latham was approaching Eunice.

"I am not going to hurt you, Eunice," he declared. "Do I look like the bogie man, who lives in the woods and comes to steal away naughty children?"

Eunice shook her head. "There are no bogie men in the woods. Wood fairies are all good."

"Well, I am no kind of fairy, Eunice. I am an uncle. Do you know what an uncle is?" Mr. Latham inquired.

Eunice shook her head again.

"O Eunice, an uncle can be the nicest person in the world!" Mollie exclaimed. "And that is what Mr. Latham is going to be to you. Kiss him, and tell him you mean to be good."

Mr. Winthrop Latham and little Indian Eunice kissed each other shyly and solemnly. But in that kiss their affection was sealed.

What Reginald Latham and his mother thought of the discovery of the relationship between Eunice and Mr. Winthrop Latham may be easily imagined. Eunice as his niece would undoubtedly inherit a large portion of his fortune. And how was Reginald to be provided for? Bent on the effort to conceal the relationship, Reginald and his mother had started long before dawn to walk up to the grandmother's hut, and, as the old squaw had explained, had met her on the side of the hill. They had tried to induce her to give them the name of the man in Stockbridge who knew of Eunice's parentage, but the old woman was obdurate. Failing in this, mother and son had returned to their home.



Chapter XXIV

What To Do With Eunice


"Bab, will you come out on the hotel driveway a minute?" Ruth asked of Barbara. Miss Sallie and the girls were back in Lenox. Little Eunice was, for the present, staying at their hotel with them.

"I am not dressed, Ruth, dear. I shall join you in a minute," Bab called back to her. "What's the matter?"

"Wait and see, lady mine," sang Ruth. "But do, do hurry. Mollie, Grace and I are waiting for you, and there is another friend with us whom you will be de-lighted to see!"

"Ralph, or Hugh?" Bab guessed.

"Neither one this time!" Ruth declared. "But now I must fly back. If you wish to know what is going on, hurry along."

On the hotel driveway Bab first discovered Mr. Winthrop Latham with Aunt Sallie and Eunice. Eunice had her hand in her uncle's. They had grown to be great friends.

A little farther on Barbara spied Ruth, Mollie and Grace. Near them stood a stable boy. He was leading a beautiful little horse about by the bridle. It was Beauty.

Barbara looked around for Dorothy or Gwendolin Morton. However, neither of the girls could be seen.

"Here comes Bab," called Mollie.

But Barbara had already run up to Beauty.

"O girls, I believe she knows me!" Bab exclaimed in delight. The little horse neighed as Bab stroked its glossy neck. It put its pretty nose down near her hand and sniffed. Beauty plainly expected a lump of sugar as a reward for her morning call.

"How did you happen to bring the horse over?" Bab asked of the stable boy.

"The master said I was to put the horse in the hotel stables until it could be shipped," the boy explained.

"Oh, some one has bought Beauty!" Bab cried, in distress. "I am so sorry! How could Dorothy Morton ever have been willing to sell her?"

Barbara noticed that Grace, Ruth and Mollie were smiling broadly. Mr. Winthrop Latham, Aunt Sallie and Eunice had drawn near.

"Why shouldn't Dorothy Morton sell Beauty to a girl who cares more for the horse than Dorothy does?" Ruth inquired.

Bab shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, very well!" she pouted. "If Dorothy thinks there is any other horse in the world to compare with Beauty, she deserves to lose her. My sweet little Beauty, good-bye!" Barbara cried.

The stable boy grinned. Everyone was smiling.

"What's the joke?" Bab asked.

"Beauty is yours, Bab!" cried Mollie.

Bab looked at Mollie indignantly. "It isn't fair to tease me, Mollie," she declared. "You know how much I really care."

"But Mollie is not teasing you, Bab," Ruth interrupted. "Read that tag!"

Surely enough, on a card fastened by a blue ribbon to Beauty's bridle, Bab read her own name and her sister's.

"But we cannot accept such a gift from the Ambassador!" Bab protested, feelingly.

"The Ambassador did not give us Beauty, Bab!" exclaimed Mollie.

But Barbara had thrown her arms around Ruth's neck. "You are just the dearest, sweetest friend in the world, Ruth Stuart!" she cried. "And I'd love you more than ever if I could. But Mollie and I cannot accept Beauty from you. You have done too much for us."

"Well, Bab," laughed Ruth, "you are the most difficult person in the world to bestow a present upon; but I am not guilty."

"Then who has given Beauty to us?" demanded Bab.

"No other person than Cousin Betty in St. Paul!" answered Mistress Mollie. "Do you remember, Bab? Mother wrote that Cousin Betty meant to give us a beautiful present when she came home. The present was to be a horse, and Cousin Betty is going to give us the money to take care of it. Mother was to buy the horse when she returned to Kingsbridge. When you wrote of your ride on Beauty, mother wrote to Ruth to inquire if the horse were for sale. The Ambassador and Dorothy were both willing to sell her to us, but to no one else."

"I do not know what we have ever done to deserve such good fortune." Barbara spoke so solemnly that her friends all laughed.

"But I have more news, and better news for you, Bab!" cried Mollie, triumphantly, "mother is willing for us to bring Eunice home with us for the winter!"

"Dear little Eunice!" Bab said, kissing the Indian girl.

"I shall never cease to be grateful to you and to your mother for this kindness," declared Mr. Winthrop Latham, taking Barbara's hand. "You know the difficult situation in which I am placed in regard to Eunice. I dare not take the child home, at present, to live with my sister-in-law and my nephew. It seemed even more cruel to send Eunice to boarding school while the child knows nothing of the world. But, if your kind mother will keep her with you, let her go to school, and teach her just a little of what you know, I shall be deeply in your debt."

"No such thing, Mr. Latham!" laughed Mollie. "We are going to be in your debt for lending us Eunice. Mother will just love her."

"But I am coming back next summer to see you and my grandmother?" Eunice begged. "You said, if I were very good, you would take me to ride in your balloon some day."

Mr. Latham laughed. "Eunice will never be happy until she learns to fly," he declared.

"I hate good-byes, don't you, Aunt Sallie?" Barbara asked Miss Stuart that night. Ruth, Grace and Mollie were standing on a trunk trying to fasten it. "The Automobile Girls" were to leave Lenox early the next morning.

"Barbara, remember Ruth's motto for 'The Automobile Girls.' We are never to say good-bye!"

"What then, Aunt Sallie?" asked Bab, Grace, Mollie and Ruth in chorus.

"'The Automobile Girls' are always to say," declared Miss Sallie, gently, "not good-bye, but Auf Wiedersehen."


Postscript

Nor need the reader break this rule against saying "good-bye," for our same splendid "Automobile Girls" are soon to be met with again, under astonishing and startling circumstances, and on historic ground. The next volume in this series will be published under the title: "THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS ALONG THE HUDSON; Or, Fighting Fire in Sleepy Hollow." In this spirited narrative, the girls will be shown doing the work of true heroines, yet amid many scenes of fun and humor. Every reader will agree that the coming book is "the best yet."

<eob>

A Prefect's Uncle

By

P. G. Wodehouse


I

Term Begins


Marriott walked into the senior day-room, and, finding no one there, hurled his portmanteau down on the table with a bang. The noise brought William into the room. William was attached to Leicester's House, Beckford College, as a mixture of butler and bootboy. He carried a pail of water in his hand. He had been engaged in cleaning up the House against the conclusion of the summer holidays, of which this was the last evening, by the simple process of transferring all dust, dirt, and other foreign substances from the floor to his own person.

''Ullo, Mr Marriott,' he said.

'Hullo, William,' said Marriott. 'How are you? Still jogging along? That's a mercy. I say, look here, I want a quiet word in season with the authorities. They must have known I was coming back this evening. Of course they did. Why, they specially wrote and asked me. Well, where's the red carpet? Where's the awning? Where's the brass band that ought to have met me at the station? Where's anything? I tell you what it is, William, my old companion, there's a bad time coming for the Headmaster if he doesn't mind what he's doing. He must learn that life is stern and life is earnest, William. Has Gethryn come back yet?'

William, who had been gasping throughout this harangue, for the intellectual pressure of Marriott's conversation (of which there was always plenty) was generally too much for him, caught thankfully at the last remark as being the only intelligible one uttered up to present date, and made answer -- 

'Mr Gethryn 'e's gorn out on to the field, Mr Marriott. 'E come 'arf an hour ago.'

'Oh! Right. Thanks. Goodbye, William. Give my respects to the cook, and mind you don't work too hard. Think what it would be if you developed heart disease. Awful! You mustn't do it, William.'

Marriott vanished, and William, slightly dazed, went about his professional duties once more. Marriott walked out into the grounds in search of Gethryn. Gethryn was the head of Leicester's this term, vice Reynolds departed, and Marriott, who was second man up, shared a study with him. Leicester's had not a good name at Beckford, in spite of the fact that it was generally in the running for the cricket and football cups. The fact of the matter was that, with the exception of Gethryn, Marriott, a boy named Reece, who kept wicket for the School Eleven, and perhaps two others, Leicester's seniors were not a good lot. To the School in general, who gauged a fellow's character principally by his abilities in the cricket and football fields, it seemed a very desirable thing to be in Leicester's. They had been runners-up for the House football cup that year, and this term might easily see the cricket cup fall to them. Amongst the few, however, it was known that the House was passing through an unpleasant stage in its career. A House is either good or bad. It is seldom that it can combine the advantages of both systems. Leicester's was bad.

This was due partly to a succession of bad Head-prefects, and partly to Leicester himself, who was well-meaning but weak. His spirit was willing, but his will was not spirited. When things went on that ought not to have gone on, he generally managed to avoid seeing them, and the things continued to go on. Altogether, unless Gethryn's rule should act as a tonic, Leicester's was in a bad way.

The Powers that Be, however, were relying on Gethryn to effect some improvement. He was in the Sixth, the First Fifteen, and the First Eleven. Also a backbone was included in his anatomy, and if he made up his mind to a thing, that thing generally happened.

The Rev. James Beckett, the Headmaster of Beckford, had formed a very fair estimate of Gethryn's capabilities, and at the moment when Marriott was drawing the field for the missing one, that worthy was sitting in the Headmaster's study with a cup in his right hand and a muffin (half-eaten) in his left, drinking in tea and wisdom simultaneously. The Head was doing most of the talking. He had led up to the subject skilfully, and, once reached, he did not leave it. The text of his discourse was the degeneracy of Leicester's.

'Now, you know, Gethryn -- another muffin? Help yourself. You know, Reynolds -- well, he was a capital boy in his way, capital, and I'm sure we shall all miss him very much -- but he was not a good head of a House. He was weak. Much too weak. Too easy-going. You must avoid that, Gethryn. Reynolds....' And much more in the same vein. Gethryn left the room half an hour later full of muffins and good resolutions. He met Marriott at the fives-courts.

'Where have you been to?' asked Marriott. 'I've been looking for you all over the shop.'

'I and my friend the Headmaster,' said Gethryn, 'have been having a quiet pot of tea between us.'

'Really? Was he affable?'

'Distinctly affable.'

'You know,' said Marriott confidentially, 'he asked me in, but I told him it wasn't good enough. I said that if he would consent to make his tea with water that wasn't two degrees below lukewarm, and bring on his muffins cooked instead of raw, and supply some butter to eat with them, I might look him up now and then. Otherwise it couldn't be done at the price. But what did he want you for, really?'

'He was ragging me about the House. Quite right, too. You know, there's no doubt about it, Leicester's does want bucking up.'

'We're going to get the cricket cup,' said Marriott, for the defence.

'We may. If it wasn't for the Houses in between. School House and Jephson's especially. And anyhow, that's not what I meant. The games are all right. It's -- '

'The moral je-ne-sais-quoi, so to speak,' said Marriott. 'That'll be all right. Wait till we get at 'em. What I want you to turn your great brain to now is this letter.'

He produced a letter from his pocket. 'Don't you bar chaps who show you their letters?' he said. 'This was written by an aunt of mine. I don't want to inflict the whole lot on you. Just look at line four. You see what she says: "A boy is coming to Mr Leicester's House this term, whom I particularly wish you to befriend. He is the son of a great friend of a friend of mine, and is a nice, bright little fellow, very jolly and full of spirits."'

'That means,' interpolated Gethryn grimly, 'that he is up to the eyes in pure, undiluted cheek, and will want kicking after every meal and before retiring to rest. Go on.'

'His name is -- '

'Well?'

'That's the point. At this point the manuscript becomes absolutely illegible. I have conjectured Percy for the first name. It may be Richard, but I'll plunge on Percy. It's the surname that stumps me. Personally, I think it's MacCow, though I trust it isn't, for the kid's sake. I showed the letter to my brother, the one who's at Oxford. He swore it was Watson, but, on being pressed, hedged with Sandys. You may as well contribute your little bit. What do you make of it?'

Gethryn scrutinized the document with care.

'She begins with a D. You can see that.'

'Well?'

'Next letter a or u. I see. Of course. It's Duncan.'

'Think so?' said Marriott doubtfully. 'Well, let's go and ask the matron if she knows anything about him.'

'Miss Jones,' he said, when they had reached the House, 'have you on your list of new boys a sportsman of the name of MacCow or Watson? I am also prepared to accept Sandys or Duncan. The Christian name is either Richard or Percy. There, that gives you a fairly wide field to choose from.'

'There's a P. V. Wilson on the list,' said the matron, after an inspection of that document.

'That must be the man,' said Marriott. 'Thanks very much. I suppose he hasn't arrived yet?'

'No, not yet. You two are the only ones so far.'

'Oh! Well, I suppose I shall have to see him when he does come. I'll come down for him later on.'

They strolled out on to the field again.

'In re the proposed bucking-up of the House,' said Marriott, 'it'll be rather a big job.'

'Rather. I should think so. We ought to have a most fearfully sporting time. It's got to be done. The Old Man talked to me like several fathers.'

'What did he say?'

'Oh, heaps of things.'

'I know. Did he mention amongst other things that Reynolds was the worst idiot on the face of this so-called world?'

'Something of the sort.'

'So I should think. The late Reynolds was a perfect specimen of the gelatine-backboned worm. That's not my own, but it's the only description of him that really suits. Monk and Danvers and the mob in general used to do what they liked with him. Talking of Monk, when you embark on your tour of moral agitation, I should advise you to start with him.'

'Yes. And Danvers. There isn't much to choose between them. It's a pity they're both such good bats. When you see a chap putting them through the slips like Monk does, you can't help thinking there must be something in him.'

'So there is,' said Marriott, 'and it's all bad. I bar the man. He's slimy. It's the only word for him. And he uses scent by the gallon. Thank goodness this is his last term.'

'Is it really? I never heard that.'

'Yes. He and Danvers are both leaving. Monk's going to Heidelberg to study German, and Danvers is going into his pater's business in the City. I got that from Waterford.'

'Waterford is another beast,' said Gethryn thoughtfully. 'I suppose he's not leaving by any chance?'

'Not that I know of. But he'll be nothing without Monk and Danvers. He's simply a sort of bottle-washer to the firm. When they go he'll collapse. Let's be strolling towards the House now, shall we? Hullo! Our only Reece! Hullo, Reece!'

'Hullo!' said the new arrival. Reece was a weird, silent individual, whom everybody in the School knew up to a certain point, but very few beyond that point. His manner was exactly the same when talking to the smallest fag as when addressing the Headmaster. He rather gave one the impression that he was thinking of something a fortnight ahead, or trying to solve a chess problem without the aid of the board. In appearance he was on the short side, and thin. He was in the Sixth, and a conscientious worker. Indeed, he was only saved from being considered a swot, to use the vernacular, by the fact that from childhood's earliest hour he had been in the habit of keeping wicket like an angel. To a good wicket-keeper much may be forgiven.

He handed Gethryn an envelope.

'Letter, Bishop,' he said. Gethryn was commonly known as the Bishop, owing to a certain sermon preached in the College chapel some five years before, in aid of the Church Missionary Society, in which the preacher had alluded at frequent intervals to another Gethryn, a bishop, who, it appeared, had a see, and did much excellent work among the heathen at the back of beyond. Gethryn's friends and acquaintances, who had been alternating between 'Ginger' -- Gethryn's hair being inclined to redness -- and 'Sneg', a name which utterly baffles the philologist, had welcomed the new name warmly, and it had stuck ever since. And, after all, there are considerably worse names by which one might be called.

'What the dickens!' he said, as he finished reading the letter.

'Tell us the worst,' said Marriott. 'You must read it out now out of common decency, after rousing our expectations like that.'

'All right! It isn't private. It's from an aunt of mine.'

'Seems to be a perfect glut of aunts,' said Marriott. 'What views has your representative got to air? Is she springing any jolly little fellow full of spirits on this happy community?'

'No, it's not that. It's only an uncle of mine who's coming down here. He's coming tomorrow, and I'm to meet him. The uncanny part of it is that I've never heard of him before in my life.'

'That reminds me of a story I heard -- ' began Reece slowly. Reece's observations were not frequent, but when they came, did so for the most part in anecdotal shape. Somebody was constantly doing something which reminded him of something he had heard somewhere from somebody. The unfortunate part of it was that he exuded these reminiscences at such a leisurely rate of speed that he was rarely known to succeed in finishing any of them. He resembled those serial stories which appear in papers destined at a moderate price to fill an obvious void, and which break off abruptly at the third chapter, owing to the premature decease of the said periodicals. On this occasion Marriott cut in with a few sage remarks on the subject of uncles as a class. 'Uncles,' he said, 'are tricky. You never know where you've got 'em. You think they're going to come out strong with a sovereign, and they make it a shilling without a blush. An uncle of mine once gave me a threepenny bit. If it hadn't been that I didn't wish to hurt his feelings, I should have flung it at his feet. Also I particularly wanted threepence at the moment. Is your uncle likely to do his duty, Bishop?'

'I tell you I don't know the man. Never heard of him. I thought I knew every uncle on the list, but I can't place this one. However, I suppose I shall have to meet him.'

'Rather,' said Marriott, as they went into the House; 'we should always strive to be kind, even to the very humblest. On the off chance, you know. The unknown may have struck it rich in sheep or something out in Australia. Most uncles come from Australia. Or he may be the boss of some trust, and wallowing in dollars. He may be anything. Let's go and brew, Bishop. Come on, Reece.'

'I don't mind watching you two chaps eat,' said Gethryn, 'but I can't join in myself. I have assimilated three pounds odd of the Headmagisterial muffins already this afternoon. Don't mind me, though.'

They went upstairs to Marriott's study, which was also Gethryn's. Two in a study was the rule at Beckford, though there were recluses who lived alone, and seemed to enjoy it.

When the festive board had ceased to groan, and the cake, which Marriott's mother had expected to last a fortnight, had been reduced to a mere wreck of its former self, the thought of his aunt's friend's friend's son returned to Marriott, and he went down to investigate, returning shortly afterwards unaccompanied, but evidently full of news.

'Well?' said Gethryn. 'Hasn't he come?'

'A little,' said Marriott, 'just a little. I went down to the fags' room, and when I opened the door I noticed a certain weird stillness in the atmosphere. There is usually a row going on that you could cut with a knife. I looked about. The room was apparently empty. Then I observed a quaint object on the horizon. Do you know one Skinner by any chance?'

'My dear chap!' said Gethryn. Skinner was a sort of juvenile Professor Moriarty, a Napoleon of crime. He reeked of crime. He revelled in his wicked deeds. If a Dormitory-prefect was kept awake at night by some diabolically ingenious contrivance for combining the minimum of risk with the maximum of noise, then it was Skinner who had engineered the thing. Again, did a master, playing nervously forward on a bad pitch at the nets to Gosling, the School fast bowler, receive the ball gaspingly in the small ribs, and look round to see whose was that raucous laugh which had greeted the performance, he would observe a couple of yards away Skinner, deep in conversation with some friend of equally villainous aspect. In short, in a word, the only adequate word, he was Skinner.

'Well?' said Reece.

'Skinner,' proceeded Marriott, 'was seated in a chair, bleeding freely into a rather dirty pocket-handkerchief. His usual genial smile was hampered by a cut lip, and his right eye was blacked in the most graceful and pleasing manner. I made tender inquiries, but could get nothing from him except grunts. So I departed, and just outside the door I met young Lee, and got the facts out of him. It appears that P. V. Wilson, my aunt's friend's friend's son, entered the fags' room at four-fifteen. At four-fifteen-and-a-half, punctually, Skinner was observed to be trying to rag him. Apparently the great Percy has no sense of humour, for at four-seventeen he got tired of it, and hit Skinner crisply in the right eyeball, blacking the same as per illustration. The subsequent fight raged gorily for five minutes odd, and then Wilson, who seems to be a professional pugilist in disguise, landed what my informant describes as three corkers on his opponent's proboscis. Skinner's reply was to sit down heavily on the floor, and give him to understand that the fight was over, and that for the next day or two his face would be closed for alterations and repairs. Wilson thereupon harangued the company in well-chosen terms, tried to get Skinner to shake hands, but failed, and finally took the entire crew out to the shop, where they made pigs of themselves at his expense. I have spoken.'

'And that's the kid you've got to look after,' said Reece, after a pause.

'Yes,' said Marriott. 'What I maintain is that I require a kid built on those lines to look after me. But you ought to go down and see Skinner's eye sometime. It's a beautiful bit of work.'



II

Introduces An Unusual Uncle


On the following day, at nine o'clock, the term formally began. There is nothing of Black Monday about the first day of term at a public school. Black Monday is essentially a private school institution.

At Beckford the first day of every term was a half holiday. During the morning a feeble pretence of work was kept up, but after lunch the school was free, to do as it pleased and to go where it liked. The nets were put up for the first time, and the School professional emerged at last from his winter retirement with his, 'Coom right out to 'em, sir, right forward', which had helped so many Beckford cricketers to do their duty by the School in the field. There was one net for the elect, the remnants of last year's Eleven and the 'probables' for this season, and half a dozen more for lesser lights.

At the first net Norris was batting to the bowling of Gosling, a long, thin day boy, Gethryn, and the professional -- as useful a trio as any school batsman could wish for. Norris was captain of the team this year, a sound, stylish bat, with a stroke after the manner of Tyldesley between cover and mid-off, which used to make Miles the professional almost weep with joy. But today he had evidently not quite got into form. Twice in successive balls Gosling knocked his leg stump out of the ground with yorkers, and the ball after that, Gethryn upset his middle with a beauty.

'Hat-trick, Norris,' shouted Gosling.

'Can't see 'em a bit today. Bowled, Bishop.'

A second teaser from Gethryn had almost got through his defence. The Bishop was undoubtedly a fine bowler. Without being quite so fast as Gosling, he nevertheless contrived to work up a very considerable speed when he wished to, and there was always something in every ball he bowled which made it necessary for the batsman to watch it all the way. In matches against other schools it was generally Gosling who took the wickets. The batsmen were bothered by his pace. But when the M.C.C. or the Incogniti came down, bringing seasoned county men who knew what fast bowling really was, and rather preferred it on the whole to slow, then Gethryn was called upon.

Most Beckfordians who did not play cricket on the first day of term went on the river. A few rode bicycles or strolled out into the country in couples, but the majority, amongst whom on this occasion was Marriott, sallied to the water and hired boats. Marriott was one of the six old cricket colours -- the others were Norris, Gosling, Gethryn, Reece, and Pringle of the School House -- who formed the foundation of this year's Eleven. He was not an ornamental bat, but stood quite alone in the matter of tall hitting. Twenty minutes of Marriott when in form would often completely alter the course of a match. He had been given his colours in the previous year for making exactly a hundred in sixty-one minutes against the Authentics when the rest of the team had contributed ninety-eight. The Authentics made a hundred and eighty-four, so that the School just won; and the story of how there were five men out in the deep for him, and how he put the slow bowler over their heads and over the ropes eight times in three overs, had passed into a school legend.

But today other things than cricket occupied his attention. He had run Wilson to earth, and was engaged in making his acquaintance, according to instructions received.

'Are you Wilson?' he asked. 'P.V. Wilson?'

Wilson confirmed the charge.

'My name's Marriott. Does that convey any significance to your young mind?'

'Oh, yes. My mater knows somebody who knows your aunt.'

'It is a true bill.'

'And she said you would look after me. I know you won't have time, of course.'

'I expect I shall have time to give you all the looking after you'll require. It won't be much, from all I've heard. Was all that true about you and young Skinner?'

Wilson grinned.

'I did have a bit of a row with a chap called Skinner,' he admitted.

'So Skinner seems to think,' said Marriott. 'What was it all about?'

'Oh, he made an ass of himself,' said Wilson vaguely.

Marriott nodded.

'He would. I know the man. I shouldn't think you'd have much trouble with Skinner in the future. By the way, I've got you for a fag this term. You don't have to do much in the summer. Just rot around, you know, and go to the shop for biscuits and things, that's all. And, within limits of course, you get the run of the study.'

'I see,' said Wilson gratefully. The prospect was pleasant.

'Oh yes, and it's your privilege to pipe-clay my cricket boots occasionally before First matches. You'll like that. Can you steer a boat?'

'I don't think so. I never tried.'

'It's easy enough. I'll tell you what to do. Anyhow, you probably won't steer any worse than I row, so let's go and get a boat out, and I'll try and think of a few more words of wisdom for your benefit.'

At the nets Norris had finished his innings, and Pringle was batting in his stead. Gethryn had given up his ball to Baynes, who bowled slow leg-breaks, and was the most probable of the probables above-mentioned. He went to where Norris was taking off his pads, and began to talk to him. Norris was the head of Jephson's House, and he and the Bishop were very good friends, in a casual sort of way. If they did not see one another for a couple of days, neither of them broke his heart. Whenever, on the other hand, they did meet, they were always glad, and always had plenty to talk about. Most school friendships are of that description.

'You were sending down some rather hot stuff,' said Norris, as Gethryn sat down beside him, and began to inspect Pringle's performance with a critical eye.

'I did feel rather fit,' said he. 'But I don't think half those that got you would have taken wickets in a match. You aren't in form yet.'

'I tell you what it is, Bishop,' said Norris, 'I believe I'm going to be a rank failure this season. Being captain does put one off.'

'Don't be an idiot, man. How can you possibly tell after one day's play at the nets?'

'I don't know. I feel so beastly anxious somehow. I feel as if I was personally responsible for every match lost. It was all right last year when John Brown was captain. Good old John! Do you remember his running you out in the Charchester match?'

'Don't,' said Gethryn pathetically. 'The only time I've ever felt as if I really was going to make that century. By Jove, see that drive? Pringle seems all right.'

'Yes, you know, he'll simply walk into his Blue when he goes up to the Varsity. What do you think of Baynes?'

'Ought to be rather useful on his wicket. Jephson thinks he's good.'

Mr Jephson looked after the School cricket.

'Yes, I believe he rather fancies him,' said Norris. 'Says he ought to do some big things if we get any rain. Hullo, Pringle, are you coming out? You'd better go in, then, Bishop.'

'All right. Thanks. Oh, by Jove, though, I forgot. I can't. I've got to go down to the station to meet an uncle of mine.'

'What's he coming up today for? Why didn't he wait till we'd got a match of sorts on?'

'I don't know. The man's probably a lunatic. Anyhow, I shall have to go and meet him, and I shall just do it comfortably if I go and change now.'

'Oh! Right you are! Sammy, do you want a knock?'

Samuel Wilberforce Gosling, known to his friends and admirers as Sammy, replied that he did not. All he wanted now, he said, was a drink, or possibly two drinks, and a jolly good rest in the shade somewhere. Gosling was one of those rare individuals who cultivate bowling at the expense of batting, a habit the reverse of what usually obtains in schools.

Norris admitted the justice of his claims, and sent in a Second Eleven man, Baker, a member of his own House, in Pringle's place. Pringle and Gosling adjourned to the School shop for refreshment.

Gethryn walked with them as far as the gate which opened on to the road where most of the boarding Houses stood, and then branched off in the direction of Leicester's. To change into everyday costume took him a quarter of an hour, at the end of which period he left the House, and began to walk down the road in the direction of the station.

It was an hour's easy walking between Horton, the nearest station to Beckford, and the College. Gethryn, who was rather tired after his exertions at the nets, took it very easily, and when he arrived at his destination the church clock was striking four.

'Is the three-fifty-six in yet?' he asked of the solitary porter who ministered to the needs of the traveller at Horton station.

'Just a-coming in now, zur,' said the porter, adding, in a sort of inspired frenzy: ''Orton! 'Orton stertion! 'Orton!' and ringing a bell with immense enthusiasm and vigour.

Gethryn strolled to the gate, where the station-master's son stood at the receipt of custom to collect the tickets. His uncle was to arrive by this train, and if he did so arrive, must of necessity pass this way before leaving the platform. The train panted in, pulled up, whistled, and puffed out again, leaving three people behind it. One of these was a woman of sixty (approximately), the second a small girl of ten, the third a young gentleman in a top hat and Etons, who carried a bag, and looked as if he had seen the hollowness of things, for his face wore a bored, supercilious look. His uncle had evidently not arrived, unless he had come disguised as an old woman, an act of which Gethryn refused to believe him capable.

He enquired as to the next train that was expected to arrive from London. The station-master's son was not sure, but would ask the porter, whose name it appeared was Johnny. Johnny gave the correct answer without an effort. 'Seven-thirty it was, sir, except on Saturdays, when it was eight o'clock.'

'Thanks,' said the Bishop. 'Dash the man, he might at least have wired.'

He registered a silent wish concerning the uncle who had brought him a long three miles out of his way with nothing to show at the end of it, and was just turning to leave the station, when the top-hatted small boy, who had been hovering round the group during the conversation, addressed winged words to him. These were the winged words -- 

'I say, are you looking for somebody?' The Bishop stared at him as a naturalist stares at a novel species of insect.

'Yes,' he said. 'Why?'

'Is your name Gethryn?'

This affair, thought the Bishop, was beginning to assume an uncanny aspect.

'How the dickens did you know that?' he said.

'Oh, then you are Gethryn? That's all right. I was told you were going to be here to meet this train. Glad to make your acquaintance. My name's Farnie. I'm your uncle, you know.'

'My what?' gurgled the Bishop.

'Your uncle. U-n, un; c-l-e -- kul. Uncle. Fact, I assure you.'



III

The Uncle Makes Himself At Home


'But, dash it,' said Gethryn, when he had finished gasping, 'that must be rot!'

'Not a bit,' said the self-possessed youth. 'Your mater was my elder sister. You'll find it works out all right. Look here. A, the daughter of B and C, marries. No, look here. I was born when you were four. See?'

Then the demoralized Bishop remembered. He had heard of his juvenile uncle, but the tales had made little impression upon him. Till now they had not crossed one another's tracks.

'Oh, all right,' said he, 'I'll take your word for it. You seem to have been getting up the subject.'

'Yes. Thought you might want to know about it. I say, how far is it to Beckford, and how do you get there?'

Up till now Gethryn had scarcely realized that his uncle was actually coming to the School for good. These words brought the fact home to him.

'Oh, Lord,' he said, 'are you coming to Beckford?'

The thought of having his footsteps perpetually dogged by an uncle four years younger than himself, and manifestly a youth with a fine taste in cheek, was not pleasant.

'Of course,' said his uncle. 'What did you think I was going to do? Camp out on the platform?'

'What House are you in?'

'Leicester's.'

The worst had happened. The bitter cup was full, the iron neatly inserted in Gethryn's soul. In his most pessimistic moments he had never looked forward to the coming term so gloomily as he did now. His uncle noted his lack of enthusiasm, and attributed it to anxiety on behalf of himself.

'What's up?' he asked. 'Isn't Leicester's all right? Is Leicester a beast?'

'No. He's a perfectly decent sort of man. It's a good enough House. At least it will be this term. I was only thinking of something.'

'I see. Well, how do you get to the place?'

'Walk. It isn't far.'

'How far?'

'Three miles.'

'The porter said four.'

'It may be four. I never measured it.'

'Well, how the dickens do you think I'm going to walk four miles with luggage? I wish you wouldn't rot.'

And before Gethryn could quite realize that he, the head of Leicester's, the second-best bowler in the School, and the best centre three-quarter the School had had for four seasons, had been requested in a peremptory manner by a youth of fourteen, a mere kid, not to rot, the offender was talking to a cabman out of the reach of retaliation. Gethryn became more convinced every minute that this was no ordinary kid.

'This man says,' observed Farnie, returning to Gethryn, 'that he'll drive me up to the College for seven bob. As it's a short four miles, and I've only got two boxes, it seems to me that he's doing himself fairly well. What do you think?'

'Nobody ever gives more than four bob,' said Gethryn.

'I told you so,' said Farnie to the cabman. 'You are a bally swindler,' he added admiringly.

'Look 'ere,' began the cabman, in a pained voice.

'Oh, dry up,' said Farnie. 'Want a lift, Gethryn?'

The words were spoken not so much as from equal to equal as in a tone of airy patronage which made the Bishop's blood boil. But as he intended to instil a few words of wisdom into his uncle's mind, he did not refuse the offer.

The cabman, apparently accepting the situation as one of those slings and arrows of outrageous fortune which no man can hope to escape, settled down on the box, clicked up his horse, and drove on towards the College.

'What sort of a hole is Beckford?' asked Farnie, after the silence had lasted some time.

'I find it good enough personally,' said Gethryn. 'If you'd let us know earlier that you were coming, we'd have had the place done up a bit for you.'

This, of course, was feeble, distinctly feeble. But the Bishop was not feeling himself. The essay in sarcasm left the would-be victim entirely uncrushed. He should have shrunk and withered up, or at the least have blushed. But he did nothing of the sort. He merely smiled in his supercilious way, until the Bishop felt very much inclined to spring upon him and throw him out of the cab.

There was another pause.

'Farnie,' began Gethryn at last.

'Um?'

'Doesn't it strike you that for a kid like you you've got a good deal of edge on?' asked Gethryn.

Farnie effected a masterly counter-stroke. He pretended not to be able to hear. He was sorry, but would the Bishop mind repeating his remark.

'Eh? What?' he said. 'Very sorry, but this cab's making such a row. I say, cabby, why don't you sign the pledge, and save your money up to buy a new cab? Eh? Oh, sorry! I wasn't listening.' Now, inasmuch as the whole virtue of the 'wretched-little-kid-like-you' argument lies in the crisp despatch with which it is delivered, Gethryn began to find, on repeating his observation for the third time, that there was not quite so much in it as he had thought. He prudently elected to change his style of attack.

'It doesn't matter,' he said wearily, as Farnie opened his mouth to demand a fourth encore, 'it wasn't anything important. Now, look here, I just want to give you a few tips about what to do when you get to the Coll. To start with, you'll have to take off that white tie you've got on. Black and dark blue are the only sorts allowed here.'

'How about yours then?' Gethryn was wearing a somewhat sweet thing in brown and yellow.

'Mine happens to be a First Eleven tie.'

'Oh! Well, as a matter of fact, you know, I was going to take off my tie. I always do, especially at night. It's a sort of habit I've got into.'

'Not quite so much of your beastly cheek, please,' said Gethryn.

'Right-ho!' said Farnie cheerfully, and silence, broken only by the shrieking of the cab wheels, brooded once more over the cab. Then Gethryn, feeling that perhaps it would be a shame to jump too severely on a new boy on his first day at a large public school, began to think of something conciliatory to say. 'Look here,' he said, 'you'll get on all right at Beckford, I expect. You'll find Leicester's a fairly decent sort of House. Anyhow, you needn't be afraid you'll get bullied. There's none of that sort of thing at School nowadays.'

'Really?'

'Yes, and there's another thing I ought to warn you about. Have you brought much money with you?'

''Bout fourteen pounds, I fancy,' said Farnie carelessly.

'Fourteen what!' said the amazed Bishop. 'Pounds!'

'Or sovereigns,' said Farnie. 'Each worth twenty shillings, you know.'

For a moment Gethryn's only feeling was one of unmixed envy. Previously he had considered himself passing rich on thirty shillings a term. He had heard legends, of course, of individuals who come to School bursting with bullion, but never before had he set eyes upon such an one. But after a time it began to dawn upon him that for a new boy at a public school, and especially at such a House as Leicester's had become under the rule of the late Reynolds and his predecessors, there might be such a thing as having too much money.

'How the deuce did you get all that?' he asked.

'My pater gave it me. He's absolutely cracked on the subject of pocket-money. Sometimes he doesn't give me a sou, and sometimes he'll give me whatever I ask for.'

'But you don't mean to say you had the cheek to ask for fourteen quid?'

'I asked for fifteen. Got it, too. I've spent a pound of it. I said I wanted to buy a bike. You can get a jolly good bike for five quid about, so you see I scoop ten pounds. What?'

This ingenious, if slightly unscrupulous, feat gave Gethryn an insight into his uncle's character which up till now he had lacked. He began to see that the moral advice with which he had primed himself would be out of place. Evidently this youth could take quite good care of himself on his own account. Still, even a budding Professor Moriarty would be none the worse for being warned against Gethryn's bete noire, Monk, so the Bishop proceeded to deliver that warning.

'Well,' he said, 'you seem to be able to look out for yourself all right, I must say. But there's one tip I really can give you. When you get to Leicester's, and a beast with a green complexion and an oily smile comes up and calls you "Old Cha-a-p", and wants you to swear eternal friendship, tell him it's not good enough. Squash him!'

'Thanks,' said Farnie. 'Who is this genial merchant?'

'Chap called Monk. You'll recognize him by the smell of scent. When you find the place smelling like an Eau-de-Cologne factory, you'll know Monk's somewhere near. Don't you have anything to do with him.'

'You seem to dislike the gentleman.'

'I bar the man. But that isn't why I'm giving you the tip to steer clear of him. There are dozens of chaps I bar who haven't an ounce of vice in them. And there are one or two chaps who have got tons. Monk's one of them. A fellow called Danvers is another. Also a beast of the name of Waterford. There are some others as well, but those are the worst of the lot. By the way, I forgot to ask, have you ever been to school before?'

'Yes,' said Farnie, in the dreamy voice of one who recalls memories from the misty past, 'I was at Harrow before I came here, and at Wellington before I went to Harrow, and at Clifton before I went to Wellington.'

Gethryn gasped.

'Anywhere before you went to Clifton?' he enquired.

'Only private schools.'

The recollection of the platitudes which he had been delivering, under the impression that he was talking to an entirely raw beginner, made Gethryn feel slightly uncomfortable. What must this wanderer, who had seen men and cities, have thought of his harangue?

'Why did you leave Harrow?' asked he.

'Sacked,' was the laconic reply.

Have you ever, asks a modern philosopher, gone upstairs in the dark, and trodden on the last step when it wasn't there? That sensation and the one Gethryn felt at this unexpected revelation were identical. And the worst of it was that he felt the keenest desire to know why Harrow had seen fit to dispense with the presence of his uncle.

'Why?' he began. 'I mean,' he went on hurriedly, 'why did you leave Wellington?'

'Sacked,' said Farnie again, with the monotonous persistence of a Solomon Eagle.

Gethryn felt at this juncture much as the unfortunate gentleman in Punch must have felt, when, having finished a humorous story, the point of which turned upon squinting and red noses, he suddenly discovered that his host enjoyed both those peculiarities. He struggled manfully with his feelings for a time. Tact urged him to discontinue his investigations and talk about the weather. Curiosity insisted upon knowing further details. Just as the struggle was at its height, Farnie came unexpectedly to the rescue.

'It may interest you,' he said, 'to know that I was not sacked from Clifton.'

Gethryn with some difficulty refrained from thanking him for the information.

'I never stop at a school long,' said Farnie. 'If I don't get sacked my father takes me away after a couple of terms. I went to four private schools before I started on the public schools. My pater took me away from the first two because he thought the drains were bad, the third because they wouldn't teach me shorthand, and the fourth because he didn't like the headmaster's face. I worked off those schools in a year and a half.' Having finished this piece of autobiography, he relapsed into silence, leaving Gethryn to recollect various tales he had heard of his grandfather's eccentricity. The silence lasted until the College was reached, when the matron took charge of Farnie, and Gethryn went off to tell Marriott of these strange happenings.

Marriott was amused, nor did he attempt to conceal the fact. When he had finished laughing, which was not for some time, he favoured the Bishop with a very sound piece of advice. 'If I were you,' he said, 'I should try and hush this affair up. It's all fearfully funny, but I think you'd enjoy life more if nobody knew this kid was your uncle. To see the head of the House going about with a juvenile uncle in his wake might amuse the chaps rather, and you might find it harder to keep order; I won't let it out, and nobody else knows apparently. Go and square the kid. Oh, I say though, what's his name? If it's Gethryn, you're done. Unless you like to swear he's a cousin.'

'No; his name's Farnie, thank goodness.'

'That's all right then. Go and talk to him.'

Gethryn went to the junior study. Farnie was holding forth to a knot of fags at one end of the room. His audience appeared to be amused at something.

'I say, Farnie,' said the Bishop, 'half a second.'

Farnie came out, and Gethryn proceeded to inform him that, all things considered, and proud as he was of the relationship, it was not absolutely essential that he should tell everybody that he was his uncle. In fact, it would be rather better on the whole if he did not. Did he follow?

Farnie begged to observe that he did follow, but that, to his sorrow, the warning came too late.

'I'm very sorry,' he said, 'I hadn't the least idea you wanted the thing kept dark. How was I to know? I've just been telling it to some of the chaps in there. Awfully decent chaps. They seemed to think it rather funny. Anyhow, I'm not ashamed of the relationship. Not yet, at any rate.'

For a moment Gethryn seemed about to speak. He looked fixedly at his uncle as he stood framed in the doorway, a cheerful column of cool, calm, concentrated cheek. Then, as if realizing that no words that he knew could do justice to the situation, he raised his foot in silence, and 'booted' his own flesh and blood with marked emphasis. After which ceremony he went, still without a word, upstairs again.

As for Farnie, he returned to the junior day-room whistling 'Down South' in a soft but cheerful key, and solidified his growing popularity with doles of food from a hamper which he had brought with him. Finally, on retiring to bed and being pressed by the rest of his dormitory for a story, he embarked upon the history of a certain Pollock and an individual referred to throughout as the Porroh Man, the former of whom caused the latter to be decapitated, and was ever afterwards haunted by his head, which appeared to him all day and every day (not excepting Sundays and Bank Holidays) in an upside-down position and wearing a horrible grin. In the end Pollock very sensibly committed suicide (with ghastly details), and the dormitory thanked Farnie in a subdued and chastened manner, and tried, with small success, to go to sleep. In short, Farnie's first evening at Beckford had been quite a triumph.



IV

Pringle Makes A Sporting Offer


Estimating it roughly, it takes a new boy at a public school about a week to find his legs and shed his skin of newness. The period is, of course, longer in the case of some and shorter in the case of others. Both Farnie and Wilson had made themselves at home immediately. In the case of the latter, directly the Skinner episode had been noised abroad, and it was discovered in addition that he was a promising bat, public opinion recognized that here was a youth out of the common run of new boys, and the Lower Fourth -- the form in which he had been placed on arrival -- took him to its bosom as an equal. Farnie's case was exceptional. A career at Harrow, Clifton, and Wellington, however short and abruptly terminated, gives one some sort of grip on the way public school life is conducted. At an early date, moreover, he gave signs of what almost amounted to genius in the Indoor Game department. Now, success in the field is a good thing, and undoubtedly makes for popularity. But if you desire to command the respect and admiration of your fellow-beings to a degree stretched almost to the point of idolatry, make yourself proficient in the art of whiling away the hours of afternoon school. Before Farnie's arrival, his form, the Upper Fourth, with the best intentions in the world, had not been skilful 'raggers'. They had ragged in an intermittent, once-a-week sort of way. When, however, he came on the scene, he introduced a welcome element of science into the sport. As witness the following. Mr Strudwick, the regular master of the form, happened on one occasion to be away for a couple of days, and a stop-gap was put in in his place. The name of the stop-gap was Mr Somerville Smith. He and Farnie exchanged an unspoken declaration of war almost immediately. The first round went in Mr Smith's favour. He contrived to catch Farnie in the act of performing some ingenious breach of the peace, and, it being a Wednesday and a half-holiday, sent him into extra lesson. On the following morning, more by design than accident, Farnie upset an inkpot. Mr Smith observed icily that unless the stain was wiped away before the beginning of afternoon school, there would be trouble. Farnie observed (to himself) that there would be trouble in any case, for he had hit upon the central idea for the most colossal 'rag' that, in his opinion, ever was. After morning school he gathered the form around him, and disclosed his idea. The floor of the form-room, he pointed out, was some dozen inches below the level of the door. Would it not be a pleasant and profitable notion, he asked, to flood the floor with water to the depth of those dozen inches? On the wall outside the form-room hung a row of buckets, placed there in case of fire, and the lavatory was not too far off for practical purposes. Mr Smith had bidden him wash the floor. It was obviously his duty to do so. The form thought so too. For a solid hour, thirty weary but enthusiastic reprobates laboured without ceasing, and by the time the bell rang all was prepared. The floor was one still, silent pool. Two caps and a few notebooks floated sluggishly on the surface, relieving the picture of any tendency to monotony. The form crept silently to their places along the desks. As Mr Smith's footsteps were heard approaching, they began to beat vigorously upon the desks, with the result that Mr Smith, quickening his pace, dashed into the form-room at a hard gallop. The immediate results were absolutely satisfactory, and if matters subsequently (when Mr Smith, having changed his clothes, returned with the Headmaster) did get somewhat warm for the thirty criminals, they had the satisfying feeling that their duty had been done, and a hearty and unanimous vote of thanks was passed to Farnie. From which it will be seen that Master Reginald Farnie was managing to extract more or less enjoyment out of his life at Beckford.

Another person who was enjoying life was Pringle of the School House. The keynote of Pringle's character was superiority. At an early period of his life -- he was still unable to speak at the time -- his grandmother had died. This is probably the sole reason why he had never taught that relative to suck eggs. Had she lived, her education in that direction must have been taken in hand. Baffled in this, Pringle had turned his attention to the rest of the human race. He had a rooted conviction that he did everything a shade better than anybody else. This belief did not make him arrogant at all, and certainly not offensive, for he was exceedingly popular in the School. But still there were people who thought that he might occasionally draw the line somewhere. Watson, the ground-man, for example, thought so when Pringle primed him with advice on the subject of preparing a wicket. And Langdale, who had been captain of the team five years before, had thought so most decidedly, and had not hesitated to say so when Pringle, then in his first term and aged twelve, had stood behind the First Eleven net and requested him peremptorily to 'keep 'em down, sir, keep 'em down'. Indeed, the great man had very nearly had a fit on that occasion, and was wont afterwards to attribute to the effects of the shock so received a sequence of three 'ducks' which befell him in the next three matches.

In short, in every department of life, Pringle's advice was always (and generally unsought) at everybody's disposal. To round the position off neatly, it would be necessary to picture him as a total failure in the practical side of all the subjects in which he was so brilliant a theorist. Strangely enough, however, this was not the case. There were few better bats in the School than Pringle. Norris on his day was more stylish, and Marriott not infrequently made more runs, but for consistency Pringle was unrivalled.

That was partly the reason why at this time he was feeling pleased with life. The School had played three matches up to date, and had won them all. In the first, an Oxford college team, containing several Old Beckfordians, had been met and routed, Pringle contributing thirty-one to a total of three hundred odd. But Norris had made a century, which had rather diverted the public eye from this performance. Then the School had played the Emeriti, and had won again quite comfortably. This time his score had been forty-one, useful, but still not phenomenal. Then in the third match, versus Charchester, one of the big school matches of the season, he had found himself. He ran up a hundred and twenty-three without a chance, and felt that life had little more to offer. That had been only a week ago, and the glow of satisfaction was still pleasantly warm.

It was while he was gloating silently in his study over the bat with which a grateful Field Sports Committee had presented him as a reward for this feat, that he became aware that Lorimer, his study companion, appeared to be in an entirely different frame of mind to his own. Lorimer was in the Upper Fifth, Pringle in the Remove. Lorimer sat at the study table gnawing a pen in a feverish manner that told of an overwrought soul. Twice he uttered sounds that were obviously sounds of anguish, half groans and half grunts. Pringle laid down his bat and decided to investigate.

'What's up?' he asked.

'This bally poem thing,' said Lorimer.

'Poem? Oh, ah, I know.' Pringle had been in the Upper Fifth himself a year before, and he remembered that every summer term there descended upon that form a Bad Time in the shape of a poetry prize. A certain Indian potentate, the Rajah of Seltzerpore, had paid a visit to the school some years back, and had left behind him on his departure certain monies in the local bank, which were to be devoted to providing the Upper Fifth with an annual prize for the best poem on a subject to be selected by the Headmaster. Entrance was compulsory. The wily authorities knew very well that if it had not been, the entries for the prize would have been somewhat small. Why the Upper Fifth were so favoured in preference to the Sixth or Remove is doubtful. Possibly it was felt that, what with the Jones History, the Smith Latin Verse, the Robinson Latin Prose, and the De Vere Crespigny Greek Verse, and other trophies open only to members of the Remove and Sixth, those two forms had enough to keep them occupied as it was. At any rate, to the Upper Fifth the prize was given, and every year, three weeks after the commencement of the summer term, the Bad Time arrived.

'Can't you get on?' asked Pringle.

'No.'

'What's the subject?'

'Death of Dido.'

'Something to be got out of that, surely.'

'Wish you'd tell me what.'

'Heap of things.'

'Such as what? Can't see anything myself. I call it perfectly indecent dragging the good lady out of her well-earned tomb at this time of day. I've looked her up in the Dic. of Antiquities, and it appears that she committed suicide some years ago. Body-snatching, I call it. What do I want to know about her?'

'What's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba?' murmured Pringle.

'Hecuba?' said Lorimer, looking puzzled, 'What's Hecuba got to do with it?'

'I was only quoting,' said Pringle, with gentle superiority.

'Well, I wish instead of quoting rot you'd devote your energies to helping me with these beastly verses. How on earth shall I begin?'

'You might adapt my quotation. "What's Dido got to do with me, or I to do with Dido?" I rather like that. Jam it down. Then you go on in a sort of rag-time metre. In the "Coon Drum-Major" style. Besides, you see, the beauty of it is that you administer a wholesome snub to the examiner right away. Makes him sit up at once. Put it down.'

Lorimer bit off another quarter of an inch of his pen. 'You needn't be an ass,' he said shortly.

'My dear chap,' said Pringle, enjoying himself immensely, 'what on earth is the good of my offering you suggestions if you won't take them?'

Lorimer said nothing. He bit off another mouthful of penholder.

'Well, anyway,' resumed Pringle. 'I can't see why you're so keen on the business. Put down anything. The beaks never make a fuss about these special exams.'

'It isn't the beaks I care about,' said Lorimer in an injured tone of voice, as if someone had been insinuating that he had committed some crime, 'only my people are rather keen on my doing well in this exam.'

'Why this exam, particularly?'

'Oh, I don't know. My grandfather or someone was a bit of a pro at verse in his day, I believe, and they think it ought to run in the family.'

Pringle examined the situation in all its aspects. 'Can't you get along?' he enquired at length.

'Not an inch.'

'Pity. I wish we could swop places.'

'So do I for some things. To start with, I shouldn't mind having made that century of yours against Charchester.'

Pringle beamed. The least hint that his fellow-man was taking him at his own valuation always made him happy.

'Thanks,' he said. 'No, but what I meant was that I wished I was in for this poetry prize. I bet I could turn out a rattling good screed. Why, last year I almost got the prize. I sent in fearfully hot stuff.'

'Think so?' said Lorimer doubtfully, in answer to the 'rattling good screed' passage of Pringle's speech. 'Well, I wish you'd have a shot. You might as well.'

'What, really? How about the prize?'

'Oh, hang the prize. We'll have to chance that.'

'I thought you were keen on getting it.'

'Oh, no. Second or third will do me all right, and satisfy my people. They only want to know for certain that I've got the poetic afflatus all right. Will you take it on?'

'All right.'

'Thanks, awfully.'

'I say, Lorimer,' said Pringle after a pause.

'Yes?'

'Are your people coming down for the O.B.s' match?'

The Old Beckfordians' match was the great function of the Beckford cricket season. The Headmaster gave a garden-party. The School band played; the School choir sang; and sisters, cousins, aunts, and parents flocked to the School in platoons.

'Yes, I think so,' said Lorimer. 'Why?'

'Is your sister coming?'

'Oh, I don't know.' A brother's utter lack of interest in his sister's actions is a weird and wonderful thing for an outsider to behold.

'Well, look here, I wish you'd get her to come. We could give them tea in here, and have rather a good time, don't you think?'

'All right. I'll make her come. Look here, Pringle, I believe you're rather gone on Mabel.'

This was Lorimer's vulgar way.

'Don't be an ass,' said Pringle, with a laugh which should have been careless, but was in reality merely feeble. 'She's quite a kid.'

Miss Mabel Lorimer's exact age was fifteen. She had brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile which disclosed to view a dimple. There are worse things than a dimple. Distinctly so, indeed. When ladies of fifteen possess dimples, mere man becomes but as a piece of damp blotting-paper. Pringle was seventeen and a half, and consequently too old to take note of such frivolous attributes; but all the same he had a sort of vague, sketchy impression that it would be pleasanter to run up a lively century against the O.B.s with Miss Lorimer as a spectator than in her absence. He felt pleased that she was coming.

'I say, about this poem,' said Lorimer, dismissing a subject which manifestly bored him, and returning to one which was of vital interest, 'you're sure you can write fairly decent stuff? It's no good sending in stuff that'll turn the examiner's hair grey. Can you turn out something really decent?'

Pringle said nothing. He smiled gently as who should observe, 'I and Shakespeare.'



V

Farnie Gets Into Trouble -- 


It was perhaps only natural that Farnie, having been warned so strongly of the inadvisability of having anything to do with Monk, should for that very reason be attracted to him. Nobody ever wants to do anything except what they are not allowed to do. Otherwise there is no explaining the friendship that arose between them. Jack Monk was not an attractive individual. He had a slack mouth and a shifty eye, and his complexion was the sort which friends would have described as olive, enemies (with more truth) as dirty green. These defects would have mattered little, of course, in themselves. There's many a bilious countenance, so to speak, covers a warm heart. With Monk, however, appearances were not deceptive. He looked a bad lot, and he was one.

It was on the second morning of term that the acquaintanceship began. Monk was coming downstairs from his study with Danvers, and Farnie was leaving the fags' day-room.

'See that kid?' said Danvers. 'That's the chap I was telling you about. Gethryn's uncle, you know.'

'Not really? Let's cultivate him. I say, old chap, don't walk so fast.' Farnie, rightly concluding that the remark was addressed to him, turned and waited, and the three strolled over to the School buildings together.

They would have made an interesting study for the observer of human nature, the two seniors fancying that they had to deal with a small boy just arrived at his first school, and in the grip of that strange, lost feeling which attacks the best of new boys for a day or so after their arrival; and Farnie, on the other hand, watching every move, as perfectly composed and at home as a youth should be with the experience of three public schools to back him up.

When they arrived at the School gates, Monk and Danvers turned to go in the direction of their form-room, the Remove, leaving Farnie at the door of the Upper Fourth. At this point a small comedy took place. Monk, after feeling hastily in his pockets, requested Danvers to lend him five shillings until next Saturday. Danvers knew this request of old, and he knew the answer that was expected of him. By replying that he was sorry, but he had not got the money, he gave Farnie, who was still standing at the door, his cue to offer to supply the deficiency. Most new boys -- they had grasped this fact from experience -- would have felt it an honour to oblige a senior with a small loan. As Farnie made no signs of doing what was expected of him, Monk was obliged to resort to the somewhat cruder course of applying for the loan in person. He applied. Farnie with the utmost willingness brought to light a handful of money, mostly gold. Monk's eye gleamed approval, and he stretched forth an itching palm. Danvers began to think that it would be rash to let a chance like this slip. Ordinarily the tacit agreement between the pair was that only one should borrow at a time, lest confidence should be destroyed in the victim. But here was surely an exception, a special case. With a young gentleman so obviously a man of coin as Farnie, the rule might well be broken for once.

'While you're about it, Farnie, old man,' he said carelessly, 'you might let me have a bob or two if you don't mind. Five bob'll see me through to Saturday all right.'

'Do you mean tomorrow?' enquired Farnie, looking up from his heap of gold.

'No, Saturday week. Let you have it back by then at the latest. Make a point of it.'

'How would a quid do?'

'Ripping,' said Danvers ecstatically.

'Same here,' assented Monk.

'Then that's all right,' said Farnie briskly; 'I thought perhaps you mightn't have had enough. You've got a quid, I know, Monk, because I saw you haul one out at breakfast. And Danvers has got one too, because he offered to toss you for it in the study afterwards. And besides, I couldn't lend you anything in any case, because I've only got about fourteen quid myself.'

With which parting shot he retired, wrapped in gentle thought, into his form-room; and from the noise which ensued immediately upon his arrival, the shrewd listener would have deduced, quite correctly, that he had organized and taken the leading part in a general rag.

Monk and Danvers proceeded upon their way.

'You got rather left there, old chap,' said Monk at length.

'I like that,' replied the outraged Danvers. 'How about you, then? It seemed to me you got rather left, too.'

Monk compromised.

'Well, anyhow,' he said, 'we shan't get much out of that kid.'

'Little beast,' said Danvers complainingly. And they went on into their form-room in silence.

'I saw your young -- er -- relative in earnest conversation with friend Monk this morning,' said Marriott, later on in the day, to Gethryn; 'I thought you were going to give him the tip in that direction?'

'So I did,' said the Bishop wearily; 'but I can't always be looking after the little brute. He only does it out of sheer cussedness, because I've told him not to. It stands to reason that he can't like Monk.'

'You remind me of the psalmist and the wicked man, surname unknown,' said Marriott. 'You can't see the good side of Monk.'

'There isn't one.'

'No. He's only got two sides, a bad side and a worse side, which he sticks on on the strength of being fairly good at games. I wonder if he's going to get his First this season. He's not a bad bat.'

'I don't think he will. He is a good bat, but there are heaps better in the place. I say, I think I shall give young Farnie the tip once more, and let him take it or leave it. What do you think?'

'He'll leave it,' said Marriott, with conviction.

Nor was he mistaken. Farnie listened with enthusiasm to his nephew's second excursus on the Monk topic, and, though he said nothing, was apparently convinced. On the following afternoon Monk, Danvers, Waterford, and he hired a boat and went up the river together. Gethryn and Marriott, steered by Wilson, who was rapidly developing into a useful coxswain, got an excellent view of them moored under the shade of a willow, drinking ginger-beer, and apparently on the best of terms with one another and the world in general. In a brief but moving speech the Bishop finally excommunicated his erring relative. 'For all I care,' he concluded, 'he can do what he likes in future. I shan't stop him.'

'No,' said Marriott, 'I don't think you will.'

For the first month of his school life Farnie behaved, except in his choice of companions, much like an ordinary junior. He played cricket moderately well, did his share of compulsory fielding at the First Eleven net, and went for frequent river excursions with Monk, Danvers, and the rest of the Mob.

At first the other juniors of the House were inclined to resent this extending of the right hand of fellowship to owners of studies and Second Eleven men, and attempted to make Farnie see the sin and folly of his ways. But Nature had endowed that youth with a fund of vitriolic repartee. When Millett, one of Leicester's juniors, evolved some laborious sarcasm on the subject of Farnie's swell friends, Farnie, in a series of three remarks, reduced him, figuratively speaking, to a small and palpitating spot of grease. After that his actions came in for no further, or at any rate no outspoken comment.

Given sixpence a week and no more, Farnie might have survived an entire term without breaking any serious School rule. But when, after buying a bicycle from Smith of Markham's, he found himself with eight pounds to his name in solid cash, and the means of getting far enough away from the neighbourhood of the School to be able to spend it much as he liked, he began to do strange and risky things in his spare time.

The great obstacle to illicit enjoyment at Beckford was the four o'clock roll-call on half-holidays. There were other obstacles, such as half-holiday games and so forth, but these could be avoided by the exercise of a little judgement. The penalty for non-appearance at a half-holiday game was a fine of sixpence. Constant absence was likely in time to lead to a more or less thrilling interview with the captain of cricket, but a very occasional attendance was enough to stave off this disaster; and as for the sixpence, to a man of means like Farnie it was a mere nothing. It was a bad system, and it was a wonder, under the circumstances, how Beckford produced the elevens it did. But it was the system, and Farnie availed himself of it to the full.

The obstacle of roll-call he managed also to surmount. Some reckless and penniless friend was generally willing, for a consideration, to answer his name for him. And so most Saturday afternoons would find Farnie leaving behind him the flannelled fools at their various wickets, and speeding out into the country on his bicycle in the direction of the village of Biddlehampton, where mine host of the 'Cow and Cornflower', in addition to other refreshment for man and beast, advertised that ping-pong and billiards might be played on the premises. It was not the former of these games that attracted Farnie. He was no pinger. Nor was he a pongster. But for billiards he had a decided taste, a genuine taste, not the pumped-up affectation sometimes displayed by boys of his age. Considering his age he was a remarkable player. Later on in life it appeared likely that he would have the choice of three professions open to him, namely, professional billiard player, billiard marker, and billiard sharp. At each of the three he showed distinct promise. He was not 'lured to the green cloth' by Monk or Danvers. Indeed, if there had been any luring to be done, it is probable that he would have done it, and not they. Neither Monk nor Danvers was in his confidence in the matter. Billiards is not a cheap amusement. By the end of his sixth week Farnie was reduced to a single pound, a sum which, for one of his tastes, was practically poverty. And just at the moment when he was least able to bear up against it, Fate dealt him one of its nastiest blows. He was playing a fifty up against a friendly but unskilful farmer at the 'Cow and Cornflower'. 'Better look out,' he said, as his opponent effected a somewhat rustic stroke, 'you'll be cutting the cloth in a second.' The farmer grunted, missed by inches, and retired, leaving the red ball in the jaws of the pocket, and Farnie with three to make to win.

It was an absurdly easy stroke, and the Bishop's uncle took it with an absurd amount of conceit and carelessness. Hardly troubling to aim, he struck his ball. The cue slid off in one direction, the ball rolled sluggishly in another. And when the cue had finished its run, the smooth green surface of the table was marred by a jagged and unsightly cut. There was another young man gone wrong!

To say that the farmer laughed would be to express the matter feebly. That his young opponent, who had been irritating him unspeakably since the beginning of the game with advice and criticism, should have done exactly what he had cautioned him, the farmer, against a moment before, struck him as being the finest example of poetic justice he had ever heard of, and he signalized his appreciation of the same by nearly dying of apoplexy.

The marker expressed an opinion that Farnie had been and gone and done it.

''Ere,' he said, inserting a finger in the cut to display its dimensions. 'Look 'ere. This'll mean a noo cloth, young feller me lad. That's wot this'll mean. That'll be three pound we will trouble you for, if you please.'

Farnie produced his sole remaining sovereign.

'All I've got,' he said. 'I'll leave my name and address.'

'Don't you trouble, young feller me lad,' said the marker, who appeared to be a very aggressive and unpleasant sort of character altogether, with meaning, 'I know yer name and I knows yer address. Today fortnight at the very latest, if you please. You don't want me to 'ave to go to your master about it, now, do yer? What say? No. Ve' well then. Today fortnight is the time, and you remember it.'

What was left of Farnie then rode slowly back to Beckford. Why he went to Monk on his return probably he could not have explained himself. But he did go, and, having told his story in full, wound up by asking for a loan of two pounds. Monk's first impulse was to refer him back to a previous interview, when matters had been the other way about, that small affair of the pound on the second morning of the term. Then there flashed across his mind certain reasons against this move. At present Farnie's attitude towards him was unpleasantly independent. He made him understand that he went about with him from choice, and that there was to be nothing of the patron and dependant about their alliance. If he were to lend him the two pounds now, things would alter. And to have got a complete hold over Master Reginald Farnie, Monk would have paid more than two pounds. Farnie had the intelligence to carry through anything, however risky, and there were many things which Monk would have liked to do, but, owing to the risks involved, shirked doing for himself. Besides, he happened to be in funds just now.

'Well, look here, old chap,' he said, 'let's have strict business between friends. If you'll pay me back four quid at the end of term, you shall have the two pounds. How does that strike you?'

It struck Farnie, as it would have struck most people, that if this was Monk's idea of strict business, there were the makings of no ordinary financier in him. But to get his two pounds he would have agreed to anything. And the end of term seemed a long way off.

The awkward part of the billiard-playing episode was that the punishment for it, if detected, was not expulsion, but flogging. And Farnie resembled the lady in The Ingoldsby Legends who 'didn't mind death, but who couldn't stand pinching'. He didn't mind expulsion -- he was used to it, but he could not stand flogging.

'That'll be all right,' he said. And the money changed hands.



VI

 -- And Stays There


'I say,' said Baker of Jephson's excitedly some days later, reeling into the study which he shared with Norris, 'have you seen the team the M.C.C.'s bringing down?'

At nearly every school there is a type of youth who asks this question on the morning of the M.C.C. match. Norris was engaged in putting the finishing touches to a snow-white pair of cricket boots.

'No. Hullo, where did you raise that Sporter? Let's have a look.'

But Baker proposed to conduct this business in person. It is ten times more pleasant to administer a series of shocks to a friend than to sit by and watch him administering them to himself. He retained The Sportsman, and began to read out the team.

'Thought Middlesex had a match,' said Norris, as Baker paused dramatically to let the name of a world-famed professional sink in.

'No. They don't play Surrey till Monday.'

'Well, if they've got an important match like Surrey on on Monday,' said Norris disgustedly, 'what on earth do they let their best man come down here today for, and fag himself out?'

Baker suggested gently that if anybody was going to be fagged out at the end of the day, it would in all probability be the Beckford bowlers, and not a man who, as he was careful to point out, had run up a century a mere three days ago against Yorkshire, and who was apparently at that moment at the very top of his form.

'Well,' said Norris, 'he might crock himself or anything. Rank bad policy, I call it. Anybody else?'

Baker resumed his reading. A string of unknowns ended in another celebrity.

'Blackwell?' said Norris. 'Not O. T. Blackwell?'

'It says A. T. But,' went on Baker, brightening up again, 'they always get the initials wrong in the papers. Certain to be O. T. By the way, I suppose you saw that he made eighty-three against Notts the other day?'

Norris tried to comfort himself by observing that Notts couldn't bowl for toffee.

'Last week, too,' said Baker, 'he made a hundred and forty-six not out against Malvern for the Gentlemen of Warwickshire. They couldn't get him out,' he concluded with unction. In spite of the fact that he himself was playing in the match today, and might under the circumstances reasonably look forward to a considerable dose of leather-hunting, the task of announcing the bad news to Norris appeared to have a most elevating effect on his spirits:

'That's nothing extra special,' said Norris, in answer to the last item of information, 'the Malvern wicket's like a billiard-table.'

'Our wickets aren't bad either at this time of year,' said Baker, 'and I heard rumours that they had got a record one ready for this match.'

'It seems to me,' said Norris, 'that what I'd better do if we want to bat at all today is to win the toss. Though Sammy and the Bishop and Baynes ought to be able to get any ordinary side out all right.'

'Only this isn't an ordinary side. It's a sort of improved county team.'

'They've got about four men who might come off, but the M.C.C. sometimes have a bit of a tail. We ought to have a look in if we win the toss.'

'Hope so,' said Baker. 'I doubt it, though.'

At a quarter to eleven the School always went out in a body to inspect the pitch. After the wicket had been described by experts in hushed whispers as looking pretty good, the bell rang, and all who were not playing for the team, with the exception of the lucky individual who had obtained for himself the post of scorer, strolled back towards the blocks. Monk had come out with Waterford, but seeing Farnie ahead and walking alone he quitted Waterford, and attached himself to the genial Reginald. He wanted to talk business. He had not found the speculation of the two pounds a very profitable one. He had advanced the money under the impression that Farnie, by accepting it, was practically selling his independence. And there were certain matters in which Monk was largely interested, connected with the breaking of bounds and the purchase of contraband goods, which he would have been exceedingly glad to have performed by deputy. He had fancied that Farnie would have taken over these jobs as part of his debt. But he had mistaken his man. On the very first occasion when he had attempted to put on the screw, Farnie had flatly refused to have anything to do with what he proposed. He said that he was not Monk's fag -- a remark which had the merit of being absolutely true.

All this, combined with a slight sinking of his own funds, induced Monk to take steps towards recovering the loan.

'I say, Farnie, old chap.'

'Hullo!'

'I say, do you remember my lending you two quid some time ago?'

'You don't give me much chance of forgetting it,' said Farnie.

Monk smiled. He could afford to be generous towards such witticisms.

'I want it back,' he said.

'All right. You'll get it at the end of term.'

'I want it now.'

'Why?'

'Awfully hard up, old chap.'

'You aren't,' said Farnie. 'You've got three pounds twelve and sixpence half-penny. If you will keep counting your money in public, you can't blame a chap for knowing how much you've got.'

Monk, slightly disconcerted, changed his plan of action. He abandoned skirmishing tactics.

'Never mind that,' he said, 'the point is that I want that four pounds. I'm going to have it, too.'

'I know. At the end of term.'

'I'm going to have it now.'

'You can have a pound of it now.'

'Not enough.'

'I don't see how you expect me to raise any more. If I could, do you think I should have borrowed it? You might chuck rotting for a change.'

'Now, look here, old chap,' said Monk, 'I should think you'd rather raise that tin somehow than have it get about that you'd been playing pills at some pub out of bounds. What?'

Farnie, for one of the few occasions on record, was shaken out of his usual sang-froid. Even in his easy code of morality there had always been one crime which was an anathema, the sort of thing no fellow could think of doing. But it was obviously at this that Monk was hinting.

'Good Lord, man,' he cried, 'you don't mean to say you're thinking of sneaking? Why, the fellows would boot you round the field. You couldn't stay in the place a week.'

'There are heaps of ways,' said Monk, 'in which a thing can get about without anyone actually telling the beaks. At present I've not told a soul. But, you know, if I let it out to anyone they might tell someone else, and so on. And if everybody knows a thing, the beaks generally get hold of it sooner or later. You'd much better let me have that four quid, old chap.'

Farnie capitulated.

'All right,' he said, 'I'll get it somehow.'

'Thanks awfully, old chap,' said Monk, 'so long!'

In all Beckford there was only one person who was in the least degree likely to combine the two qualities necessary for the extraction of Farnie from his difficulties. These qualities were -- in the first place ability, in the second place willingness to advance him, free of security, the four pounds he required. The person whom he had in his mind was Gethryn. He had reasoned the matter out step by step during the second half of morning school. Gethryn, though he had, as Farnie knew, no overwhelming amount of affection for his uncle, might in a case of great need prove blood to be thicker (as per advertisement) than water. But, he reflected, he must represent himself as in danger of expulsion rather than flogging. He had an uneasy idea that if the Bishop were to discover that all he stood to get was a flogging, he would remark with enthusiasm that, as far as he was concerned, the good work might go on. Expulsion was different. To save a member of his family from expulsion, he might think it worth while to pass round the hat amongst his wealthy acquaintances. If four plutocrats with four sovereigns were to combine, Farnie, by their united efforts, would be saved. And he rather liked the notion of being turned into a sort of limited liability company, like the Duke of Plaza Toro, at a pound a share. It seemed to add a certain dignity to his position.

To Gethryn's study, therefore, he went directly school was over. If he had reflected, he might have known that he would not have been there while the match was going on. But his brain, fatigued with his recent calculations, had not noted this point.

The study was empty.

Most people, on finding themselves in a strange and empty room, are seized with a desire to explore the same, and observe from internal evidence what manner of man is the owner. Nowhere does character come out so clearly as in the decoration of one's private den. Many a man, at present respected by his associates, would stand forth unmasked at his true worth, could the world but look into his room. For there they would see that he was so lost to every sense of shame as to cover his books with brown paper, or deck his walls with oleographs presented with the Christmas numbers, both of which habits argue a frame of mind fit for murderers, stratagems, and spoils. Let no such man be trusted.

The Bishop's study, which Farnie now proceeded to inspect, was not of this kind. It was a neat study, arranged with not a little taste. There were photographs of teams with the College arms on their plain oak frames, and photographs of relations in frames which tried to look, and for the most part succeeded in looking, as if they had not cost fourpence three farthings at a Christmas bargain sale. There were snap-shots of various moving incidents in the careers of the Bishop and his friends: Marriott, for example, as he appeared when carried to the Pavilion after that sensational century against the Authentics: Robertson of Blaker's winning the quarter mile: John Brown, Norris's predecessor in the captaincy, and one of the four best batsmen Beckford had ever had, batting at the nets: Norris taking a skier on the boundary in last year's M.C.C. match: the Bishop himself going out to bat in the Charchester match, and many more of the same sort.

All these Farnie observed with considerable interest, but as he moved towards the book-shelf his eye was caught by an object more interesting still. It was a cash-box, simple and unornamental, but undoubtedly a cash-box, and as he took it up it rattled.

The key was in the lock. In a boarding House at a public school it is not, as a general rule, absolutely necessary to keep one's valuables always hermetically sealed. The difference between meum and tuum is so very rarely confused by the occupants of such an establishment, that one is apt to grow careless, and every now and then accidents happen. An accident was about to happen now.

It was at first without any motive except curiosity that Farnie opened the cash-box. He merely wished to see how much there was inside, with a view to ascertaining what his prospects of negotiating a loan with his relative were likely to be. When, however, he did see, other feelings began to take the place of curiosity. He counted the money. There were ten sovereigns, one half-sovereign, and a good deal of silver. One of the institutions at Beckford was a mission. The School by (more or less) voluntary contributions supported a species of home somewhere in the wilds of Kennington. No one knew exactly what or where this home was, but all paid their subscriptions as soon as possible in the term, and tried to forget about it. Gethryn collected not only for Leicester's House, but also for the Sixth Form, and was consequently, if only by proxy, a man of large means. Too large, Farnie thought. Surely four pounds, to be paid back (probably) almost at once, would not be missed. Why shouldn't he -- 

'Hullo!'

Farnie spun round. Wilson was standing in the doorway.

'Hullo, Farnie,' said he, 'what are you playing at in here?'

'What are you?' retorted Farnie politely.

'Come to fetch a book. Marriott said I might. What are you up to?'

'Oh, shut up!' said Farnie. 'Why shouldn't I come here if I like? Matter of fact, I came to see Gethryn.'

'He isn't here,' said Wilson luminously.

'You don't mean to say you've noticed that already? You've got an eye like a hawk, Wilson. I was just taking a look round, if you really want to know.'

'Well, I shouldn't advise you to let Marriott catch you mucking his study up. Seen a book called Round the Red Lamp? Oh, here it is. Coming over to the field?'

'Not just yet. I want to have another look round. Don't you wait, though.'

'Oh, all right.' And Wilson retired with his book.

Now, though Wilson at present suspected nothing, not knowing of the existence of the cash-box, Farnie felt that when the money came to be missed, and inquiries were made as to who had been in the study, and when, he would recall the interview. Two courses, therefore, remained open to him. He could leave the money altogether, or he could take it and leave himself. In other words, run away.

In the first case there would, of course, remain the chance that he might induce Gethryn to lend him the four pounds, but this had never been more than a forlorn hope; and in the light of the possibilities opened out by the cash-box, he thought no more of it. The real problem was, should he or should he not take the money from the cash-box?

As he hesitated, the recollection of Monk's veiled threats came back to him, and he wavered no longer. He opened the box again, took out the contents, and dropped them into his pocket. While he was about it, he thought he might as well take all as only a part.

Then he wrote two notes. One -- to the Bishop -- he placed on top of the cash-box; the other he placed with four sovereigns on the table in Monk's study. Finally he left the room, shut the door carefully behind him, and went to the yard at the back of the House, where he kept his bicycle.

The workings of the human mind, and especially of the young human mind, are peculiar. It never occurred to Farnie that a result equally profitable to himself, and decidedly more convenient for all concerned -- with the possible exception of Monk -- might have been arrived at if he had simply left the money in the box, and run away without it.

However, as the poet says, you can't think of everything.



VII

The Bishop Goes For A Ride


The M.C.C. match opened auspiciously. Norris, for the first time that season, won the toss. Tom Brown, we read, in a similar position, 'with the usual liberality of young hands', put his opponents in first. Norris was not so liberal. He may have been young, but he was not so young as that. The sun was shining on as true a wicket as was ever prepared when he cried 'Heads', and the coin, after rolling for some time in diminishing circles, came to a standstill with the dragon undermost. And Norris returned to the Pavilion and informed his gratified team that, all things considered, he rather thought that they would bat, and he would be obliged if Baker would get on his pads and come in first with him.

The M.C.C. men took the field -- O. T. Blackwell, by the way, had shrunk into a mere brother of the century-making A. T. -- and the two School House representatives followed them. An amateur of lengthy frame took the ball, a man of pace, to judge from the number of slips. Norris asked for 'two leg'. An obliging umpire informed him that he had got two leg. The long bowler requested short slip to stand finer, swung his arm as if to see that the machinery still worked, and dashed wildly towards the crease. The match had begun.

There are few pleasanter or more thrilling moments in one's school career than the first over of a big match. Pleasant, that is to say, if you are actually looking on. To have to listen to a match being started from the interior of a form-room is, of course, maddening. You hear the sound of bat meeting ball, followed by distant clapping. Somebody has scored. But who and what? It may be a four, or it may be a mere single. More important still, it may be the other side batting after all. Some miscreant has possibly lifted your best bowler into the road. The suspense is awful. It ought to be a School rule that the captain of the team should send a message round the form-rooms stating briefly and lucidly the result of the toss. Then one would know where one was. As it is, the entire form is dependent on the man sitting under the window. The form-master turns to write on the blackboard. The only hope of the form shoots up like a rocket, gazes earnestly in the direction of the Pavilion, and falls back with a thud into his seat. 'They haven't started yet,' he informs the rest in a stage whisper. 'Si-lence,' says the form-master, and the whole business must be gone through again, with the added disadvantage that the master now has his eye fixed coldly on the individual nearest the window, your only link with the outer world.

Various masters have various methods under such circumstances. One more than excellent man used to close his book and remark, 'I think we'll make up a little party to watch this match.' And the form, gasping its thanks, crowded to the windows. Another, the exact antithesis of this great and good gentleman, on seeing a boy taking fitful glances through the window, would observe acidly, 'You are at perfect liberty, Jones, to watch the match if you care to, but if you do you will come in in the afternoon and make up the time you waste.' And as all that could be seen from that particular window was one of the umpires and a couple of fieldsmen, Jones would reluctantly elect to reserve himself, and for the present to turn his attention to Euripides again.

If you are one of the team, and watch the match from the Pavilion, you escape these trials, but there are others. In the first few overs of a School match, every ball looks to the spectators like taking a wicket. The fiendish ingenuity of the slow bowler, and the lightning speed of the fast man at the other end, make one feel positively ill. When the first ten has gone up on the scoring-board matters begin to right themselves. Today ten went up quickly. The fast man's first ball was outside the off-stump and a half-volley, and Norris, whatever the state of his nerves at the time, never forgot his forward drive. Before the bowler had recovered his balance the ball was half-way to the ropes. The umpire waved a large hand towards the Pavilion. The bowler looked annoyed. And the School inside the form-rooms asked itself feverishly what had happened, and which side it was that was applauding.

Having bowled his first ball too far up, the M.C.C. man, on the principle of anything for a change, now put in a very short one. Norris, a new man after that drive, steered it through the slips, and again the umpire waved his hand.

The rest of the over was more quiet. The last ball went for four byes, and then it was Baker's turn to face the slow man. Baker was a steady, plodding bat. He played five balls gently to mid-on, and glanced the sixth for a single to leg. With the fast bowler, who had not yet got his length, he was more vigorous, and succeeded in cutting him twice for two.

With thirty up for no wickets the School began to feel more comfortable. But at forty-three Baker was shattered by the man of pace, and retired with twenty to his credit. Gethryn came in next, but it was not to be his day out with the bat.

The fast bowler, who was now bowling excellently, sent down one rather wide of the off-stump. The Bishop made most of his runs from off balls, and he had a go at this one. It was rising when he hit it, and it went off his bat like a flash. In a School match it would have been a boundary. But today there was unusual talent in the slips. The man from Middlesex darted forward and sideways. He took the ball one-handed two inches from the ground, and received the applause which followed the effort with a rather bored look, as if he were saying, 'My good sirs, why make a fuss over these trifles!' The Bishop walked slowly back to the Pavilion, feeling that his luck was out, and Pringle came in.

A boy of Pringle's character is exactly the right person to go in in an emergency like the present one. Two wickets had fallen in two balls, and the fast bowler was swelling visibly with determination to do the hat-trick. But Pringle never went in oppressed by the fear of getting out. He had a serene and boundless confidence in himself.

The fast man tried a yorker. Pringle came down hard on it, and forced the ball past the bowler for a single. Then he and Norris settled down to a lengthy stand.

'I do like seeing Pringle bat,' said Gosling. 'He always gives you the idea that he's doing you a personal favour by knocking your bowling about. Oh, well hit!'

Pringle had cut a full-pitch from the slow bowler to the ropes. Marriott, who had been silent and apparently in pain for some minutes, now gave out the following homemade effort:

A dashing young sportsman named Pringle, On breaking his duck (with a single), Observed with a smile, 'Just notice my style, How science with vigour I mingle.'

'Little thing of my own,' he added, quoting England's greatest librettist. 'I call it "Heart Foam". I shall not publish it. Oh, run it out!'

Both Pringle and Norris were evidently in form. Norris was now not far from his fifty, and Pringle looked as if he might make anything. The century went up, and a run later Norris off-drove the slow bowler's successor for three, reaching his fifty by the stroke.

'Must be fairly warm work fielding today,' said Reece.

'By Jove!' said Gethryn, 'I forgot. I left my white hat in the House. Any of you chaps like to fetch it?'

There were no offers. Gethryn got up.

'Marriott, you slacker, come over to the House.'

'My good sir, I'm in next. Why don't you wait till the fellows come out of school and send a kid for it?'

'He probably wouldn't know where to find it. I don't know where it is myself. No, I shall go, but there's no need to fag about it yet. Hullo! Norris is out.'

Norris had stopped a straight one with his leg. He had made fifty-one in his best manner, and the School, leaving the form-rooms at the exact moment when the fatal ball was being bowled, were just in time to applaud him and realize what they had missed.

Gethryn's desire for his hat was not so pressing as to make him deprive himself of the pleasure of seeing Marriott at the wickets. Marriott ought to do something special today. Unfortunately, after he had played out one over and hit two fours off it, the luncheon interval began.

It was, therefore, not for half an hour that the Bishop went at last in search of the missing headgear. As luck would have it, the hat was on the table, so that whatever chance he might have had of overlooking the note which his uncle had left for him on the empty cash-box disappeared. The two things caught his eye simultaneously. He opened the note and read it. It is not necessary to transcribe the note in detail. It was no masterpiece of literary skill. But it had this merit, that it was not vague. Reading it, one grasped its meaning immediately.

The Bishop's first feeling was that the bottom had dropped out of everything suddenly. Surprise was not the word. It was the arrival of the absolutely unexpected.

Then he began to consider the position.

Farnie must be brought back. That was plain. And he must be brought back at once, before anyone could get to hear of what had happened. Gethryn had the very strongest objections to his uncle, considered purely as a human being; but the fact remained that he was his uncle, and the Bishop had equally strong objections to any member of his family being mixed up in a business of this description.

Having settled that point, he went on to the next. How was he to be brought back? He could not have gone far, for he could not have been gone much more than half an hour. Again, from his knowledge of his uncle's character, he deduced that he had in all probability not gone to the nearest station, Horton. At Horton one had to wait hours at a time for a train. Farnie must have made his way -- on his bicycle -- straight for the junction, Anfield, fifteen miles off by a good road. A train left Anfield for London at three-thirty. It was now a little past two. On a bicycle he could do it easily, and get back with his prize by about five, if he rode hard. In that case all would be well. Only three of the School wickets had fallen, and the pitch was playing as true as concrete. Besides, there was Pringle still in at one end, well set, and surely Marriott and Jennings and the rest of them would manage to stay in till five. They couldn't help it. All they had to do was to play forward to everything, and they must stop in. He himself had got out, it was true, but that was simply a regrettable accident. Not one man in a hundred would have caught that catch. No, with luck he ought easily to be able to do the distance and get back in time to go out with the rest of the team to field.

He ran downstairs and out of the House. On his way to the bicycle-shed he stopped, and looked towards the field, part of which could be seen from where he stood. The match had begun again. The fast bowler was just commencing his run. He saw him tear up to the crease and deliver the ball. What happened then he could not see, owing to the trees which stood between him and the School grounds. But he heard the crack of ball meeting bat, and a great howl of applause went up from the invisible audience. A boundary, apparently. Yes, there was the umpire signalling it. Evidently a long stand was going to be made. He would have oceans of time for his ride. Norris wouldn't dream of declaring the innings closed before five o'clock at the earliest, and no bowler could take seven wickets in the time on such a pitch. He hauled his bicycle from the shed, and rode off at racing speed in the direction of Anfield.



VIII

The M.C.C. Match


But out in the field things were going badly with Beckford. The aspect of a game often changes considerably after lunch. For a while it looked as if Marriott and Pringle were in for their respective centuries. But Marriott was never a safe batsman.

A hundred and fifty went up on the board off a square leg hit for two, which completed Pringle's half-century, and then Marriott faced the slow bowler, who had been put on again after lunch. The first ball was a miss-hit. It went behind point for a couple. The next he got fairly hold of and drove to the boundary. The third was a very simple-looking ball. Its sole merit appeared to be the fact that it was straight. Also it was a trifle shorter than it looked. Marriott jumped out, and got too much under it. Up it soared, straight over the bowler's head. A trifle more weight behind the hit, and it would have cleared the ropes. As it was, the man in the deep-field never looked like missing it. The batsmen had time to cross over before the ball arrived, but they did it without enthusiasm. The run was not likely to count. Nor did it. Deep-field caught it like a bird. Marriott had made twenty-two.

And now occurred one of those rots which so often happen without any ostensible cause in the best regulated school elevens. Pringle played the three remaining balls of the over without mishap, but when it was the fast man's turn to bowl to Bruce, Marriott's successor, things began to happen. Bruce, temporarily insane, perhaps through nervousness, played back at a half-volley, and was clean bowled. Hill came in, and was caught two balls later at the wicket. And the last ball of the over sent Jennings's off-stump out of the ground, after that batsman had scored two.

'I can always bowl like blazes after lunch,' said the fast man to Pringle. 'It's the lobster salad that does it, I think.' Four for a hundred and fifty-seven had changed to seven for a hundred and fifty-nine in the course of a single over. Gethryn's calculations, if he had only known, could have done now with a little revision.

Gosling was the next man. He was followed, after a brief innings of three balls, which realized eight runs, by Baynes. Baynes, though abstaining from runs himself, helped Pringle to add three to the score, all in singles, and was then yorked by the slow man, who meanly and treacherously sent down, without the slightest warning, a very fast one on the leg stump. Then Reece came in for the last wicket, and the rot stopped. Reece always went in last for the School, and the School in consequence always felt that there were possibilities to the very end of the innings.

The lot of a last-wicket man is somewhat trying. As at any moment his best innings may be nipped in the bud by the other man getting out, he generally feels that it is hardly worth while to play himself in before endeavouring to make runs. He therefore tries to score off every ball, and thinks himself lucky if he gets half a dozen. Reece, however, took life more seriously. He had made quite an art of last-wicket batting. Once, against the Butterflies, he had run up sixty not out, and there was always the chance that he would do the same again. Today, with Pringle at the other end, he looked forward to a pleasant hour or two at the wicket.

No bowler ever looks on the last man quite in the same light as he does the other ten. He underrates him instinctively. The M.C.C. fast bowler was a man with an idea. His idea was that he could bowl a slow ball of diabolical ingenuity. As a rule, public feeling was against his trying the experiment. His captains were in the habit of enquiring rudely if he thought he was playing marbles. This was exactly what the M.C.C. captain asked on the present occasion, when the head ball sailed ponderously through the air, and was promptly hit by Reece into the Pavilion. The bowler grinned, and resumed his ordinary pace.

But everything came alike to Reece. Pringle, too, continued his career of triumph. Gradually the score rose from a hundred and seventy to two hundred. Pringle cut and drove in all directions, with the air of a prince of the blood royal distributing largesse. The second century went up to the accompaniment of cheers.

Then the slow bowler reaped his reward, for Pringle, after putting his first two balls over the screen, was caught on the boundary off the third. He had contributed eighty-one to a total of two hundred and thirteen.

So far Gethryn's absence had not been noticed. But when the umpires had gone out, and the School were getting ready to take the field, inquiries were made.

'You might begin at the top end, Gosling,' said Norris.

'Right,' said Samuel. 'Who's going on at the other?'

'Baynes. Hullo, where's Gethryn?'

'Isn't he here? Perhaps he's in the Pavi -- '

'Any of you chaps seen Gethryn?'

'He isn't in the Pav.,' said Baker. 'I've just come out of the First room myself, and he wasn't there. Shouldn't wonder if he's over at Leicester's.'

'Dash the man,' said Norris, 'he might have known we'd be going out to field soon. Anyhow, we can't wait for him. We shall have to field a sub. till he turns up.'

'Lorimer's in the Pav., changed,' said Pringle.

'All right. He'll do.'

And, reinforced by the gratified Lorimer, the team went on its way.

In the beginning the fortunes of the School prospered. Gosling opened, as was his custom, at a tremendous pace, and seemed to trouble the first few batsmen considerably. A worried-looking little person who had fielded with immense zeal during the School innings at cover-point took the first ball. It was very fast, and hit him just under the knee-cap. The pain, in spite of the pad, appeared to be acute. The little man danced vigorously for some time, and then, with much diffidence, prepared himself for the second instalment.

Now, when on the cricket field, the truculent Samuel was totally deficient in all the finer feelings, such as pity and charity. He could see that the batsman was in pain, and yet his second ball was faster than the first. It came in quickly from the off. The little batsman went forward in a hesitating, half-hearted manner, and played a clear two inches inside the ball. The off-stump shot out of the ground.

'Bowled, Sammy,' said Norris from his place in the slips.

The next man was a clergyman, a large man who suggested possibilities in the way of hitting. But Gosling was irresistible. For three balls the priest survived. But the last of the over, a fast yorker on the leg stump, was too much for him, and he retired.

Two for none. The critic in the deck chair felt that the match was as good as over.

But this idyllic state of things was not to last. The newcomer, a tall man with a light moustache, which he felt carefully after every ball, soon settled down. He proved to be a conversationalist. Until he had opened his account, which he did with a strong drive to the ropes, he was silent. When, however, he had seen the ball safely to the boundary, he turned to Reece and began.

'Rather a nice one, that. Eh, what? Yes. Got it just on the right place, you know. Not a bad bat this, is it? What? Yes. One of Slogbury and Whangham's Sussex Spankers, don't you know. Chose it myself. Had it in pickle all the winter. Yes.'

'Play, sir,' from the umpire.

'Eh, what? Oh, right. Yes, good make these Sussex -- Spankers. Oh, well fielded.'

At the word spankers he had effected another drive, but Marriott at mid-off had stopped it prettily.

Soon it began to occur to Norris that it would be advisable to have a change of bowling. Gosling was getting tired, and Baynes apparently offered no difficulties to the batsman on the perfect wicket, the conversational man in particular being very severe upon him. It was at such a crisis that the Bishop should have come in. He was Gosling's understudy. But where was he? The innings had been in progress over half an hour now, and still there were no signs of him. A man, thought Norris, who could cut off during the M.C.C. match (of all matches!), probably on some rotten business of his own, was beyond the pale, and must, on reappearance, be fallen upon and rent. He -- here something small and red whizzed at his face. He put up his hands to protect himself. The ball struck them and bounded out again. When a fast bowler is bowling a slip he should not indulge in absent-mindedness. The conversational man had received his first life, and, as he was careful to explain to Reece, it was a curious thing, but whenever he was let off early in his innings he always made fifty, and as a rule a century. Gosling's analysis was spoilt, and the match in all probability lost. And Norris put it all down to Gethryn. If he had been there, this would not have happened.

'Sorry, Gosling,' he said.

'All right,' said Gosling, though thinking quite the reverse. And he walked back to bowl his next ball, conjuring up a beautiful vision in his mind. J. Douglas and Braund were fielding slip to him in the vision, while in the background Norris appeared, in a cauldron of boiling oil.

'Tut, tut,' said Baker facetiously to the raging captain.

Baker's was essentially a flippant mind. Not even a moment of solemn agony, such as this, was sacred to him.

Norris was icy and severe.

'If you want to rot about, Baker,' he said, 'perhaps you'd better go and play stump-cricket with the juniors.'

'Well,' retorted Baker, with great politeness, 'I suppose seeing you miss a gaper like that right into your hands made me think I was playing stump-cricket with the juniors.'

At this point the conversation ceased, Baker suddenly remembering that he had not yet received his First Eleven colours, and that it would therefore be rash to goad the captain too freely, while Norris, for his part, recalled the fact that Baker had promised to do some Latin verse for him that evening, and might, if crushed with some scathing repartee, refuse to go through with that contract. So there was silence in the slips.

The partnership was broken at last by a lucky accident. The conversationalist called his partner for a short run, and when that unfortunate gentleman had sprinted some twenty yards, reconsidered the matter and sent him back. Reece had the bails off before the victim had completed a third of the return journey.

For some time after this matters began to favour the School again. With the score at a hundred and five, three men left in two overs, one bowled by Gosling, the others caught at point and in the deep off Jennings, who had deposed Baynes. Six wickets were now down, and the enemy still over a hundred behind.

But the M.C.C. in its school matches has this peculiarity. However badly it may seem to stand, there is always something up its sleeve. In this case it was a professional, a man indecently devoid of anything in the shape of nerves. He played the bowling with a stolid confidence, amounting almost to contempt, which struck a chill to the hearts of the School bowlers. It did worse. It induced them to bowl with the sole object of getting the conversationalist at the batting end, thus enabling the professional to pile up an unassuming but rapidly increasing score by means of threes and singles.

As for the conversationalist, he had made thirty or more, and wanted all the bowling he could get.

'It's a very curious thing,' he said to Reece, as he faced Gosling, after his partner had scored a three off the first ball of the over, 'but some fellows simply detest fast bowling. Now I -- ' He never finished the sentence. When he spoke again it was to begin a new one.

'How on earth did that happen?' he asked.

'I think it bowled you,' said Reece stolidly, picking up the two stumps which had been uprooted by Gosling's express.

'Yes. But how? Dash it! What? I can't underst -- . Most curious thing I ever -- dash it all, you know.'

He drifted off in the direction of the Pavilion, stopping on the way to ask short leg his opinion of the matter.

'Bowled, Sammy,' said Reece, putting on the bails.

'Well bowled, Gosling,' growled Norris from the slips.

'Sammy the marvel, by Jove,' said Marriott. 'Switch it on, Samuel, more and more.'

'I wish Norris would give me a rest. Where on earth is that man Gethryn?'

'Rum, isn't it? There's going to be something of a row about it. Norris seems to be getting rather shirty. Hullo! here comes the Deathless Author.'

The author referred to was the new batsman, a distinguished novelist, who played a good deal for the M.C.C. He broke his journey to the wicket to speak to the conversationalist, who was still engaged with short leg.

'Bates, old man,' he said, 'if you're going to the Pavilion you might wait for me. I shall be out in an hour or two.'

Upon which Bates, awaking suddenly to the position of affairs, went on his way.

With the arrival of the Deathless Author an unwelcome change came over the game. His cricket style resembled his literary style. Both were straightforward and vigorous. The first two balls he received from Gosling he drove hard past cover point to the ropes. Gosling, who had been bowling unchanged since the innings began, was naturally feeling a little tired. He was losing his length, and bowling more slowly than was his wont. Norris now gave him a rest for a few overs, Bruce going on with rather innocuous medium left-hand bowling. The professional continued to jog along slowly. The novelist hit. Everything seemed to come alike to him. Gosling resumed, but without effect, while at the other end bowler after bowler was tried. From a hundred and ten the score rose and rose, and still the two remained together. A hundred and ninety went up, and Norris in despair threw the ball to Marriott.

'Here you are, Marriott,' he said, 'I'm afraid we shall have to try you.'

'That's what I call really nicely expressed,' said Marriott to the umpire. 'Yes, over the wicket.'

Marriott was a slow, 'House-match' sort of bowler. That is to say, in a House match he was quite likely to get wickets, but in a First Eleven match such an event was highly improbable. His bowling looked very subtle, and if the ball was allowed to touch the ground it occasionally broke quite a remarkable distance.

The forlorn hope succeeded. The professional for the first time in his innings took a risk. He slashed at a very mild ball almost a wide on the off side. The ball touched the corner of the bat, and soared up in the direction of cover-point, where Pringle held it comfortably.

'There you are,' said Marriott, 'when you put a really scientific bowler on you're bound to get a wicket. Why on earth didn't I go on before, Norris?'

'You wait,' said Norris, 'there are five more balls of the over to come.'

'Bad job for the batsman,' said Marriott.

There had been time for a run before the ball reached Pringle, so that the novelist was now at the batting end. Marriott's next ball was not unlike his first, but it was straighter, and consequently easier to get at. The novelist hit it into the road. When it had been brought back he hit it into the road again. Marriott suggested that he had better have a man there.

The fourth ball of the over was too wide to hit with any comfort, and the batsman let it alone. The fifth went for four to square leg, almost killing the umpire on its way, and the sixth soared in the old familiar manner into the road again. Marriott's over had yielded exactly twenty-two runs. Four to win and two wickets to fall.

'I'll never read another of that man's books as long as I live,' said Marriott to Gosling, giving him the ball. 'You're our only hope, Sammy. Do go in and win.'

The new batsman had the bowling. He snicked his first ball for a single, bringing the novelist to the fore again, and Samuel Wilberforce Gosling vowed a vow that he would dismiss that distinguished novelist.

But the best intentions go for nothing when one's arm is feeling like lead. Of all the miserable balls sent down that afternoon that one of Gosling's was the worst. It was worse than anything of Marriott's. It flew sluggishly down the pitch well outside the leg stump. The novelist watched it come, and his eye gleamed. It was about to bounce for the second time when, with a pleased smile, the batsman stepped out. There was a loud, musical report, the note of a bat when it strikes the ball fairly on the driving spot.

The man of letters shaded his eyes with his hand, and watched the ball diminish in the distance.

'I rather think,' said he cheerfully, as a crash of glass told of its arrival at the Pavilion, 'that that does it.'

He was perfectly right. It did.



IX

The Bishop Finishes His Ride


Gethryn had started on his ride handicapped by two things. He did not know his way after the first two miles, and the hedges at the roadside had just been clipped, leaving the roads covered with small thorns.

It was the former of these circumstances that first made itself apparent. For two miles the road ran straight, but after that it was unexplored country. The Bishop, being in both cricket and football teams, had few opportunities for cycling. He always brought his machine to School, but he very seldom used it.

At the beginning of the unexplored country, an irresponsible person recommended him to go straight on. He couldn't miss the road, said he. It was straight all the way. Gethryn thanked him, rode on, and having gone a mile came upon three roads, each of which might quite well have been considered a continuation of the road on which he was already. One curved gently off to the right, the other two equally gently to the left. He dismounted and the feelings of gratitude which he had borne towards his informant for his lucid directions vanished suddenly. He gazed searchingly at the three roads, but to single out one of them as straighter than the other two was a task that baffled him completely. A sign-post informed him of three things. By following road one he might get to Brindleham, and ultimately, if he persevered, to Corden. Road number two would lead him to Old Inns, whatever they might be, with the further inducement of Little Benbury, while if he cast in his lot with road three he might hope sooner or later to arrive at Much Middlefold-on-the-Hill, and Lesser Middlefold-in-the-Vale. But on the subject of Anfield and Anfield Junction the board was silent.

Two courses lay open to him. Should he select a route at random, or wait for somebody to come and direct him? He waited. He went on waiting. He waited a considerable time, and at last, just as he was about to trust to luck, and make for Much Middlefold-on-the-Hill, a figure loomed in sight, a slow-moving man, who strolled down the Old Inns road at a pace which seemed to argue that he had plenty of time on his hands.

'I say, can you tell me the way to Anfield, please?' said the Bishop as he came up.

The man stopped, apparently rooted to the spot. He surveyed the Bishop with a glassy but determined stare from head to foot. Then he looked earnestly at the bicycle, and finally, in perfect silence, began to inspect the Bishop again.

'Eh?' he said at length.

'Can you tell me the way to Anfield?'

'Anfield?'

'Yes. How do I get there?'

The man perpended, and when he replied did so after the style of the late and great Ollendorf.

'Old Inns,' he said dreamily, waving a hand down the road by which he had come, 'be over there.'

'Yes, yes, I know,' said Gethryn.

'Was born at Old Inns, I was,' continued the man, warming to his subject. 'Lived there fifty-five years, I have. Yeou go straight down the road an' yeou cam t' Old Inns. Yes, that be the way t' Old Inns.'

Gethryn nobly refrained from rending the speaker limb from limb.

'I don't want to know the way to Old Inns,' he said desperately. 'Where I want to get is Anfield. Anfield, you know. Which way do I go?'

'Anfield?' said the man. Then a brilliant flash of intelligence illumined his countenance. 'Whoy, Anfield be same road as Old Inns. Yeou go straight down the road, an' -- '

'Thanks very much,' said Gethryn, and without waiting for further revelations shot off in the direction indicated. A quarter of a mile farther he looked over his shoulder. The man was still there, gazing after him in a kind of trance.

The Bishop passed through Old Inns with some way on his machine. He had much lost time to make up. A signpost bearing the legend 'Anfield four miles' told him that he was nearing his destination. The notice had changed to three miles and again to two, when suddenly he felt that jarring sensation which every cyclist knows. His back tyre was punctured. It was impossible to ride on. He got off and walked. He was still in his cricket clothes, and the fact that he had on spiked boots did not make walking any the easier. His progress was not rapid.

Half an hour before his one wish had been to catch sight of a fellow-being. Now, when he would have preferred to have avoided his species, men seemed to spring up from nowhere, and every man of them had a remark to make or a question to ask about the punctured tyre. Reserve is not the leading characteristic of the average yokel.

Gethryn, however, refused to be drawn into conversation on the subject. At last one, more determined than the rest, brought him to bay.

'Hoy, mister, stop,' called a voice. Gethryn turned. A man was running up the road towards him.

He arrived panting.

'What's up?' said the Bishop.

'You've got a puncture,' said the man, pointing an accusing finger at the flattened tyre.

It was not worth while killing the brute. Probably he was acting from the best motives.

'No,' said Gethryn wearily, 'it isn't a puncture. I always let the air out when I'm riding. It looks so much better, don't you think so? Why did they let you out? Good-bye.'

And feeling a little more comfortable after this outburst, he wheeled his bicycle on into Anfield High Street.

Minds in the village of Anfield worked with extraordinary rapidity. The first person of whom he asked the way to the Junction answered the riddle almost without thinking. He left his machine out in the road and went on to the platform. The first thing that caught his eye was the station clock with its hands pointing to five past four. And when he realized that, his uncle's train having left a clear half hour before, his labours had all been for nothing, the full bitterness of life came home to him.

He was turning away from the station when he stopped. Something else had caught his eye. On a bench at the extreme end of the platform sat a youth. And a further scrutiny convinced the Bishop of the fact that the youth was none other than Master Reginald Farnie, late of Beckford, and shortly, or he would know the reason why, to be once more of Beckford. Other people besides himself, it appeared, could miss trains.

Farnie was reading one of those halfpenny weeklies which -- with a nerve which is the only creditable thing about them -- call themselves comic. He did not see the Bishop until a shadow falling across his paper caused him to look up.

It was not often that he found himself unequal to a situation. Monk in a recent conversation had taken him aback somewhat, but his feelings on that occasion were not to be compared with what he felt on seeing the one person whom he least desired to meet standing at his side. His jaw dropped limply, Comic Blitherings fluttered to the ground.

The Bishop was the first to speak. Indeed, if he had waited for Farnie to break the silence, he would have waited long.

'Get up,' he said. Farnie got up.

'Come on.' Farnie came.

'Go and get your machine,' said Gethryn. 'Hurry up. And now you will jolly well come back to Beckford, you little beast.'

But before that could be done there was Gethryn's back wheel to be mended. This took time. It was nearly half past four before they started.

'Oh,' said Gethryn, as they were about to mount, 'there's that money. I was forgetting. Out with it.'

Ten pounds had been the sum Farnie had taken from the study. Six was all he was able to restore. Gethryn enquired after the deficit.

'I gave it to Monk,' said Farnie.

To Gethryn, in his present frame of mind, the mere mention of Monk was sufficient to uncork the vials of his wrath.

'What the blazes did you do that for? What's Monk got to do with it?'

'He said he'd get me sacked if I didn't pay him,' whined Farnie.

This was not strictly true. Monk had not said. He had hinted. And he had hinted at flogging, not expulsion.

'Why?' pursued the Bishop. 'What had you and Monk been up to?'

Farnie, using his out-of-bounds adventures as a foundation, worked up a highly artistic narrative of doings, which, if they had actually been performed, would certainly have entailed expulsion. He had judged Gethryn's character correctly. If the matter had been simply a case for a flogging, the Bishop would have stood aside and let the thing go on. Against the extreme penalty of School law he felt bound as a matter of family duty to shield his relative. And he saw a bad time coming for himself in the very near future. Either he must expose Farnie, which he had resolved not to do, or he must refuse to explain his absence from the M.C.C. match, for by now there was not the smallest chance of his being able to get back in time for the visitors' innings. As he rode on he tried to imagine what would happen in consequence of that desertion, and he could not do it. His crime was, so far as he knew, absolutely without precedent in the School history.

As they passed the cricket field he saw that it was empty. Stumps were usually drawn early in the M.C.C. match if the issue of the game was out of doubt, as the Marylebone men had trains to catch. Evidently this had happened today. It might mean that the School had won easily -- they had looked like making a big score when he had left the ground -- in which case public opinion would be more lenient towards him. After a victory a school feels that all's well that ends well. But it might, on the other hand, mean quite the reverse.

He put his machine up, and hurried to the study. Several boys, as he passed them, looked curiously at him, but none spoke to him.

Marriott was in the study, reading a book. He was still in flannels, and looked as if he had begun to change but had thought better of it. As was actually the case.

'Hullo,' he cried, as Gethryn appeared. 'Where the dickens have you been all the afternoon? What on earth did you go off like that for?'

'I'm sorry, old chap,' said the Bishop, 'I can't tell you. I shan't be able to tell anyone.'

'But, man! Try and realize what you've done. Do you grasp the fact that you've gone and got the School licked in the M.C.C. match, and that we haven't beaten the M.C.C. for about a dozen years, and that if you'd been there to bowl we should have walked over this time? Do try and grasp the thing.'

'Did they win?'

'Rather. By a wicket. Two wickets, I mean. We made 213. Your bowling would just have done it.'

Gethryn sat down.

'Oh Lord,' he said blankly, 'this is awful!'

'But, look here, Bishop,' continued Marriott, 'this is all rot. You can't do a thing like this, and then refuse to offer any explanation, and expect things to go on just as usual.'

'I don't,' said Gethryn. 'I know there's going to be a row, but I can't explain. You'll have to take me on trust.'

'Oh, as far as I am concerned, it's all right,' said Marriott. 'I know you wouldn't be ass enough to do a thing like that without a jolly good reason. It's the other chaps I'm thinking about. You'll find it jolly hard to put Norris off, I'm afraid. He's most awfully sick about the match. He fielded badly, which always makes him shirty. Jephson, too. You'll have a bad time with Jephson. His one wish after the match was to have your gore and plenty of it. Nothing else would have pleased him a bit. And think of the chaps in the House, too. Just consider what a pull this gives Monk and his mob over you. The House'll want some looking after now, I fancy.'

'And they'll get it,' said Gethryn. 'If Monk gives me any of his beastly cheek, I'll knock his head off.'

But in spite of the consolation which such a prospect afforded him, he did not look forward with pleasure to the next day, when he would have to meet Norris and the rest. It would have been bad in any case. He did not care to think what would happen when he refused to offer the slightest explanation.



X

In Which A Case Is Fully Discussed


Gethryn was right in thinking that the interviews would be unpleasant. They increased in unpleasantness in arithmetical progression, until they culminated finally in a terrific encounter with the justly outraged Norris.

Reece was the first person to institute inquiries, and if everybody had resembled him, matters would not have been so bad for Gethryn. Reece possessed a perfect genius for minding his own business. The dialogue when they met was brief.

'Hullo,' said Reece.

'Hullo,' said the Bishop.

'Where did you get to yesterday?' said Reece.

'Oh, I had to go somewhere,' said the Bishop vaguely.

'Oh? Pity. Wasn't a bad match.' And that was all the comment Reece made on the situation.

Gethryn went over to the chapel that morning with an empty sinking feeling inside him. He was quite determined to offer no single word of explanation, and he felt that that made the prospect all the worse. There was a vast uncertainty in his mind as to what was going to happen. Nobody could actually do anything to him, of course. It would have been a decided relief to him if anybody had tried that line of action, for moments occur when the only thing that can adequately soothe the wounded spirit, is to hit straight from the shoulder at someone. The punching-ball is often found useful under these circumstances. As he was passing Jephson's House he nearly ran into somebody who was coming out.

'Be firm, my moral pecker,' thought Gethryn, and braced himself up for conflict.

'Well, Gethryn?' said Mr Jephson.

The question 'Well?' especially when addressed by a master to a boy, is one of the few questions to which there is literally no answer. You can look sheepish, you can look defiant, or you can look surprised according to the state of your conscience. But anything in the way of verbal response is impossible.

Gethryn attempted no verbal response.

'Well, Gethryn,' went on Mr Jephson, 'was it pleasant up the river yesterday?'

Mr Jephson always preferred the rapier of sarcasm to the bludgeon of abuse.

'Yes, sir,' said Gethryn, 'very pleasant.' He did not mean to be massacred without a struggle.

'What!' cried Mr Jephson. 'You actually mean to say that you did go up the river?'

'No, sir.'

'Then what do you mean?'

'It is always pleasant up the river on a fine day,' said Gethryn.

His opponent, to use a metaphor suitable to a cricket master, changed his action. He abandoned sarcasm and condescended to direct inquiry.

'Where were you yesterday afternoon?' he said.

The Bishop, like Mr Hurry Bungsho Jabberjee, B.A., became at once the silent tomb.

'Did you hear what I said, Gethryn?' (icily). 'Where were you yesterday afternoon?'

'I can't say, sir.'

These words may convey two meanings. They may imply ignorance, in which case the speaker should be led gently off to the nearest asylum. Or they may imply obstinacy. Mr Jephson decided that in the present case obstinacy lay at the root of the matter. He became icier than ever.

'Very well, Gethryn,' he said, 'I shall report this to the Headmaster.'

And Gethryn, feeling that the conference was at an end, proceeded on his way.

After chapel there was Norris to be handled. Norris had been rather late for chapel that morning, and had no opportunity of speaking to the Bishop. But after the service was over, and the School streamed out of the building towards their respective houses, he waylaid him at the door, and demanded an explanation. The Bishop refused to give one. Norris, whose temper never had a chance of reaching its accustomed tranquillity until he had consumed some breakfast -- he hated early morning chapel -- raved. The Bishop was worried, but firm.

'Then you mean to say -- you don't mean to say -- I mean, you don't intend to explain?' said Norris finally, working round for the twentieth time to his original text.

'I can't explain.'

'You won't, you mean.'

'Yes. I'll apologize if you like, but I won't explain.'

Norris felt the strain was becoming too much for him.

'Apologize!' he moaned, addressing circumambient space. 'Apologize! A man cuts off in the middle of the M.C.C. match, loses us the game, and then comes back and offers to apologize.'

'The offer's withdrawn,' put in Gethryn. 'Apologies and explanations are both off.' It was hopeless to try and be conciliatory under the circumstances. They did not admit of it.

Norris glared.

'I suppose,' he said, 'you don't expect to go on playing for the First after this? We can't keep a place open for you in the team on the off chance of your not having a previous engagement, you know.'

'That's your affair,' said the Bishop, 'you're captain. Have you finished your address? Is there anything else you'd like to say?'

Norris considered, and, as he went in at Jephson's gate, wound up with this Parthian shaft -- 

'All I can say is that you're not fit to be at a public school. They ought to sack a chap for doing that sort of thing. If you'll take my advice, you'll leave.'

About two hours afterwards Gethryn discovered a suitable retort, but, coming to the conclusion that better late than never does not apply to repartees, refrained from speaking it.

It was Mr Jephson's usual custom to sally out after supper on Sunday evenings to smoke a pipe (or several pipes) with one of the other House-masters. On this particular evening he made for Robertson's, which was one of the four Houses on the opposite side of the School grounds. He could hardly have selected a better man to take his grievance to. Mr Robertson was a long, silent man with grizzled hair, and an eye that pierced like a gimlet. He had the enviable reputation of keeping the best order of any master in the School. He was also one of the most popular of the staff. This was all the more remarkable from the fact that he played no games.

To him came Mr Jephson, primed to bursting point with his grievance.

'Anything wrong, Jephson?' said Mr Robertson.

'Wrong? I should just think there was. Did you happen to be looking at the match yesterday, Robertson?'

Mr Robertson nodded.

'I always watch School matches. Good match. Norris missed a bad catch in the slips. He was asleep.'

Mr Jephson conceded the point. It was trivial.

'Yes,' he said, 'he should certainly have held it. But that's a mere detail. I want to talk about Gethryn. Do you know what he did yesterday? I never heard of such a thing in my life, never. Went off during the luncheon interval without a word, and never appeared again till lock-up. And now he refuses to offer any explanation whatever. I shall report the whole thing to Beckett. I told Gethryn so this morning.'

'I shouldn't,' said Mr Robertson; 'I really think I shouldn't. Beckett finds the ordinary duties of a Headmaster quite sufficient for his needs. This business is not in his province at all.'

'Not in his province? My dear sir, what is a headmaster for, if not to manage affairs of this sort?'

Mr Robertson smiled in a sphinx-like manner, and answered, after the fashion of Socrates, with a question.

'Let me ask you two things, Jephson. You must proceed gingerly. Now, firstly, it is a headmaster's business to punish any breach of school rules, is it not?'

'Well?'

'And school prefects do not attend roll-call, and have no restrictions placed upon them in the matter of bounds?'

'No. Well?'

'Then perhaps you'll tell me what School rule Gethryn has broken?' said Mr Robertson.

'You see you can't,' he went on. 'Of course you can't. He has not broken any School rule. He is a prefect, and may do anything he likes with his spare time. He chooses to play cricket. Then he changes his mind and goes off to some unknown locality for some reason at present unexplained. It is all perfectly legal. Extremely quaint behaviour on his part, I admit, but thoroughly legal.'

'Then nothing can be done,' exclaimed Mr Jephson blankly. 'But it's absurd. Something must be done. The thing can't be left as it is. It's preposterous!'

'I should imagine,' said Mr Robertson, 'from what small knowledge I possess of the Human Boy, that matters will be made decidedly unpleasant for the criminal.'

'Well, I know one thing; he won't play for the team again.'

'There is something very refreshing about your logic, Jephson. Because a boy does not play in one match, you will not let him play in any of the others, though you admit his absence weakens the team. However, I suppose that is unavoidable. Mind you, I think it is a pity. Of course Gethryn has some explanation, if he would only favour us with it. Personally I think rather highly of Gethryn. So does poor old Leicester. He is the only Head-prefect Leicester has had for the last half-dozen years who knows even the rudiments of his business. But it's no use my preaching his virtues to you. You wouldn't listen. Take another cigar, and let's talk about the weather.'

Mr Jephson took the proffered weed, and the conversation, though it did not turn upon the suggested topic, ceased to have anything to do with Gethryn.

The general opinion of the School was dead against the Bishop. One or two of his friends still clung to a hope that explanations might come out, while there were also a few who always made a point of thinking differently from everybody else. Of this class was Pringle. On the Monday after the match he spent the best part of an hour of his valuable time reasoning on the subject with Lorimer. Lorimer's vote went with the majority. Although he had fielded for the Bishop, he was not, of course, being merely a substitute, allowed to bowl, as the Bishop had had his innings, and it had been particularly galling to him to feel that he might have saved the match, if it had only been possible for him to have played a larger part.

'It's no good jawing about it,' he said, 'there isn't a word to say for the man. He hasn't a leg to stand on. Why, it would be bad enough in a House or form match even, but when it comes to first matches -- !' Here words failed Lorimer.

'Not at all,' said Pringle, unmoved. 'There are heaps of reasons, jolly good reasons, why he might have gone away.'

'Such as?' said Lorimer.

'Well, he might have been called away by a telegram, for instance.'

'What rot! Why should he make such a mystery of it if that was all?'

'He'd have explained all right if somebody had asked him properly. You get a chap like Norris, who, when he loses his hair, has got just about as much tact as a rhinoceros, going and ballyragging the man, and no wonder he won't say anything. I shouldn't myself.'

'Well, go and talk to him decently, then. Let's see you do it, and I'll bet it won't make a bit of difference. What the chap has done is to go and get himself mixed up in some shady business somewhere. That's the only thing it can be.'

'Rot,' said Pringle, 'the Bishop isn't that sort of chap.'

'You can't tell. I say,' he broke off suddenly, 'have you done that poem yet?'

Pringle started. He had not so much as begun that promised epic.

'I -- er -- haven't quite finished it yet. I'm thinking it out, you know. Getting a sort of general grip of the thing.'

'Oh. Well, I wish you'd buck up with it. It's got to go in tomorrow week.'

'Tomorrow week. Tuesday the what? Twenty-second, isn't it? Right. I'll remember. Two days after the O.B.s' match. That'll fix it in my mind. By the way, your people are going to come down all right, aren't they? I mean, we shall have to be getting in supplies and so on.'

'Yes. They'll be coming. There's plenty of time, though, to think of that. What you've got to do for the present is to keep your mind glued on the death of Dido.'

'Rather,' said Pringle, 'I won't forget.'

This was at six twenty-two p.m. By the time six-thirty boomed from the College clock-tower, Pringle was absorbing a thrilling work of fiction, and Dido, her death, and everything connected with her, had faded from his mind like a beautiful dream.



XI

Poetry And Stump-Cricket


The Old Beckfordians' match came off in due season, and Pringle enjoyed it thoroughly. Though he only contributed a dozen in the first innings, he made up for this afterwards in the second, when the School had a hundred and twenty to get in just two hours. He went in first with Marriott, and they pulled the thing off and gave the School a ten wickets victory with eight minutes to spare. Pringle was in rare form. He made fifty-three, mainly off the bowling of a certain J.R. Smith, whose fag he had been in the old days. When at School, Smith had always been singularly aggressive towards Pringle, and the latter found that much pleasure was to be derived from hitting fours off his bowling. Subsequently he ate more strawberries and cream than were, strictly speaking, good for him, and did the honours at the study tea-party with the grace of a born host. And, as he had hoped, Miss Mabel Lorimer did ask what that silver-plate was stuck on to that bat for.

It is not to be wondered at that in the midst of these festivities such trivialities as Lorimer's poem found no place in his thoughts. It was not until the following day that he was reminded of it.

That Sunday was a visiting Sunday. Visiting Sundays occurred three times a term, when everybody who had friends and relations in the neighbourhood was allowed to spend the day with them. Pringle on such occasions used to ride over to Biddlehampton, the scene of Farnie's adventures, on somebody else's bicycle, his destination being the residence of a certain Colonel Ashby, no relation, but a great friend of his father's.

The gallant Colonel had, besides his other merits -- which were numerous -- the pleasant characteristic of leaving his guests to themselves. To be left to oneself under some circumstances is apt to be a drawback, but in this case there was never any lack of amusements. The only objection that Pringle ever found was that there was too much to do in the time. There was shooting, riding, fishing, and also stump-cricket. Given proper conditions, no game in existence yields to stump-cricket in the matter of excitement. A stable-yard makes the best pitch, for the walls stop all hits and you score solely by boundaries, one for every hit, two if it goes past the coach-room door, four to the end wall, and out if you send it over. It is perfect.

There were two junior Ashbys, twins, aged sixteen. They went to school at Charchester, returning to the ancestral home for the weekend. Sometimes when Pringle came they would bring a school friend, in which case Pringle and he would play the twins. But as a rule the programme consisted of a series of five test matches, Charchester versus Beckford; and as Pringle was almost exactly twice as good as each of the twins taken individually, when they combined it made the sides very even, and the test matches were fought out with the most deadly keenness.

After lunch the Colonel was in the habit of taking Pringle for a stroll in the grounds, to watch him smoke a cigar or two. On this Sunday the conversation during the walk, after beginning, as was right and proper, with cricket, turned to work.

'Let me see,' said the Colonel, as Pringle finished the description of how point had almost got to the square cut which had given him his century against Charchester, 'you're out of the Upper Fifth now, aren't you? I always used to think you were going to be a fixture there. You are like your father in that way. I remember him at Rugby spending years on end in the same form. Couldn't get out of it. But you did get your remove, if I remember?'

'Rather,' said Pringle, 'years ago. That's to say, last term. And I'm jolly glad I did, too.'

His errant memory had returned to the poetry prize once more.

'Oh,' said the Colonel, 'why is that?'

Pringle explained the peculiar disadvantages that attended membership of the Upper Fifth during the summer term.

'I don't think a man ought to be allowed to spend his money in these special prizes,' he concluded; 'at any rate they ought to be Sixth Form affairs. It's hard enough having to do the ordinary work and keep up your cricket at the same time.'

'They are compulsory then?'

'Yes. Swindle, I call it. The chap who shares my study at Beckford is in the Upper Fifth, and his hair's turning white under the strain. The worst of it is, too, that I've promised to help him, and I never seem to have any time to give to the thing. I could turn out a great poem if I had an hour or two to spare now and then.'

'What's the subject?'

'Death of Dido this year. They are always jolly keen on deaths. Last year it was Cato, and the year before Julius Caesar. They seem to have very morbid minds. I think they might try something cheerful for a change.'

'Dido,' said the Colonel dreamily. 'Death of Dido. Where have I heard either a story or a poem or a riddle or something in some way connected with the death of Dido? It was years ago, but I distinctly remember having heard somebody mention the occurrence. Oh, well, it will come back presently, I dare say.'

It did come back presently. The story was this. A friend of Colonel Ashby's -- the one-time colonel of his regiment, to be exact -- was an earnest student of everything in the literature of the country that dealt with Sport. This gentleman happened to read in a publisher's list one day that a limited edition of The Dark Horse, by a Mr Arthur James, was on sale, and might be purchased from the publisher by all who were willing to spend half a guinea to that end.

'Well, old Matthews,' said the Colonel, 'sent off for this book. Thought it must be a sporting novel, don't you know. I shall never forget his disappointment when he opened the parcel. It turned out to be a collection of poems. The Dark Horse, and Other Studies in the Tragic, was its full title.'

'Matthews never had a soul for poetry, good or bad. The Dark Horse itself was about a knight in the Middle Ages, you know. Great nonsense it was, too. Matthews used to read me passages from time to time. When he gave up the regiment he left me the book as a farewell gift. He said I was the only man he knew who really sympathized with him in the affair. I've got it still. It's in the library somewhere, if you care to look at it. What recalled it to my mind was your mention of Dido. The second poem was about the death of Dido, as far as I can remember. I'm no judge of poetry, but it didn't strike me as being very good. At the same time, you might pick up a hint or two from it. It ought to be in one of the two lower shelves on the right of the door as you go in. Unless it has been taken away. That is not likely, though. We are not very enthusiastic poetry readers here.'

Pringle thanked him for his information, and went back to the stable-yard, where he lost the fourth test match by sixteen runs, owing to preoccupation. You can't play a yorker on the leg-stump with a thin walking-stick if your mind is occupied elsewhere. And the leg-stump yorkers of James, the elder (by a minute) of the two Ashbys, were achieving a growing reputation in Charchester cricket circles.

One ought never, thought Pringle, to despise the gifts which Fortune bestows on us. And this mention of an actual completed poem on the very subject which was in his mind was clearly a gift of Fortune. How much better it would be to read thoughtfully through this poem, and quarry out a set of verses from it suitable to Lorimer's needs, than to waste his brain-tissues in trying to evolve something original from his own inner consciousness. Pringle objected strongly to any unnecessary waste of his brain-tissues. Besides, the best poets borrowed. Virgil did it. Tennyson did it. Even Homer -- we have it on the authority of Mr Kipling -- when he smote his blooming lyre went and stole what he thought he might require. Why should Pringle of the School House refuse to follow in such illustrious footsteps?

It was at this point that the guileful James delivered his insidious yorker, and the dull thud of the tennis ball on the board which served as the wicket told a listening world that Charchester had won the fourth test match, and that the scores were now two all.

But Beckford's star was to ascend again. Pringle's mind was made up. He would read the printed poem that very night, and before retiring to rest he would have Lorimer's verses complete and ready to be sent in for judgement to the examiner. But for the present he would dismiss the matter from his mind, and devote himself to polishing off the Charchester champions in the fifth and final test match. And in this he was successful, for just as the bell rang, summoning the players in to a well-earned tea, a sweet forward drive from his walking-stick crashed against the end wall, and Beckford had won the rubber.

'As the young batsman, undefeated to the last, reached the pavilion,' said Pringle, getting into his coat, 'a prolonged and deafening salvo of cheers greeted him. His twenty-three not out, compiled as it was against the finest bowling Charchester could produce, and on a wicket that was always treacherous (there's a brick loose at the top end), was an effort unique in its heroism.'

'Oh, come on,' said the defeated team.

'If you have fluked a win,' said James, 'it's nothing much. Wait till next visiting Sunday.'

And the teams went in to tea.

In the programme which Pringle had mapped out for himself, he was to go to bed with his book at the highly respectable hour of ten, work till eleven, and then go to sleep. But programmes are notoriously subject to alterations. Pringle's was altered owing to a remark made immediately after dinner by John Ashby, who, desirous of retrieving the fallen fortunes of Charchester, offered to play Pringle a hundred up at billiards, giving him thirty. Now Pringle's ability in the realm of sport did not extend to billiards. But the human being who can hear unmoved a fellow human being offering him thirty start in a game of a hundred has yet to be born. He accepted the challenge, and permission to play having been granted by the powers that were, on the understanding that the cloth was not to be cut and as few cues broken as possible, the game began, James acting as marker.

There are doubtless ways by which a game of a hundred up can be got through in less than two hours, but with Pringle and his opponent desire outran performance. When the highest break on either side is six, and the average break two, matters progress with more stateliness than speed. At last, when the hands of the clock both pointed to the figure eleven, Pringle, whose score had been at ninety-eight since half-past ten, found himself within two inches of his opponent's ball, which was tottering on the very edge of the pocket. He administered the coup de grace with the air of a John Roberts, and retired triumphant; while the Charchester representatives pointed out that as their score was at seventy-four, they had really won a moral victory by four points. To which specious and unsportsmanlike piece of sophistry Pringle turned a deaf ear.

It was now too late for any serious literary efforts. No bard can do without his sleep. Even Homer used to nod at times. So Pringle contented himself with reading through the poem, which consisted of some thirty lines, and copying the same down on a sheet of notepaper for future reference. After which he went to bed.

In order to arrive at Beckford in time for morning school, he had to start from the house at eight o'clock punctually. This left little time for poetical lights. The consequence was that when Lorimer, on the following afternoon, demanded the poem as per contract, all that Pringle had to show was the copy which he had made of the poem in the book. There was a moment's suspense while Conscience and Sheer Wickedness fought the matter out inside him, and then Conscience, which had started on the encounter without enthusiasm, being obviously flabby and out of condition, threw up the sponge.

'Here you are,' said Pringle, 'it's only a rough copy, but here it is.'

Lorimer perused it hastily.

'But, I say,' he observed in surprised and awestruck tones, 'this is rather good.'

It seemed to strike him as quite a novel idea. 'Yes, not bad, is it?'

'But it'll get the prize.'

'Oh, we shall have to prevent that somehow.'

He did not mention how, and Lorimer did not ask.

'Well, anyhow,' said Lorimer, 'thanks awfully. I hope you've not fagged about it too much.'

'Oh no,' said Pringle airily, 'rather not. It's been no trouble at all.'

He thus, it will be noticed, concluded a painful and immoral scene by speaking perfect truth. A most gratifying reflection.



XII

'We, The Undersigned -- '


Norris kept his word with regard to the Bishop's exclusion from the Eleven. The team which had beaten the O.B.s had not had the benefit of his assistance, Lorimer appearing in his stead. Lorimer was a fast right-hand bowler, deadly in House matches or on a very bad wicket. He was the mainstay of the Second Eleven attack, and in an ordinary year would have been certain of his First Eleven cap. This season, however, with Gosling, Baynes, and the Bishop, the School had been unusually strong, and Lorimer had had to wait.

The non-appearance of his name on the notice-board came as no surprise to Gethryn. He had had the advantage of listening to Norris's views on the subject. But when Marriott grasped the facts of the case, he went to Norris and raved. Norris, as is right and proper in the captain of a School team when the wisdom of his actions is called into question, treated him with no respect whatever.

'It's no good talking,' he said, when Marriott had finished a brisk opening speech, 'I know perfectly well what I'm doing.'

'Then there's no excuse for you at all,' said Marriott. 'If you were mad or delirious I could understand it.'

'Come and have an ice,' said Norris.

'Ice!' snorted Marriott. 'What's the good of standing there babbling about ices! Do you know we haven't beaten the O.B.s for four years?'

'We shall beat them this year.'

'Not without Gethryn.'

'We certainly shan't beat them with Gethryn, because he's not going to play. A chap who chooses the day of the M.C.C. match to go off for the afternoon, and then refuses to explain, can consider himself jolly well chucked until further notice. Feel ready for that ice yet?'

'Don't be an ass.'

'Well, if ever you do get any ice, take my tip and tie it carefully round your head in a handkerchief. Then perhaps you'll be able to see why Gethryn isn't playing against the O.B.s on Saturday.'

And Marriott went off raging, and did not recover until late in the afternoon, when he made eighty-three in an hour for Leicester's House in a scratch game.

There were only three of the eleven Houses whose occupants seriously expected to see the House cricket cup on the mantelpiece of their dining-room at the end of the season. These were the School House, Jephson's, and Leicester's. In view of Pringle's sensational feats throughout the term, the knowing ones thought that the cup would go to the School House, with Leicester's runners-up. The various members of the First Eleven were pretty evenly distributed throughout the three Houses. Leicester's had Gethryn, Reece, and Marriott. Jephson's relied on Norris, Bruce, and Baker. The School House trump card was Pringle, with Lorimer and Baynes to do the bowling, and Hill of the First Eleven and Kynaston and Langdale of the second to back him up in the batting department. Both the other First Eleven men were day boys.

The presence of Gosling in any of the House elevens, however weak on paper, would have lent additional interest to the fight for the cup; for in House matches, where every team has more or less of a tail, one really good fast bowler can make a surprising amount of difference to a side.

There was a great deal of interest in the School about the House cup. The keenest of all games at big schools are generally the House matches. When Beckford met Charchester or any of the four schools which it played at cricket and football, keenness reached its highest pitch. But next to these came the House matches.

Now that he no longer played for the Eleven, the Bishop was able to give his whole mind to training the House team in the way it should go. Exclusion from the First Eleven meant also that he could no longer, unless possessed of an amount of sang-froid so colossal as almost to amount to genius, put in an appearance at the First Eleven net. Under these circumstances Leicester's net summoned him. Like Mr Phil May's lady when she was ejected (with perfect justice) by a barman, he went somewhere where he would be respected. To the House, then, he devoted himself, and scratch games and before-breakfast field-outs became the order of the day.

House fielding before breakfast is one of the things which cannot be classed under the head of the Lighter Side of Cricket. You get up in the small hours, dragged from a comfortable bed by some sportsman who, you feel, carries enthusiasm to a point where it ceases to be a virtue and becomes a nuisance. You get into flannels, and, still half asleep, stagger off to the field, where a hired ruffian hits you up catches which bite like serpents and sting like adders. From time to time he adds insult to injury by shouting 'get to 'em!', 'get to 'em!' -- a remark which finds but one parallel in the language, the 'keep moving' of the football captain. Altogether there are many more pleasant occupations than early morning field-outs, and it requires a considerable amount of keenness to carry the victim through them without hopelessly souring his nature and causing him to foster uncharitable thoughts towards his House captain.

J. Monk of Leicester's found this increased activity decidedly uncongenial. He had no real patriotism in him. He played cricket well, but he played entirely for himself.

If, for instance, he happened to make fifty in a match -- and it happened fairly frequently -- he vastly preferred that the rest of the side should make ten between them than that there should be any more half-centuries on the score sheet, even at the expense of losing the match. It was not likely, therefore, that he would take kindly to this mortification of the flesh, the sole object of which was to make everybody as conspicuous as everybody else. Besides, in the matter of fielding he considered that he had nothing to learn, which, as Euclid would say, was absurd. Fielding is one of the things which is never perfect.

Monk, moreover, had another reason for disliking the field-outs. Gethryn, as captain of the House team, was naturally master of the ceremonies, and Monk objected to Gethryn. For this dislike he had solid reasons. About a fortnight after the commencement of term, the Bishop, going downstairs from his study one afternoon, was aware of what appeared to be a species of free fight going on in the doorway of the senior day-room. The senior day-room was where the rowdy element of the House collected, the individuals who were too old to be fags, and too low down in the School to own studies.

Under ordinary circumstances the Bishop would probably have passed on without investigating the matter. A head of a house hates above all things to get a name for not minding his own business in unimportant matters. Such a reputation tells against him when he has to put his foot down over big things. To have invaded the senior day-room and stopped a conventional senior day-room 'rag' would have been interfering with the most cherished rights of the citizens, the freedom which is the birthright of every Englishman, so to speak.

But as he passed the door which had just shut with a bang behind the free fighters, he heard Monk's voice inside, and immediately afterwards the voice of Danvers, and he stopped. In the first place, he reasoned within himself, if Monk and Danvers were doing anything, it was probably something wrong, and ought to be stopped. Gethryn always had the feeling that it was his duty to go and see what Monk and Danvers were doing, and tell them they mustn't. He had a profound belief in their irreclaimable villainy. In the second place, having studies of their own, they had no business to be in the senior day-room at all. It was contrary to the etiquette of the House for a study man to enter the senior day-room, and as a rule the senior day-room resented it. As to all appearances they were not resenting it now, the obvious conclusion was that something was going on which ought to cease.

The Bishop opened the door. Etiquette did not compel the head of the House to knock, the rule being that you knocked only at the doors of those senior to you in the House. He was consequently enabled to witness a tableau which, if warning had been received of his coming, would possibly have broken up before he entered. In the centre of the group was Wilson, leaning over the study table, not so much as if he liked so leaning as because he was held in that position by Danvers. In the background stood Monk, armed with a walking-stick. Round the walls were various ornaments of the senior day-room in attitudes of expectant attention, being evidently content to play the part of 'friends and retainers', leaving the leading parts in the hands of Monk and his colleague.

'Hullo,' said the Bishop, 'what's going on?'

'It's all right, old chap,' said Monk, grinning genially, 'we're only having an execution.'

'What's the row?' said the Bishop. 'What's Wilson been doing?'

'Nothing,' broke in that youth, who had wriggled free from Danvers's clutches. 'I haven't done a thing, Gethryn. These beasts lugged me out of the junior day-room without saying what for or anything.'

The Bishop began to look dangerous. This had all the outward aspect of a case of bullying. Under Reynolds's leadership Leicester's had gone in rather extensively for bullying, and the Bishop had waited hungrily for a chance of catching somebody actively engaged in the sport, so that he might drop heavily on that person and make life unpleasant for him.

'Well?' he said, turning to Monk, 'let's have it. What was it all about, and what have you got to do with it?'

Monk began to shuffle.

'Oh, it was nothing much,' he said.

'Then what are you doing with the stick?' pursued the Bishop relentlessly.

'Young Wilson cheeked Perkins,' said Monk.

Murmurs of approval from the senior day-room. Perkins was one of the ornaments referred to above.

'How?' asked Gethryn.

Wilson dashed into the conversation again.

'Perkins told me to go and get him some grub from the shop. I was doing some work, so I couldn't. Besides, I'm not his fag. If Perkins wants to go for me, why doesn't he do it himself, and not get about a hundred fellows to help him?'

'Exactly,' said the Bishop. 'A very sensible suggestion. Perkins, fall upon Wilson and slay him. I'll see fair play. Go ahead.'

'Er -- no,' said Perkins uneasily. He was a small, weedy-looking youth, not built for fighting except by proxy, and he remembered the episode of Wilson and Skinner.

'Then the thing's finished,' said Gethryn. 'Wilson walks over. We needn't detain you, Wilson.'

Wilson departed with all the honours of war, and the Bishop turned to Monk.

'Now perhaps you'll tell me,' he said, 'what the deuce you and Danvers are doing here?'

'Well, hang it all, old chap -- '

The Bishop begged that Monk would not call him 'old chap'.

'I'll call you "sir", if you like,' said Monk.

A gleam of hope appeared in the Bishop's eye. Monk was going to give him the opportunity he had long sighed for. In cold blood he could attack no one, not even Monk, but if he was going to be rude, that altered matters.

'What business have you in the day-room?' he said. 'You've got studies of your own.'

'If it comes to that,' said Monk, 'so have you. We've got as much business here as you. What the deuce are you doing here?'

Taken by itself, taken neat, as it were, this repartee might have been insufficient to act as a casus belli, but by a merciful dispensation of Providence the senior day-room elected to laugh at the remark, and to laugh loudly. Monk also laughed. Not, however, for long. The next moment the Bishop had darted in, knocked his feet from under him, and dragged him to the door. Captain Kettle himself could not have done it more neatly.

'Now,' said the Bishop, 'we can discuss the point.'

Monk got up, looking greener than usual, and began to dust his clothes.

'Don't talk rot,' he said, 'I can't fight a prefect.'

This, of course, the Bishop had known all along. What he had intended to do if Monk had kept up his end he had not decided when he embarked upon the engagement. The head of a House cannot fight by-battles with his inferiors without the loss of a good deal of his painfully acquired dignity. But Gethryn knew Monk, and he had felt justified in risking it. He improved the shining hour with an excursus on the subject of bullying, dispensed a few general threats, and left the room.

Monk had -- perhaps not unnaturally -- not forgotten the incident, and now that public opinion ran strongly against Gethryn on account of his M.C.C. match manoeuvres, he acted. A mass meeting of the Mob was called in his study, and it was unanimously voted that field-outs in the morning were undesirable, and that it would be judicious if the team were to strike. Now, as the Mob included in their numbers eight of the House Eleven, their opinions on the subject carried weight.

'Look here,' said Waterford, struck with a brilliant idea, 'I tell you what we'll do. Let's sign a round-robin refusing to play in the House matches unless Gethryn resigns the captaincy and the field-outs stop.'

'We may as well sign in alphabetical order,' said Monk prudently. 'It'll make it safer.'

The idea took the Mob's fancy. The round-robin was drawn up and signed.

'Now, if we could only get Reece,' suggested Danvers. 'It's no good asking Marriott, but Reece might sign.'

'Let's have a shot at any rate,' said Monk.

And a deputation, consisting of Danvers, Waterford, and Monk, duly waited upon Reece in his study, and broached the project to him.



XIII

Leicester's House Team Goes Into A Second Edition


Reece was working when the deputation entered. He looked up enquiringly, but if he was pleased to see his visitors he managed to conceal the fact.

'Oh, I say, Reece,' began Monk, who had constituted himself spokesman to the expedition, 'are you busy?'

'Yes,' said Reece simply, going on with his writing.

This might have discouraged some people, but Nature had equipped Monk with a tough skin, which hints never pierced. He dropped into a chair, crossed his legs, and coughed. Danvers and Waterford leaned in picturesque attitudes against the door and mantelpiece. There was a silence for a minute, during which Reece continued to write unmoved.

'Take a seat, Monk,' he said at last, without looking up.

'Oh, er, thanks, I have,' said Monk. 'I say, Reece, we wanted to speak to you.'

'Go ahead then,' said Reece. 'I can listen and write at the same time. I'm doing this prose against time.'

'It's about Gethryn.'

'What's Gethryn been doing?'

'Oh, I don't know. Nothing special. It's about his being captain of the House team. The chaps seem to think he ought to resign.'

'Which chaps?' enquired Reece, laying down his pen and turning round in his chair.

'The rest of the team, you know.'

'Why don't they think he ought to be captain? The head of the House is always captain of the House team unless he's too bad to be in it at all. Don't the chaps think Gethryn's good at cricket?'

'Oh, he's good enough,' said Monk. 'It's more about this M.C.C. match business, you know. His cutting off like that in the middle of the match. The chaps think the House ought to take some notice of it. Express its disapproval, and that sort of thing.'

'And what do the chaps think of doing about it?'

Monk inserted a hand in his breast-pocket, and drew forth the round-robin. He straightened it out, and passed it over to Reece.

'We've drawn up this notice,' he said, 'and we came to see if you'd sign it. Nearly all the other chaps in the team have.'

Reece perused the document gravely. Then he handed it back to its owner.

'What rot,' said he.

'I don't think so at all,' said Monk.

'Nor do I,' broke in Danvers, speaking for the first time. 'What else can we do? We can't let a chap like Gethryn stick to the captaincy.'

'Why not?'

'A cad like that!'

'That's a matter of opinion. I don't suppose everyone thinks him a cad. I don't, personally.'

'Well, anyway,' asked Waterford, 'are you going to sign?'

'My good man, of course I'm not. Do you mean to say you seriously intend to hand in that piffle to Gethryn?'

'Rather,' said Monk.

'Then you'll be making fools of yourselves. I'll tell you exactly what'll happen, if you care to know. Gethryn will read this rot, and simply cut everybody whose name appears on the list out of the House team. I don't know if you're aware of it, but there are several other fellows besides you in the House. And if you come to think of it, you aren't so awfully good. You three are in the Second. The other five haven't got colours at all.'

'Anyhow, we're all in the House team,' said Monk.

'Don't let that worry you,' said Reece, 'you won't be long, if you show Gethryn that interesting document. Anything else I can do for you?'

'No, thanks,' said Monk. And the deputation retired.

When they had gone, Reece made his way to the Bishop's study. It was not likely that the deputation would deliver their ultimatum until late at night, when the study would be empty. From what Reece knew of Monk, he judged that it would be pleasanter to him to leave the document where the Bishop could find it in the morning, rather than run the risks that might attend a personal interview. There was time, therefore, to let Gethryn know what was going to happen, so that he might not be surprised into doing anything rash, such as resigning the captaincy, for example. Not that Reece thought it likely that he would, but it was better to take no risks.

Both Marriott and Gethryn were in the study when he arrived.

'Hullo, Reece,' said Marriott, 'come in and take several seats. Have a biscuit? Have two. Have a good many.'

Reece helped himself, and gave them a brief description of the late interview.

'I'm not surprised,' said Gethryn, 'I thought Monk would be getting at me somehow soon. I shall have to slay that chap someday. What ought I to do, do you think?'

'My dear chap,' said Marriott, 'there's only one thing you can do. Cut the lot of them out of the team, and fill up with substitutes.'

Reece nodded approval.

'Of course. That's what you must do. As a matter of fact, I told them you would. I've given you a reputation. You must live up to it.'

'Besides,' continued Marriott, 'after all it isn't such a crusher, when you come to think of it. Only four of them are really certainties for their places, Monk, Danvers, Waterford, and Saunders. The rest are simply tail.'

Reece nodded again. 'Great minds think alike. Exactly what I told them, only they wouldn't listen.'

'Well, whom do you suggest instead of them? Some of the kids are jolly keen and all that, but they wouldn't be much good against Baynes and Lorimer, for instance.'

'If I were you,' said Marriott, 'I shouldn't think about their batting at all. I should go simply for fielding. With a good fielding side we ought to have quite a decent chance. There's no earthly reason why you and Reece shouldn't put on enough for the first wicket to win all the matches. It's been done before. Don't you remember the School House getting the cup four years ago when Twiss was captain? They had nobody who was any earthly good except Twiss and Birch, and those two used to make about a hundred and fifty between them in every match. Besides, some of the kids can bat rather well. Wilson for one. He can bowl, too.'

'Yes,' said the Bishop, 'all right. Stick down Wilson. Who else? Gregson isn't bad. He can field in the slips, which is more than a good many chaps can.'

'Gregson's good,' said Reece, 'put him down. That makes five. You might have young Lee in too. I've seen him play like a book at his form net once or twice.'

'Lee -- six. Five more wanted. Where's a House list? Here we are. Now. Adams, Bond, Brown, Burgess. Burgess has his points. Shall I stick him down?'

'Not presume to dictate,' said Marriott, 'but Adams is streets better than Burgess as a field, and just as good a bat.'

'Why, when have you seen him?'

'In a scratch game between his form and another. He was carting all over the shop. Made thirty something.'

'We'll have both of them in, then. Plenty of room. This is the team so far. Wilson, Gregson, Lee, Adams, and Burgess, with Marriott, Reece, and Gethryn. Jolly hot stuff it is, too, by Jove. We'll simply walk that tankard. Now, for the last places. I vote we each select a man, and nobody's allowed to appeal against the other's decision. I lead off with Crowinshaw. Good name, Crowinshaw. Look well on a score sheet.'

'Heave us the list,' said Marriott. 'Thanks. My dear sir, there's only one man in the running at all, which his name's Chamberlain. Shove down Joseph, and don't let me hear anyone breathe a word against him. Come on, Reece, let's have your man. I bet Reece selects some weird rotter.'

Reece pondered.

'Carstairs,' he said.

'Oh, my very dear sir! Carstairs!'

'All criticism barred,' said the Bishop.

'Sorry. By the way, what House are we drawn against in the first round?'

'Webster's.'

'Ripping. We can smash Webster's. They've got nobody. It'll be rather a good thing having an easy time in our first game. We shall be able to get some idea about the team's play. I shouldn't think we could possibly get beaten by Webster's.'

There was a knock at the door. Wilson came in with a request that he might fetch a book that he had left in the study.

'Oh, Wilson, just the man I wanted to see,' said the Bishop. 'Wilson, you're playing against Webster's next week.'

'By Jove,' said Wilson, 'am I really?'

He had spent days in working out on little slips of paper during school his exact chances of getting a place in the House team. Recently, however, he had almost ceased to hope. He had reckoned on at least eight of the senior study being chosen before him.

'Yes,' said the Bishop, 'you must buck up. Practise fielding every minute of your spare time. Anybody'll hit you up catches if you ask them.'

'Right,' said Wilson, 'I will.'

'All right, then. Go, and tell Lee that I want to see him.'

'Lee,' said the Bishop, when that worthy appeared, 'I wanted to see you, to tell you you're playing for the House against Webster's. Thought you might like to know.'

'By Jove,' said Lee, 'am I really?'

'Yes. Buck up with your fielding.'

'Right,' said Lee.

'That's all. If you're going downstairs, you might tell Adams to come up.'

For a quarter of an hour the Bishop interviewed the junior members of his team, and impressed on each of them the absolute necessity of bucking up with his fielding. And each of them protested that the matter should receive his best consideration.

'Well, they're keen enough anyway,' said Marriott, as the door closed behind Carstairs, the last of the new recruits, 'and that's the great thing. Hullo, who's that? I thought you had worked through the lot. Come in!'

A small form appeared in the doorway, carrying in its right hand a neatly-folded note.

'Monk told me to give you this, Gethryn.'

'Half a second,' said the Bishop, as the youth made for the door. 'There may be an answer.'

'Monk said there wouldn't be one.'

'Oh. No, it's all right. There isn't an answer.'

The door closed. The Bishop laughed, and threw the note over to Reece.

'Recognize it?'

Reece examined the paper.

'It's a fair copy. The one Monk showed me was rather smudged. I suppose they thought you might be hurt if you got an inky round-robin. Considerate chap, Monk.'

'Let's have a look,' said Marriott. 'By Jove. I say, listen to this bit. Like Macaulay, isn't it?'

He read extracts from the ultimatum.

'Let's have it,' said Gethryn, stretching out a hand.

'Not much. I'm going to keep it, and have it framed.'

'All right. I'm going down now to put up the list.'

When he had returned to the study, Monk and Danvers came quietly downstairs to look at the notice-board. It was dark in the passage, and Monk had to strike a light before he could see to read.

'By George,' he said, as the match flared up, 'Reece was right. He has.'

'Well, there's one consolation,' commented Danvers viciously, 'they can't possibly get that cup now. They'll have to put us in again soon, you see if they don't.'

''M, yes,' said Monk doubtfully.



XIV

Norris Takes A Short Holiday


'It's all rot,' observed Pringle, 'to say that they haven't a chance, because they have.'

He and Lorimer were passing through the cricket-field on their way back from an early morning visit to the baths, and had stopped to look at Leicester's House team (revised version) taking its daily hour of fielding practice. They watched the performance keenly and critically, as spies in an enemy's camp.

'Who said they hadn't a chance?' said Lorimer. 'I didn't.'

'Oh, everybody. The chaps call them the Kindergarten and the Kids' Happy League, and things of that sort. Rot, I call it. They seem to forget that you only want two or three really good men in a team if the rest can field. Look at our crowd. They've all either got their colours, or else are just outside the teams, and I swear you can't rely on one of them to hold the merest sitter right into his hands.'

On the subject of fielding in general, and catching in particular, Pringle was feeling rather sore. In the match which his House had just won against Browning's, he had put himself on to bowl in the second innings. He was one of those bowlers who manage to capture from six to ten wickets in the course of a season, and the occasions on which he bowled really well were few. On this occasion he had bowled excellently, and it had annoyed him when five catches, five soft, gentle catches, were missed off him in the course of four overs. As he watched the crisp, clean fielding which was shown by the very smallest of Leicester's small 'tail', he felt that he would rather have any of that despised eight on his side than any of the School House lights except Baynes and Lorimer.

'Our lot's all right, really,' said Lorimer, in answer to Pringle's sweeping condemnation. 'Everybody has his off days. They'll be all right next match.'

'Doubt it,' replied Pringle. 'It's all very well for you. You bowl to hit the sticks. I don't. Now just watch these kids for a moment. Now! Look! No, he couldn't have got to that. Wait a second. Now!'

Gethryn had skied one into the deep. Wilson, Burgess, and Carstairs all started for it.

'Burgess,' called the Bishop.

The other two stopped dead. Burgess ran on and made the catch.

'Now, there you are,' said Pringle, pointing his moral, 'see how those two kids stopped when Gethryn called. If that had happened in one of our matches, you'd have had half a dozen men rotting about underneath the ball, and getting in one another's way, and then probably winding up by everybody leaving the catch to everybody else.'

'Oh, come on,' said Lorimer, 'you're getting morbid. Why the dickens didn't you think of having our fellows out for fielding practice, if you're so keen on it?'

'They wouldn't have come. When a chap gets colours, he seems to think he's bought the place. You can't drag a Second Eleven man out of his bed before breakfast to improve his fielding. He thinks it can't be improved. They're a heart-breaking crew.'

'Good,' said Lorimer, 'I suppose that includes me?'

'No. You're a model man. I have seen you hold a catch now and then.'

'Thanks. Oh, I say, I gave in the poem yesterday. I hope the deuce it won't get the prize. I hope they won't spot, either, that I didn't write the thing.'

'Not a chance,' said Pringle complacently, 'you're all right. Don't you worry yourself.'

Webster's, against whom Leicester's had been drawn in the opening round of the House matches, had three men in their team, and only three, who knew how to hold a bat. It was the slackest House in the School, and always had been. It did not cause any overwhelming surprise, accordingly, when Leicester's beat them without fatigue by an innings and a hundred and twenty-one runs. Webster's won the toss, and made thirty-five. For Leicester's, Reece and Gethryn scored fifty and sixty-two respectively, and Marriott fifty-three not out. They then, with two wickets down, declared, and rattled Webster's out for seventy. The public, which had had its eye on the team, in order to see how its tail was likely to shape, was disappointed. The only definite fact that could be gleaned from the match was that the junior members of the team were not to be despised in the field. The early morning field-outs had had their effect. Adams especially shone, while Wilson at cover and Burgess in the deep recalled Jessop and Tyldesley.

The School made a note of the fact. So did the Bishop. He summoned the eight juniors seriatim to his study, and administered much praise, coupled with the news that fielding before breakfast would go on as usual.

Leicester's had drawn against Jephson's in the second round. Norris's lot had beaten Cooke's by, curiously enough, almost exactly the same margin as that by which Leicester's had defeated Webster's. It was generally considered that this match would decide Leicester's chances for the cup. If they could beat a really hot team like Jephson's, it was reasonable to suppose that they would do the same to the rest of the Houses, though the School House would have to be reckoned with. But the School House, as Pringle had observed, was weak in the field. It was not a coherent team. Individually its members were good, but they did not play together as Leicester's did.

But the majority of the School did not think seriously of their chances. Except for Pringle, who, as has been mentioned before, always made a point of thinking differently from everyone else, no one really believed that they would win the cup, or even appear in the final. How could a team whose tail began at the fall of the second wicket defeat teams which, like the School House, had no real tail at all?

Norris supported this view. It was for this reason that when, at breakfast on the day on which Jephson's were due to play Leicester's, he received an invitation from one of his many uncles to spend a weekend at his house, he decided to accept it.

This uncle was a man of wealth. After winning two fortunes on the Stock Exchange and losing them both, he had at length amassed a third, with which he retired in triumph to the country, leaving Throgmorton Street to exist as best it could without him. He had bought a 'show-place' at a village which lay twenty miles by rail to the east of Beckford, and it had always been Norris's wish to see this show-place, a house which was said to combine the hoariest of antiquity with a variety of modern comforts.

Merely to pay a flying visit there would be good. But his uncle held out an additional attraction. If Norris could catch the one-forty from Horton, he would arrive just in time to take part in a cricket match, that day being the day of the annual encounter with the neighbouring village of Pudford. The rector of Pudford, the opposition captain, so wrote Norris's uncle, had by underhand means lured down three really decent players from Oxford -- not Blues, but almost -- who had come to the village ostensibly to read classics with him as their coach, but in reality for the sole purpose of snatching from Little Bindlebury (his own village) the laurels they had so nobly earned the year before. He had heard that Norris was captaining the Beckford team this year, and had an average of thirty-eight point nought three two, so would he come and make thirty-eight point nought three two for Little Bindlebury?

'This,' thought Norris, 'is Fame. This is where I spread myself. I must be in this at any price.'

He showed the letter to Baker.

'What a pity,' said Baker.

'What's a pity?'

'That you won't be able to go. It seems rather a catch.'

'Can't go?' said Norris; 'my dear sir, you're talking through your hat. Think I'm going to refuse an invitation like this? Not if I know it. I'm going to toddle off to Jephson, get an exeat, and catch that one-forty. And if I don't paralyse the Pudford bowling, I'll shoot myself.'

'But the House match! Leicester's! This afternoon!' gurgled the amazed Baker.

'Oh, hang Leicester's. Surely the rest of you can lick the Kids' Happy League without my help. If you can't, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. I've chosen you a wicket with my own hands, fit to play a test match on.'

'Of course we ought to lick them. But you can never tell at cricket what's going to happen. We oughtn't to run any risks when we've got such a good chance of winning the pot. Why, it's centuries since we won the pot. Don't you go.'

'I must, man. It's the chance of a lifetime.'

Baker tried another method of attack.

'Besides,' he said, 'you don't suppose Jephson'll let you off to play in a beastly little village game when there's a House match on?'

'He must never know!' hissed Norris, after the manner of the Surrey-side villain.

'He's certain to ask why you want to get off so early.'

'I shall tell him my uncle particularly wishes me to come early.'

'Suppose he asks why?'

'I shall say I can't possibly imagine.'

'Oh, well, if you're going to tell lies -- '

'Not at all. Merely a diplomatic evasion. I'm not bound to go and sob out my secrets on Jephson's waistcoat.'

Baker gave up the struggle with a sniff. Norris went to Mr Jephson and got leave to spend the week-end at his uncle's. The interview went without a hitch, as Norris had prophesied.

'You will miss the House match, Norris, then?' said Mr Jephson.

'I'm afraid so, sir. But Mr Leicester's are very weak.'

'H'm. Reece, Marriott, and Gethryn are a good beginning.'

'Yes, sir. But they've got nobody else. Their tail starts after those three.'

'Very well. But it seems a pity.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Norris, wisely refraining from discussing the matter. He had got his exeat, which was what he had come for.

In all the annals of Pudford and Little Bindlebury cricket there had never been such a match as that year's. The rector of Pudford and his three Oxford experts performed prodigies with the bat, prodigies, that is to say, judged from the standpoint of ordinary Pudford scoring, where double figures were the exception rather than the rule.

The rector, an elderly, benevolent-looking gentleman, played with astounding caution and still more remarkable luck for seventeen. Finally, after he had been in an hour and ten minutes, mid-on accepted the eighth easy chance offered to him, and the ecclesiastic had to retire. The three 'Varsity men knocked up a hundred between them, and the complete total was no less than a hundred and thirty-four.

Then came the sensation of the day. After three wickets had fallen for ten runs, Norris and the Little Bindlebury curate, an old Cantab, stayed together and knocked off the deficit.

Norris's contribution of seventy-eight not out was for many a day the sole topic of conversation over the evening pewter at the 'Little Bindlebury Arms'. A non-enthusiast, who tried on one occasion to introduce the topic of Farmer Giles's grey pig, found himself the most unpopular man in the village.

On the Monday morning Norris returned to Jephson's, with pride in his heart and a sovereign in his pocket, the latter the gift of his excellent uncle.

He had had, he freely admitted to himself, a good time. His uncle had done him well, exceedingly well, and he looked forward to going to the show-place again in the near future. In the meantime he felt a languid desire to know how the House match was going on. They must almost have finished the first innings, he thought -- unless Jephson's had run up a very big score, and kept their opponents in the field all the afternoon.

'Hullo, Baker,' he said, tramping breezily into the study, 'I've had the time of a lifetime. Great, simply! No other word for it. How's the match getting on?'

Baker looked up from the book he was reading.

'What match?' he enquired coldly.

'House match, of course, you lunatic. What match did you think I meant? How's it going on?'

'It's not going on,' said Baker, 'it's stopped.'

'You needn't be a funny goat,' said Norris complainingly. 'You know what I mean. What happened on Saturday?'

'They won the toss,' began Baker slowly.

'Yes?'

'And went in and made a hundred and twenty.'

'Good. I told you they were no use. A hundred and twenty's rotten.'

'Then we went in, and made twenty-one.'

'Hundred and twenty-one.'

'No. Just a simple twenty-one without any trimmings of any sort.'

'But, man! How? Why? How on earth did it happen?'

'Gethryn took eight for nine. Does that seem to make it any clearer?'

'Eight for nine? Rot.'

'Show you the score-sheet if you care to see it. In the second innings -- '

'Oh, you began a second innings?'

'Yes. We also finished it. We scored rather freely in the second innings. Ten was on the board before the fifth wicket fell. In the end we fairly collared the bowling, and ran up a total of forty-eight.'

Norris took a seat, and tried to grapple with the situation.

'Forty-eight! Look here, Baker, swear you're not ragging.'

Baker took a green scoring-book from the shelf and passed it to him.

'Look for yourself,' he said.

Norris looked. He looked long and earnestly. Then he handed the book back.

'Then they've won!' he said blankly.

'How do you guess these things?' observed Baker with some bitterness.

'Well, you are a crew,' said Norris. 'Getting out for twenty-one and forty-eight! I see Gethryn got nine for thirty in the second innings. He seems to have been on the spot. I suppose the wicket suited him.'

'If you can call it a wicket. Next time you specially select a pitch for the House to play on, I wish you'd hunt up something with some slight pretensions to decency.'

'Why, what was wrong with the pitch? It was a bit worn, that was all.'

'If,' said Baker, 'you call having holes three inches deep just where every ball pitches being a bit worn, I suppose it was. Anyhow, it would have been almost as well, don't you think, if you'd stopped and played for the House, instead of going off to your rotten village match? You were sick enough when Gethryn went off in the M.C.C. match.'

'Oh, curse,' said Norris.

For he had been hoping against hope that the parallel nature of the two incidents would be less apparent to other people than it was to himself.

And so it came about that Leicester's passed successfully through the first two rounds and soared into the dizzy heights of the semi-final.



XV

Versus Charchester (At Charchester)


From the fact that he had left his team so basely in the lurch on the day of an important match, a casual observer might have imagined that Norris did not really care very much whether his House won the cup or not. But this was not the case. In reality the success of Jephson's was a very important matter to him. A sudden whim had induced him to accept his uncle's invitation, but now that that acceptance had had such disastrous results, he felt inclined to hire a sturdy menial by the hour to kick him till he felt better. To a person in such a frame of mind there are three methods of consolation. He can commit suicide, he can take to drink, or he can occupy his mind with other matters, and cure himself by fixing his attention steadily on some object, and devoting his whole energies to the acquisition of the same.

Norris chose the last method. On the Saturday week following his performance for Little Bindlebury, the Beckford Eleven was due to journey to Charchester, to play the return match against that school on their opponents' ground, and Norris resolved that that match should be won. For the next week the team practised assiduously, those members of it who were not playing in House matches spending every afternoon at the nets. The treatment was not without its effect. The team had been a good one before. Now every one of the eleven seemed to be at the very summit of his powers. New and hitherto unsuspected strokes began to be developed, leg glances which recalled the Hove and Ranjitsinhji, late cuts of Palairetical brilliance. In short, all Nature may be said to have smiled, and by the end of the week Norris was beginning to be almost cheerful once more. And then, on the Monday before the match, Samuel Wilberforce Gosling came to school with his right arm in a sling. Norris met him at the School gates, rubbed his eyes to see whether it was not after all some horrid optical illusion, and finally, when the stern truth came home to him, almost swooned with anguish.

'What? How? Why?' he enquired lucidly.

The injured Samuel smiled feebly.

'I'm fearfully sorry, Norris,' he said.

'Don't say you can't play on Saturday,' moaned Norris.

'Frightfully sorry. I know it's a bit of a sickener. But I don't see how I can, really. The doctor says I shan't be able to play for a couple of weeks.'

Now that the blow had definitely fallen, Norris was sufficiently himself again to be able to enquire into the matter.

'How on earth did you do it? How did it happen?'

Gosling looked guiltier than ever.

'It was on Saturday evening,' he said. 'We were ragging about at home a bit, you know, and my young sister wanted me to send her down a few balls. Somebody had given her a composition bean and a bat, and she's been awfully keen on the game ever since she got them.'

'I think it's simply sickening the way girls want to do everything we do,' said Norris disgustedly.

Gosling spoke for the defence.

'Well, she's only thirteen. You can't blame the kid. Seemed to me a jolly healthy symptom. Laudable ambition and that sort of thing.'

'Well?'

'Well, I sent down one or two. She played 'em like a book. Bit inclined to pull. All girls are. So I put in a long hop on the off, and she let go at it like Jessop. She's got a rattling stroke in mid-on's direction. Well, the bean came whizzing back rather wide on the right. I doubled across to bring off a beefy c-and-b, and the bally thing took me right on the tips of the fingers. Those composition balls hurt like blazes, I can tell you. Smashed my second finger simply into hash, and I couldn't grip a ball now to save my life. Much less bowl. I'm awfully sorry. It's a shocking nuisance.'

Norris agreed with him. It was more than a nuisance. It was a staggerer. Now that Gethryn no longer figured for the First Eleven, Gosling was the School's one hope. Baynes was good on his wicket, but the wickets he liked were the sea-of-mud variety, and this summer fine weather had set in early and continued. Lorimer was also useful, but not to be mentioned in the same breath as the great Samuel. The former was good, the latter would be good in a year or so. His proper sphere of action was the tail. If the first pair of bowlers could dismiss five good batsmen, Lorimer's fast, straight deliveries usually accounted for the rest. But there had to be somebody to pave the way for him. He was essentially a change bowler. It is hardly to be wondered at that Norris very soon began to think wistfully of the Bishop, who was just now doing such great things with the ball, wasting his sweetness on the desert air of the House matches. Would it be consistent with his dignity to invite him back into the team? It was a nice point. With some persons there might be a risk. But Gethryn, as he knew perfectly well, was not the sort of fellow to rub in the undeniable fact that the School team could not get along without him. He had half decided to ask him to play against Charchester, when Gosling suggested the very same thing.

'Why don't you have Gethryn in again?' he said. 'You've stood him out against the O.B.s and the Masters. Surely that's enough. Especially as he's miles the best bowler in the School.'

'Bar yourself.'

'Not a bit. He can give me points. You take my tip and put him in again.'

'Think he'd play if I put him down? Because, you know, I'm dashed if I'm going to do any grovelling and that sort of thing.'

'Certain to, I should think. Anyhow, it's worth trying.'

Pringle, on being consulted, gave the same opinion, and Norris was convinced. The list went up that afternoon, and for the first time since the M.C.C. match Gethryn's name appeared in its usual place.

'Norris is learning wisdom in his old age,' said Marriott to the Bishop, as they walked over to the House that evening.

Leicester's were in the middle of their semi-final, and looked like winning it.

'I was just wondering what to do about it,' said Gethryn. 'What would you do? Play, do you think?'

'Play! My dear man, what else did you propose to do? You weren't thinking of refusing?'

'I was.'

'But, man! That's rank treason. If you're put down to play for the School you must play. There's no question about it. If Norris knocked you down with one hand and put you up on the board with the other, you'd have to play all the same. You mustn't have any feelings where the School is concerned. Nobody's ever refused to play in a first match. It's one of the things you can't do. Norris hasn't given you much of a time lately, I admit. Still, you must lump that. Excuse sermon. I hope it's done you good.'

'Very well. I'll play. It's rather rot, though.'

'No, it's all right, really. It's only that you've got into a groove. You're so used to doing the heavy martyr, that the sudden change has knocked you out rather. Come and have an ice before the shop shuts.'

So Gethryn came once more into the team, and travelled down to Charchester with the others. And at this point a painful alternative faces me. I have to choose between truth and inclination. I should like to say that the Bishop eclipsed himself, and broke all previous records in the Charchester match. By the rules of the dramatic, nothing else is possible. But truth, though it crush me, and truth compels me to admit that his performance was in reality distinctly mediocre. One of his weak points as a bowler was that he was at sea when opposed to a left-hander. Many bowlers have this failing. Some strange power seems to compel them to bowl solely on the leg side, and nothing but long hops and full pitches. It was so in the case of Gethryn. Charchester won the toss, and batted first on a perfect wicket. The first pair of batsmen were the captain, a great bat, who had scored seventy-three not out against Beckford in the previous match, and a left-handed fiend. Baynes's leg-breaks were useless on a wicket which, from the hardness of it, might have been constructed of asphalt, and the rubbish the Bishop rolled up to the left-handed artiste was painful to witness. At four o'clock -- the match had started at half-past eleven -- the Charchester captain reached his century, and was almost immediately stumped off Baynes. The Bishop bowled the next man first ball, the one bright spot in his afternoon's performance. Then came another long stand, against which the Beckford bowling raged in vain. At five o'clock, Charchester by that time having made two hundred and forty-one for two wickets, the left-hander ran into three figures, and the captain promptly declared the innings closed. Beckford's only chance was to play for a draw, and in this they succeeded. When stumps were drawn at a quarter to seven, the score was a hundred and three, and five wickets were down. The Bishop had the satisfaction of being not out with twenty-eight to his credit, but nothing less than a century would have been sufficient to soothe him after his shocking bowling performance. Pringle, who during the luncheon interval had encountered his young friends the Ashbys, and had been duly taunted by them on the subject of leather-hunting, was top scorer with forty-one. Norris, I regret to say, only made three, running himself out in his second over. As the misfortune could not, by any stretch of imagination, be laid at anybody else's door but his own, he was decidedly savage. The team returned to Beckford rather footsore, very disgusted, and abnormally silent. Norris sulked by himself at one end of the saloon carriage, and the Bishop sulked by himself at the other end, and even Marriott forbore to treat the situation lightly. It was a mournful home-coming. No cheering wildly as the brake drove to the College from Horton, no shouting of the School song in various keys as they passed through the big gates. Simply silence. And except when putting him on to bowl, or taking him off, or moving him in the field, Norris had not spoken a word to the Bishop the whole afternoon.

It was shortly after this disaster that Mr Mortimer Wells came to stay with the Headmaster. Mr Mortimer Wells was a brilliant and superior young man, who was at some pains to be a cynic. He was an old pupil of the Head's in the days before he had succeeded to the rule of Beckford. He had the reputation of being a 'ripe' scholar, and to him had been deputed the task of judging the poetical outbursts of the bards of the Upper Fifth, with the object of awarding to the most deserving -- or, perhaps, to the least undeserving -- the handsome prize bequeathed by his open-handed highness, the Rajah of Seltzerpore.

This gentleman sat with his legs stretched beneath the Headmaster's generous table. Dinner had come to an end, and a cup of coffee, acting in co-operation with several glasses of port and an excellent cigar, had inspired him to hold forth on the subject of poetry prizes. He held forth.

'The poetry prize system,' said he -- it is astonishing what nonsense a man, ordinarily intelligent, will talk after dinner -- 'is on exactly the same principle as those penny-in-the-slot machines that you see at stations. You insert your penny. You set your prize subject. In the former case you hope for wax vestas, and you get butterscotch. In the latter, you hope for something at least readable, and you get the most complete, terrible, uninspired twaddle that was ever written on paper. The boy mind' -- here the ash of his cigar fell off on to his waistcoat -- 'the merely boy mind is incapable of poetry.'

From which speech the shrewd reader will infer that Mr Mortimer Wells was something of a prig. And perhaps, altogether shrewd reader, you're right.

Mr Lawrie, the master of the Sixth, who had been asked to dinner to meet the great man, disagreed as a matter of principle. He was one of those men who will take up a cause from pure love of argument.

'I think you're wrong, sir. I'm perfectly convinced you're wrong.'

Mr Wells smiled in his superior way, as if to say that it was a pity that Mr Lawrie was so foolish, but that perhaps he could not help it.

'Ah,' he said, 'but you have not had to wade through over thirty of these gems in a single week. I have. I can assure you your views would undergo a change if you could go through what I have. Let me read you a selection. If that does not convert you, nothing will. If you will excuse me for a moment, Beckett, I will leave the groaning board, and fetch the manuscripts.'

He left the room, and returned with a pile of paper, which he deposited in front of him on the table.

'Now,' he said, selecting the topmost manuscript, 'I will take no unfair advantage. I will read you the very pick of the bunch. None of the other -- er -- poems come within a long way of this. It is a case of Eclipse first and the rest nowhere. The author, the gifted author, is a boy of the name of Lorimer, whom I congratulate on taking the Rajah's prize. I drain this cup of coffee to him. Are you ready? Now, then.'

He cleared his throat.



XVI

A Disputed Authorship


'One moment,' said Mr Lawrie, 'might I ask what is the subject of the poem?'

'Death of Dido,' said the Headmaster. 'Good, hackneyed, evergreen subject, mellow with years. Go on, Wells.'

Mr Wells began.

Queen of Tyre, ancient Tyre, Whilom mistress of the wave.

Mr Lawrie, who had sunk back into the recesses of his chair in an attitude of attentive repose, sat up suddenly with a start.

'What!' he cried.

'Hullo,' said Mr Wells, 'has the beauty of the work come home to you already?'

'You notice,' he said, as he repeated the couplet, 'that flaws begin to appear in the gem right from the start. It was rash of Master Lorimer to attempt such a difficult metre. Plucky, but rash. He should have stuck to blank verse. Tyre, you notice, two syllables to rhyme with "deny her" in line three. "What did fortune e'er deny her? Were not all her warriors brave?" That last line seems to me distinctly weak. I don't know how it strikes you.'

'You're hypercritical, Wells,' said the Head. 'Now, for a boy I consider that a very good beginning. What do you say, Lawrie?'

'I -- er. Oh, I think I am hardly a judge.'

'To resume,' said Mr Mortimer Wells. He resumed, and ran through the remaining verses of the poem with comments. When he had finished, he remarked that, in his opinion a whiff of fresh air would not hurt him. If the Headmaster would excuse him, he would select another of those excellent cigars, and smoke it out of doors.

'By all means,' said the Head; 'I think I won't join you myself, but perhaps Lawrie will.'

'No, thank you. I think I will remain. Yes, I think I will remain.'

Mr Wells walked jauntily out of the room. When the door had shut, Mr Lawrie coughed nervously.

'Another cigar, Lawrie?'

'I -- er -- no, thank you. I want to ask you a question. What is your candid opinion of those verses Mr Wells was reading just now?'

The Headmaster laughed.

'I don't think Wells treated them quite fairly. In my opinion they were distinctly promising. For a boy in the Upper Fifth, you understand. Yes, on the whole they showed distinct promise.'

'They were mine,' said Mr Lawrie.

'Yours! I don't understand. How were they yours?'

'I wrote them. Every word of them.'

'You wrote them! But, my dear Lawrie -- '

'I don't wonder that you are surprised. For my own part I am amazed, simply amazed. How the boy -- I don't even remember his name -- contrived to get hold of them, I have not the slightest conception. But that he did so contrive is certain. The poem is word for word, literally word for word, the same as one which I wrote when I was at Cambridge.'

'You don't say so!'

'Yes. It can hardly be a coincidence.'

'Hardly,' said the Head. 'Are you certain of this?'

'Perfectly certain. I am not eager to claim the authorship, I can assure you, especially after Mr Wells's very outspoken criticisms, but there is nothing else to be done. The poem appeared more than a dozen years ago, in a small book called The Dark Horse.'

'Ah! Something in the Whyte Melville style, I suppose?'

'No,' said Mr Lawrie sharply. 'No. Certainly not. They were serious poems, tragical most of them. I had them collected, and published them at my own expense. Very much at my own expense. I used a pseudonym, I am thankful to say. As far as I could ascertain, the total sale amounted to eight copies. I have never felt the very slightest inclination to repeat the performance. But how this boy managed to see the book is more than I can explain. He can hardly have bought it. The price was half-a-guinea. And there is certainly no copy in the School library. The thing is a mystery.'

'A mystery that must be solved,' said the Headmaster. 'The fact remains that he did see the book, and it is very serious. Wholesale plagiarism of this description should be kept for the School magazine. It should not be allowed to spread to poetry prizes. I must see Lorimer about this tomorrow. Perhaps he can throw some light upon the matter.'

When, in the course of morning school next day, the School porter entered the Upper Fifth form-room and informed Mr Sims, who was engaged in trying to drive the beauties of Plautus' colloquial style into the Upper Fifth brain, that the Headmaster wished to see Lorimer, Lorimer's conscience was so abnormally good that for the life of him he could not think why he had been sent for. As far as he could remember, there was no possible way in which the authorities could get at him. If he had been in the habit of smoking out of bounds in lonely fields and deserted barns, he might have felt uneasy. But whatever his failings, that was not one of them. It could not be anything about bounds, because he had been so busy with cricket that he had had no time to break them this term. He walked into the presence, glowing with conscious rectitude. And no sooner was he inside than the Headmaster, with three simple words, took every particle of starch out of his anatomy.

'Sit down, Lorimer,' he said.

There are many ways of inviting a person to seat himself. The genial 'take a pew' of one's equal inspires confidence. The raucous 'sit down in front' of the frenzied pit, when you stand up to get a better view of the stage, is not so pleasant. But worst of all is the icy 'sit down' of the annoyed headmaster. In his mouth the words take to themselves new and sinister meanings. They seem to accuse you of nameless crimes, and to warn you that anything you may say will be used against you as evidence.

'Why have I sent for you, Lorimer?'

A nasty question that, and a very favourite one of the Rev. Mr Beckett, Headmaster of Beckford. In nine cases out of ten, the person addressed, paralysed with nervousness, would give himself away upon the instant, and confess everything. Lorimer, however, was saved by the fact that he had nothing to confess. He stifled an inclination to reply 'because the woodpecker would peck her', or words to that effect, and maintained a pallid silence.

'Have you ever heard of a book called The Dark Horse, Lorimer?'

Lorimer began to feel that the conversation was too deep for him. After opening in the conventional 'judge-then-placed-the-black-cap-on-his-head' manner, his assailant had suddenly begun to babble lightly of sporting literature. He began to entertain doubts of the Headmaster's sanity. It would not have added greatly to his mystification if the Head had gone on to insist that he was the Emperor of Peru, and worked solely by electricity.

The Headmaster, for his part, was also surprised. He had worked for dismay, conscious guilt, confessions, and the like, instead of blank amazement. He, too, began to have his doubts. Had Mr Lawrie been mistaken? It was not likely, but it was barely possible. In which case the interview had better be brought to an abrupt stop until he had made inquiries. The situation was at a deadlock.

Fortunately at this point half-past twelve struck, and the bell rang for the end of morning school. The situation was saved, and the tension relaxed.

'You may go, Lorimer,' said the Head, 'I will send for you later.'

He swept out of the room, and Lorimer raced over to the House to inform Pringle that the Headmaster had run suddenly mad, and should by rights be equipped with a strait-waistcoat.

'You never saw such a man,' he said, 'hauled me out of school in the middle of a Plautus lesson, dumps me down in a chair, and then asks me if I've read some weird sporting novel or other.'

'Sporting novel! My dear man!'

'Well, it sounded like it from the title.'

'The title. Oh!'

'What's up?'

Pringle had leaped to his feet as if he had suddenly discovered that he was sitting on something red-hot. His normal air of superior calm had vanished. He was breathless with excitement. A sudden idea had struck him with the force of a bullet.

'What was the title he asked you if you'd read the book of?' he demanded incoherently.

'The Derby Winner.'

Pringle sat down again, relieved.

'Oh. Are you certain?'

'No, of course it wasn't that. I was only ragging. The real title was The Dark Horse. Hullo, what's up now? Have you got 'em too?'

'What's up? I'll tell you. We're done for. Absolutely pipped. That's what's the matter.'

'Hang it, man, do give us a chance. Why can't you explain, instead of sitting there talking like that? Why are we done? What have we done, anyway?'

'The poem, of course, the prize poem. I forgot, I never told you. I hadn't time to write anything of my own, so I cribbed it straight out of a book called The Dark Horse. Now do you see?'

Lorimer saw. He grasped the whole unpainted beauty of the situation in a flash, and for some moments it rendered him totally unfit for intellectual conversation. When he did speak his observation was brief, but it teemed with condensed meaning. It was the conversational parallel to the ox in the tea-cup.

'My aunt!' he said.

'There'll be a row about this,' said Pringle.

'What am I to say when he has me in this afternoon? He said he would.'

'Let the whole thing out. No good trying to hush it up. He may let us down easy if you're honest about it.'

It relieved Lorimer to hear Pringle talk about 'us'. It meant that he was not to be left to bear the assault alone. Which, considering that the whole trouble was, strictly speaking, Pringle's fault, was only just.

'But how am I to explain? I can't reel off a long yarn all about how you did it all, and so on. It would be too low.'

'I know,' said Pringle, 'I've got it. Look here, on your way to the Old Man's room you pass the Remove door. Well, when you pass, drop some money. I'll be certain to hear it, as I sit next the door. And then I'll ask to leave the room, and we'll go up together.'

'Good man, Pringle, you're a genius. Thanks, awfully.'

But as it happened, this crafty scheme was not found necessary. The blow did not fall till after lock-up.

Lorimer being in the Headmaster's House, it was possible to interview him without the fuss and advertisement inseparable from a 'sending for during school'. Just as he was beginning his night-work, the butler came with a message that he was wanted in the Headmaster's part of the House.

'It was only Mr Lorimer as the master wished to see,' said the butler, as Pringle rose to accompany his companion in crime.

'That's all right,' said Pringle, 'the Headmaster's always glad to see me. I've got a standing invitation. He'll understand.'

At first, when he saw two where he had only sent for one, the Headmaster did not understand at all, and said so. He had prepared to annihilate Lorimer hip and thigh, for he was now convinced that his blank astonishment at the mention of The Dark Horse during their previous interview had been, in the words of the bard, a mere veneer, a wile of guile. Since the morning he had seen Mr Lawrie again, and had with his own eyes compared the two poems, the printed and the written, the author by special request having hunted up a copy of that valuable work, The Dark Horse, from the depths of a cupboard in his rooms.

His astonishment melted before Pringle's explanation, which was brief and clear, and gave way to righteous wrath. In well-chosen terms he harangued the two criminals. Finally he perorated.

'There is only one point which tells in your favour. You have not attempted concealment.' (Pringle nudged Lorimer surreptitiously at this.) 'And I may add that I believe that, as you say, you did not desire actually to win the prize by underhand means. But I cannot overlook such an offence. It is serious. Most serious. You will, both of you, go into extra lesson for the remaining Saturdays of the term.'

Extra lesson meant that instead of taking a half-holiday on Saturday like an ordinary law-abiding individual, you treated the day as if it were a full-school day, and worked from two till four under the eye of the Headmaster. Taking into consideration everything, the punishment was not an extraordinarily severe one, for there were only two more Saturdays to the end of term, and the sentence made no mention of the Wednesday half-holidays.

But in effect it was serious indeed. It meant that neither Pringle nor Lorimer would be able to play in the final House match against Leicester's, which was fixed to begin on the next Saturday at two o'clock. Among the rules governing the House matches was one to the effect that no House might start a match with less than eleven men, nor might the Eleven be changed during the progress of the match -- a rule framed by the Headmaster, not wholly without an eye to emergencies like the present.

'Thank goodness,' said Pringle, 'that there aren't any more First matches. It's bad enough, though, by Jove, as it is. I suppose it's occurred to you that this cuts us out of playing in the final?'

Lorimer said the point had not escaped his notice.

'I wish,' he observed, with simple pathos, 'that I'd got the Rajah of Seltzerpore here now. I'd strangle him. I wonder if the Old Man realizes that he's done his own House out of the cup?'

'Wouldn't care if he did. Still, it's a sickening nuisance. Leicester's are a cert now.'

'Absolute cert,' said Lorimer; 'Baynes can't do all the bowling, especially on a hard wicket, and there's nobody else. As for our batting and fielding -- '

'Don't,' said-Pringle gloomily, 'it's too awful.'

On the following Saturday, Leicester's ran up a total in their first innings which put the issue out of doubt, and finished off the game on the Monday by beating the School House by six wickets.



XVII

The Winter Term


It was the first day of the winter term.

The Bishop, as he came back by express, could not help feeling that, after all, life considered as an institution had its points. Things had mended steadily during the last weeks of the term. He had kept up his end as head of the House perfectly. The internal affairs of Leicester's were going as smoothly as oil. And there was the cricket cup to live up to. Nothing pulls a House together more than beating all comers in the field, especially against odds, as Leicester's had done. And then Monk and Danvers had left. That had set the finishing touch to a good term's work. The Mob were no longer a power in the land. Waterford remained, but a subdued, benevolent Waterford, with a wonderful respect for law and order. Yes, as far as the House was concerned, Gethryn felt no apprehensions. As regarded the School at large, things were bound to come right in time. A school has very little memory. And in the present case the Bishop, being second man in the Fifteen, had unusual opportunities of righting himself in the eyes of the multitude. In the winter term cricket is forgotten. Football is the only game that counts.

And to round off the whole thing, when he entered his study he found a letter on the table. It was from Farnie, and revealed two curious and interesting facts. Firstly he had left, and Beckford was to know him no more. Secondly -- this was even more remarkable -- he possessed a conscience.

'Dear Gethryn,' ran the letter, 'I am writing to tell you my father is sending me to a school in France, so I shall not come back to Beckford. I am sorry about the M.C.C. match, and I enclose the four pounds you lent me. I utterly bar the idea of going to France. It's beastly, yours truly, R. Farnie.'

The money mentioned was in the shape of a cheque, signed by Farnie senior.

Gethryn was distinctly surprised. That all this time remorse like a worm i' the bud should have been feeding upon his uncle's damask cheek, as it were, he had never suspected. His relative's demeanour since the M.C.C. match had, it is true, been considerably toned down, but this he had attributed to natural causes, not unnatural ones like conscience. As for the four pounds, he had set it down as a bad debt. To get it back was like coming suddenly into an unexpected fortune. He began to think that there must have been some good in Farnie after all, though he was fain to admit that without the aid of a microscope the human eye might well have been excused for failing to detect it.

His next thought was that there was nothing now to prevent him telling the whole story to Reece and Marriott. Reece, if anybody, deserved to have his curiosity satisfied. The way in which he had abstained from questions at the time of the episode had been nothing short of magnificent. Reece must certainly be told.

Neither Reece nor Marriott had arrived at the moment. Both were in the habit of returning at the latest possible hour, except at the beginning of the summer term. The Bishop determined to reserve his story until the following evening.

Accordingly, when the study kettle was hissing on the Etna, and Wilson was crouching in front of the fire, making toast in his own inimitable style, he embarked upon his narrative.

'I say, Marriott.'

'Hullo.'

'Do you notice a subtle change in me this term? Does my expressive purple eye gleam more brightly than of yore? It does. Exactly so. I feel awfully bucked up. You know that kid Farnie has left?'

'I thought I missed his merry prattle. What's happened to him?'

'Gone to a school in France somewhere.'

'Jolly for France.'

'Awfully. But the point is that now he's gone I can tell you about that M.C.C. match affair. I know you want to hear what really did happen that afternoon.'

Marriott pointed significantly at Wilson, whose back was turned.

'Oh, that's all right,' said Gethryn. 'Wilson.'

'Yes?'

'You mustn't listen. Try and think you're a piece of furniture. See? And if you do happen to overhear anything, you needn't go gassing about it. Follow?'

'All right,' said Wilson, and Gethryn told his tale.

'Jove,' he said, as he finished, 'that's a relief. It's something to have got that off my chest. I do bar keeping a secret.'

'But, I say,' said Marriott.

'Well?'

'Well, it was beastly good of you to do it, and that sort of thing, I suppose. I see that all right. But, my dear man, what a rotten thing to do. A kid like that. A little beast who simply cried out for sacking.'

'Well, at any rate, it's over now. You needn't jump on me. I acted from the best motives. That's what my grandfather, Farnie's pater, you know, always used to say when he got at me for anything in the happy days of my childhood. Don't sit there looking like a beastly churchwarden, you ass. Buck up, and take an intelligent interest in things.'

'No, but really, Bishop,' said Marriott, 'you must treat this seriously. You'll have to let the other chaps know about it.'

'How? Put it up on the notice-board? This is to certify that Mr Allan Gethryn, of Leicester's House, Beckford, is dismissed without a stain on his character. You ass, how can I let them know? I seem to see myself doing the boy-hero style of things. My friends, you wronged me, you wronged me very grievously. But I forgive you. I put up with your cruel scorn. I endured it. I steeled myself against it. And now I forgive you profusely, every one of you. Let us embrace. It wouldn't do. You must see that much. Don't be a goat. Is that toast done yet, Wilson?'

Wilson exhibited several pounds of the article in question.

'Good,' said the Bishop. 'You're a great man, Wilson. You can make a small selection of those biscuits, and if you bag all the sugar ones I'll slay you, and then you can go quietly downstairs, and rejoin your sorrowing friends. And don't you go telling them what I've been saying.'

'Rather not,' said Wilson.

He made his small selection, and retired. The Bishop turned to Marriott again.

'I shall tell Reece, because he deserves it, and I rather think I shall tell Gosling and Pringle. Nobody else, though. What's the good of it? Everybody'll forget the whole thing by next season.'

'How about Norris?' asked Marriott.

'Now there you have touched the spot. I can't possibly tell Norris myself. My natural pride is too enormous. Descended from a primordial atomic globule, you know, like Pooh Bah. And I shook hands with a duke once. The man Norris and I, I regret to say, had something of a row on the subject last term. We parted with mutual expressions of hate, and haven't spoken since. What I should like would be for somebody else to tell him all about it. Not you. It would look too much like a put-up job. So don't you go saying anything. Swear.'

'Why not?'

'Because you mustn't. Swear. Let me hear you swear by the bones of your ancestors.'

'All right. I call it awful rot, though.'

'Can't be helped. Painful but necessary. Now I'm going to tell Reece, though I don't expect he'll remember anything about it. Reece never remembers anything beyond his last meal.'

'Idiot,' said Marriott after him as the door closed. 'I don't know, though,' he added to himself.

And, pouring himself out another cup of tea, he pondered deeply over the matter.

Reece heard the news without emotion.

'You're a good sort, Bishop,' he said, 'I knew something of the kind must have happened. It reminds me of a thing that happened to -- '

'Yes, it is rather like it, isn't it?' said the Bishop. 'By the way, talking about stories, a chap I met in the holidays told me a ripper. You see, this chap and his brother -- '

He discoursed fluently for some twenty minutes. Reece sighed softly, but made no attempt to resume his broken narrative. He was used to this sort of thing.

It was a fortnight later, and Marriott and the Bishop were once more seated in their study waiting for Wilson to get tea ready. Wilson made toast in the foreground. Marriott was in football clothes, rubbing his shin gently where somebody had kicked it in the scratch game that afternoon. After rubbing for a few moments in silence, he spoke suddenly.

'You must tell Norris,' he said. 'It's all rot.'

'I can't.'

'Then I shall.'

'No, don't. You swore you wouldn't.'

'Well, but look here. I just want to ask you one question. What sort of a time did you have in that scratch game tonight?'

'Beastly. I touched the ball exactly four times. If I wasn't so awfully ornamental, I don't see what would be the use of my turning out at all. I'm no practical good to the team.'

'Exactly. That's just what I wanted to get at. I don't mean your remark about your being ornamental, but about your never touching the ball. Until you explain matters to Norris, you never will get a decent pass. Norris and you are a rattling good pair of centre threes, but if he never gives you a pass, I don't see how we can expect to have any combination in the First. It's no good my slinging out the ball if the centres stick to it like glue directly they get it, and refuse to give it up. It's simply sickening.'

Marriott played half for the First Fifteen, and his soul was in the business.

'But, my dear chap,' said Gethryn, 'you don't mean to tell me that a man like Norris would purposely rot up the First's combination because he happened to have had a row with the other centre. He's much too decent a fellow.'

'No. I don't mean that exactly. What he does is this. I've watched him. He gets the ball. He runs with it till his man is on him, and then he thinks of passing. You're backing him up. He sees you, and says to himself, "I can't pass to that cad" -- '

'Meaning me?'

'Meaning you.'

'Thanks awfully.'

'Don't mention it. I'm merely quoting his thoughts, as deduced by me. He says, "I can't pass to that -- well, individual, if you prefer it. Where's somebody else?" So he hesitates, and gets tackled, or else slings the ball wildly out to somebody who can't possibly get to it. It's simply infernal. And we play the Nomads tomorrow, too. Something must be done.'

'Somebody ought to tell him. Why doesn't our genial skipper assert his authority?'

'Hill's a forward, you see, and doesn't get an opportunity of noticing it. I can't tell him, of course. I've not got my colours -- '

'You're a cert. for them.'

'Hope so. Anyway, I've not got them yet, and Norris has, so I can't very well go slanging him to Hill. Sort of thing rude people would call side.'

'Well, I'll look out tomorrow, and if it's as bad as you think, I'll speak to Hill. It's a beastly thing to have to do.'

'Beastly,' agreed Marriott. 'It's got to be done, though. We can't go through the season without any combination in the three-quarter line, just to spare Norris's feelings.'

'It's a pity, though,' said the Bishop, 'because Norris is a ripping good sort of chap, really. I wish we hadn't had that bust-up last term.'



XVIII

The Bishop Scores


At this point Wilson finished the toast, and went out. As he went he thought over what he had just heard. Marriott and Gethryn frequently talked the most important School politics before him, for they had discovered at an early date that he was a youth of discretion, who could be trusted not to reveal state secrets. But matters now seemed to demand such a revelation. It was a serious thing to do, but there was nobody else to do it, and it obviously must be done, so, by a simple process of reasoning, he ought to do it. Half an hour had to elapse before the bell rang for lock-up. There was plenty of time to do the whole thing and get back to the House before the door was closed. He took his cap, and trotted off to Jephson's.

Norris was alone in his study when Wilson knocked at the door. He seemed surprised to see his visitor. He knew Wilson well by sight, he being captain of the First Eleven and Wilson a distinctly promising junior bat, but this was the first time he had ever exchanged a word of conversation with him.

'Hullo,' he said, putting down his book.

'Oh, I say, Norris,' began Wilson nervously, 'can I speak to you for a minute?'

'All right. Go ahead.'

After two false starts, Wilson at last managed to get the thread of his story. He did not mention Marriott's remarks on football subjects, but confined himself to the story of Farnie and the bicycle ride, as he had heard it from Gethryn on the second evening of the term.

'So that's how it was, you see,' he concluded.

There was a long silence. Wilson sat nervously on the edge of his chair, and Norris stared thoughtfully into the fire.

'So shall I tell him it's all right?' asked Wilson at last.

'Tell who what's all right?' asked Norris politely.

'Oh, er, Gethryn, you know,' replied Wilson, slightly disconcerted. He had had a sort of idea that Norris would have rushed out of the room, sprinted over to Leicester's, and flung himself on the Bishop's bosom in an agony of remorse. He appeared to be taking things altogether too coolly.

'No,' said Norris, 'don't tell him anything. I shall have lots of chances of speaking to him myself if I want to. It isn't as if we were never going to meet again. You'd better cut now. There's the bell just going. Good night.'

'Good night, Norris.'

'Oh, and, I say,' said Norris, as Wilson opened the door, 'I meant to tell you some time ago. If you buck up next cricket season, it's quite possible that you'll get colours of some sort. You might bear that in mind.'

'I will,' said Wilson fervently. 'Good night, Norris. Thanks awfully.'

The Nomads brought down a reasonably hot team against Beckford as a general rule, for the School had a reputation in the football world. They were a big lot this year. Their forwards looked capable, and when, after the School full-back had returned the ball into touch on the half-way line, the line-out had resulted in a hand-ball and a scrum, they proved that appearances were not deceptive. They broke through in a solid mass -- the Beckford forwards never somehow seemed to get together properly in the first scrum of a big match -- and rushed the ball down the field. Norris fell on it. Another hastily-formed scrum, and the Nomads' front rank was off again. Ten yards nearer the School line there was another halt. Grainger, the Beckford full-back, whose speciality was the stopping of rushes, had curled himself neatly round the ball. Then the School forwards awoke to a sense of their responsibilities. It was time they did, for Beckford was now penned up well within its own twenty-five line, and the Nomad halves were appealing pathetically to their forwards to let that ball out, for goodness' sake. But the forwards fancied a combined rush was the thing to play. For a full minute they pushed the School pack towards their line, and then some rash enthusiast kicked a shade too hard. The ball dribbled out of the scrum on the School side, and Marriott punted into touch.

'You must let it out, you men,' said the aggrieved half-backs.

Marriott's kick had not brought much relief. The visitors were still inside the Beckford twenty-five line, and now that their forwards had realized the sin and folly of trying to rush the ball through, matters became decidedly warm for the School outsides. Norris and Gethryn in the centre and Grainger at back performed prodigies of tackling. The wing three-quarter hovered nervously about, feeling that their time might come at any moment.

The Nomad attack was concentrated on the extreme right.

Philips, the International, was officiating for them as wing-three-quarters on that side, and they played to him. If he once got the ball he would take a considerable amount of stopping. But the ball never managed to arrive. Norris and Gethryn stuck to their men closer than brothers.

A prolonged struggle on the goal-line is a great spectacle. That is why (purely in the opinion of the present scribe) Rugby is such a much better game than Association. You don't get that sort of thing in Soccer. But such struggles generally end in the same way. The Nomads were now within a couple of yards of the School line. It was a question of time. In three minutes the whistle would blow for half-time, and the School would be saved.

But in those three minutes the thing happened. For the first time in the match the Nomad forwards heeled absolutely cleanly. Hitherto, the ball had always remained long enough in the scrum to give Marriott and Wogan, the School halves, time to get round and on to their men before they could become dangerous. But this time the ball was in and out again in a moment. The Nomad half who was taking the scrum picked it up, and was over the line before Marriott realized that the ball was out at all. The school lining the ropes along the touch-line applauded politely but feebly, as was their custom when the enemy scored.

The kick was a difficult one -- the man had got over in the corner -- and failed. The referee blew his whistle for half-time. The teams sucked lemons, and the Beckford forwards tried to explain to Hill, the captain, why they never got that ball in the scrums. Hill having observed bitterly, as he did in every match when the School did not get thirty points in the first half, that he 'would chuck the whole lot of them out next Saturday', the game recommenced.

Beckford started on the second half with three points against them, but with both wind, what there was of it, and slope in their favour. Three points, especially in a club match, where one's opponents may reasonably be expected to suffer from lack of training and combination, is not an overwhelming score.

Beckford was hopeful and determined.

To record all the fluctuations of the game for the next thirty-five minutes is unnecessary. Copies of The Beckfordian containing a full report, crammed with details, and written in the most polished English, may still be had from the editor at the modest price of sixpence. Suffice it to say that two minutes from the kick-off the Nomads increased their score with a goal from a mark, and almost immediately afterwards Marriott gave the School their first score with a neat drop-kick. It was about five minutes from the end of the game, and the Nomads still led, when the event of the afternoon took place. The Nomad forwards had brought the ball down the ground with one of their combined dribbles, and a scrum had been formed on the Beckford twenty-five line. The visitors heeled as usual. The half who was taking the scrum whipped the ball out in the direction of his colleague. But before it could reach him, Wogan had intercepted the pass, and was off down the field, through the enemy's three-quarter line, with only the back in front of him, and with Norris in close attendance, followed by Gethryn.

There is nothing like an intercepted pass for adding a dramatic touch to a close game. A second before it had seemed as though the School must be beaten, for though they would probably have kept the enemy out for the few minutes that remained, they could never have worked the ball down the field by ordinary give-and-take play. And now, unless Wogan shamefully bungled what he had begun so well, victory was certain.

There was a danger, though. Wogan might in the excitement of the moment try to get past the back and score himself, instead of waiting until the back was on him and then passing to Norris. The School on the touch-line shrieked their applause, but there was a note of anxiety as well. A slight reputation which Wogan had earned for playing a selfish game sprang up before their eyes. Would he pass? Or would he run himself? If the latter, the odds were anything against his succeeding.

But everything went right. Wogan arrived at the back, drew that gentleman's undivided attention to himself, and then slung the ball out to Norris, the model of what a pass ought to be. Norris made no mistake about it.

Then the remarkable thing happened. The Bishop, having backed Norris up for fifty yards at full speed, could not stop himself at once. His impetus carried him on when all need for expenditure of energy had come to an end. He was just slowing down, leaving Norris to complete the thing alone, when to his utter amazement he found the ball in his hands. Norris had passed to him. With a clear run in, and the nearest foeman yards to the rear, Norris had passed. It was certainly weird, but his first duty was to score. There must be no mistake about the scoring. Afterwards he could do any thinking that might be required. He shot at express speed over the line, and placed the ball in the exact centre of the white line which joined the posts. Then he walked back to where Norris was waiting for him.

'Good man,' said Norris, 'that was awfully good.'

His tone was friendly. He spoke as he had been accustomed to speak before the M.C.C. match. Gethryn took his cue from him. It was evident that, for reasons at present unexplained, Norris wished for peace, and such being the case, the Bishop was only too glad to oblige him.

'No,' he said, 'it was jolly good of you to let me in like that. Why, you'd only got to walk over.'

'Oh, I don't know. I might have slipped or something. Anyhow I thought I'd better pass. What price Beckford combination? The home-made article, eh?'

'Rather,' said the Bishop.

'Oh, by the way,' said Norris, 'I was talking to young Wilson yesterday evening. Or rather he was talking to me. Decent kid, isn't he? He was telling me about Farnie. The M.C.C. match, you know, and so on.'

'Oh!' said the Bishop. He began to see how things had happened.

'Yes,' said Norris. 'Hullo, that gives us the game.'

A roar of applause from the touch-line greeted the successful attempt of Hill to convert Gethryn's try into the necessary goal. The referee performed a solo on the whistle, and immediately afterwards another, as if as an encore.

'No side,' he said pensively. The School had won by two points.

'That's all right,' said Norris. 'I say, can you come and have tea in my study when you've changed? Some of the fellows are coming. I've asked Reece and Marriott, and Pringle said he'd turn up too. It'll be rather a tight fit, but we'll manage somehow.'

'Right,' said the Bishop. 'Thanks very much.'

Norris was correct. It was a tight fit. But then a study brew loses half its charm if there is room to breathe. It was a most enjoyable ceremony in every way. After the serious part of the meal was over, and the time had arrived when it was found pleasanter to eat wafer biscuits than muffins, the Bishop obliged once more with a recital of his adventures on that distant day in the summer term.

There were several comments when he had finished. The only one worth recording is Reece's.

Reece said it distinctly reminded him of a thing which had happened to a friend of a chap his brother had known at Sandhurst.

<eob>

Scouting With Kit Carson

By

Everett T. Tomlinson



Chapter I -- The Camp On The Plains


"I am glad we are going to stop here."

"It ees so. The boy ees mooch tired?"

"Yes, I am tired," responded Reuben Benton. "I have been in the saddle since before sun-up. Sometimes it seems to me as if I had been riding forever and a day."

The conversation ceased, and both men, leaping from the backs of their tired horses, first stretched themselves and then danced about in a manner not in the least suggestive of weariness. The action, however, was not so much to express their pleasure as to give relief to the cramped muscles of their backs and legs that now were almost numb.

The ponies manifestly, too, were glad of the respite. It was a long trail from St. Louis, or Pain Court, as the trading post frequently was called ninety years before this story was written, to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. For many days the two weary travellers had steadily ridden across the arid plains. In certain places they had forded rivers or had crossed on boats or rafts, that now were left far behind them. Here and there along the uncertain trail they had camped near the springs that occasionally were to be found. It was a spring which now had caused the two men to halt and to prepare their camp for the night.

For a brief moment both men turned and looked sharply all about them. Not far away, although they were much farther than they appeared to be, the towering Rocky Mountains lifted their summits high in the air. Some of the peaks still were covered with snow, although nearly all of them at this time in the summer were bare and bleak. Gorges and canyons were plainly visible, and the keen look which each of the riders gave them indicated that they were aware that these great defiles among the giant hills might be the hiding-places of savage beasts or of no less savage Indians. Indeed, the latter were much more to be feared, for recently there had been an increasing hatred of the whites manifested by all the tribes of the prairies and the mountains beyond. Not that many white men as yet had ventured into the wilderness, but the few that had done so had aroused feelings of fear and anger lest the pale-faced men might be merely scouts for a larger body that was following them. Rumours of battles fought farther east between the Indians and the settlers had made their way somehow even across the plains. Many of the actions, as well as the activities, of certain of the trappers and hunters, in their occasional visits among the tribes, also had not tended to soothe the fears or allay the feelings of the suspicious redmen.

Although thoughts of such perils were in the minds of the two men who had halted for the night, neither referred to them, nor was there any unusual anxiety betrayed by either. The horses now were hobbled, blankets were spread on the sandy soil, and a few cooking utensils were taken from the backs of the pack-horses, and all things were made ready speedily for the night that was fast approaching.

The horse of Jean Badeau, the elder of the two men, would have been noticed even by a passing stranger. Even after the long ride of the day was ended, there still was a flash in the eyes of Proveau, as Jean called his horse, and splotches of foam were still flying from his mouth when he proudly tossed his head.

The horse of Reuben Benton, though its coat was not quite as sleek and its eyes betokened a greater weariness than those of his companion's mount, still was manifestly fleet and strong. Four other ponies also were in the little caravan, and it was not long before the burdens they carried were removed from their backs and placed together on the ground.

As soon as the contents of the packs were seen it was evident that the men were engaged in what was a not infrequent occupation in these early days: both men were trappers. Indeed, numerous traps tied together were seen among the burdens carried by the patient animals. Powder and lead, two or three blankets, a few cooking utensils, and a scanty store of provisions comprised most of the outfit of the little train.

Of the two trappers, Jean Badeau was a man of medium height, with dark hair, and eyes piercing and black as midnight. His swarthy skin as well as his manner of shrugging his shoulders indicated that he was French. Whether he had come from St. Louis or Montreal, or even from France itself, he had not explained to his companion. It was in St. Louis, however, that Reuben first had met him, and there he had agreed to accompany Jean on his long journey to the Rockies, where they were to trap until late in the fall or early winter.

Their first plan had been to go to the upper waters of the Missouri River. When, however, they learned that several large trapping parties were also planning to go to the same country, Jean decided that their opportunities would be better and their chances of success much more if they should leave their companions, and set their traps among the hills or mountains farther south, where some of the smaller streams had their rise.

Jean was about thirty-eight or forty years of age. The muscles of his neck and shoulders indicated his great physical strength. His heavy chest and long arms were silent witnesses to the power of the Frenchman.

Nor was Reuben Benton a weakling. Slightly taller than his companion, he, too, had dark hair and black eyes, but the tint of his skin indicated that it was due more to the sun and winds he had encountered on his long journey from St. Louis than to its original colouring. His eyes were expressive of the kindness of his heart, and it was clear that Reuben was not one that easily lost his temper or self-possession. Perhaps it was for this reason that Jean, whose success as a hunter and trapper was well known, had urged the lad to accompany him. He himself was the possessor of neither of these two virtues. Indeed, Reuben had told him that "he was not so much a man who had a temper as he was a man whose temper had him."

The difficulties confronting the two men were many. The food they had brought was not sufficient to provide for their wants more than a few days, and for the greater part they must depend for supplies upon their own skill with their rifles. However, as game was plentiful in the region, neither was anxious concerning the outlook for their immediate future. They were much more fearful of the red-skinned Indians among the defiles of the mountains and of possible rivals whom they might encounter in their visits to their traps.

Of all the trappers that had gone forth that year they were the only ones who had ventured to start with only two in the party. Whether or not they were wise in their undertaking will be better understood as the story of their adventures is unfolded.

In a brief time after they had arrived at the spring their camp had been made, brush had been gathered for a fire, the horses had been hobbled, and Jean had taken his flint and tinder and after two quick attempts had started a fire in the dry brush. The sun was still well above the tops of the mountains, but darkness, when it fell, would come suddenly.

"I'm telling you," said Jean, "that we start on Friday. That is ver' mooch onlucky."

"Why is it unlucky?" laughed Reuben, who was not greatly moved by the superstitious fears of his companion. "Do you think we shall have trouble or that we shan't get any skins?"

"I fear ver' mooch the both things."

While Jean had been talking he had been preparing their simple supper. So engrossed was he in his occupation, as well as in the steady stream of talk he maintained, whether Reuben heeded his words or not, that he was unaware of what was occurring in the vicinity of the camp. It was plain that he had entrusted to his younger companion the guardianship of the camp, while he himself prepared their simple evening meal.

"Look out! Look out!" suddenly shouted Reuben.

At the words of his companion Jean leaped to his feet, grasped his rifle, which he had left upon the sand nearby, and hastily turned in the direction indicated by Reuben. In a brief time the sight which had aroused the younger trapper also stirred the older man.

Not far away a buffalo calf was running directly toward the camp, evidently exerting itself to the utmost of its strength. Behind it in swift pursuit were following two long, gaunt wolves.

"It is so scared," Reuben suggested, "that it probably has taken us for a herd of buffaloes."

The calf by this time had in all likelihood discovered its mistake, but with undiminished speed it was continuing on its way directly through the camp.

The wolves, however, swiftly moved in a circuit outside the camp, so that the fugitive secured a slight gain on its enemies, and in a moment was straining every nerve to reach a large herd which now could be seen at the foot of the hills not more than two miles away.

"Why didn't you shoot, Jean?" inquired Reuben.

The trapper shook his head as he replied, "No waste powder."

"It isn't wasting powder to shoot one of those wolves!" replied Reuben. "It's one of the best pieces of work you can do! Look yonder! It almost seems as if they had come up out of the ground. There's one, two, three, four, five more now that have joined the two already there."

In silence the two trappers watched the pursuit, and in a brief time they saw that the number of wolves had increased to twenty or more. Indeed, the helpless victim was overtaken long before it could find a refuge among its fellows. The little animal fell an easy prey to its savage pursuers and was half devoured even before it was dead.

"I wish I had shot heem," muttered Jean.

"If one of our horses had been saddled I would have helped out the little beggar. I wonder why it is that one always feels that he wants the weaker side to win?" inquired Reuben.

Jean shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply, and once more resumed his task over the fire. Silence rested over the region, for Reuben was caring for the horses while his friend was busy with his labours.

"I no think they fight mooch," said Jean in a low voice.

Reuben hastily glanced up at the words of his friend, as for a moment the flight of the buffalo calf had been forgotten. Looking in the direction indicated by Jean, he saw that four or five buffaloes had advanced from the herd, keeping well together, and were moving toward the pack of wolves that still were busy over what remained of the unfortunate calf.

"Perhaps they won't," responded Reuben, "but they are going to do something which is almost as bad."

Both men stood silent as they watched the herd. Although the animals were two miles distant, as has been said, in the clear air they seemed to be much nearer, and the entire herd was advancing in a body. Out from the ravine was coming a steadily increasing number of buffaloes. Soon the great herd, forming as if some one had been giving directions which they understood, began to move in such a manner that for a moment it appeared as if the prowling wolves would be surrounded. In a brief time, however, the savage animals were aware of the threatening danger, and with incredible speed fled from the region. The advancing buffaloes, however, did not halt when they saw their enemies disperse. Their speed steadily increased. The earth rumbled beneath the heavy tread of the myriad feet, producing a sound not unlike that of distant thunder.

An exclamation of dismay or fear from Jean caused Reuben to glance hastily at his companion; and it was plain that Jean was anxious or alarmed. Not many minutes elapsed, however, before Reuben understood the source of his friend's excitement and was sharing in his feeling of fear.

The great herd, moving now as if it was controlled by one motive, with steadily increasing speed was directly approaching the very place which the trappers had selected for their camping-place.




Chapter II -- In Pursuit Of A Herd


"Queek! Queek!" called Jean. "At once! Immediately!"

Whether or not it was the call of his excited companion that influenced Reuben, his pony was quickly bridled, and almost at the same time both men leaped upon the backs of their horses. In spite of the weariness of both men and beasts, in a brief time all were alike highly excited. The great rumbling mass was steadily approaching and the horses also were aware of the peril that threatened.

In Reuben's heart there was a thought that if he and his companion should fire at the buffaloes the course of the mighty herd might be diverted. Perhaps even the direction in which they were moving would be turned and they would then avoid the camp. The young trapper had heard many stories of men and horses that had been trampled beneath the feet of a frantic herd of buffaloes.

As the huge animals came nearer and a mighty bull was seen acting as an advance guard, Reuben glanced quickly at Jean to see whether or not he shared in his alarm. Nothing apparently would be able to stand in the way of the rush of the oncoming horde. It was a sight unlike any that Reuben ever had seen.

On, and still on, dashed the animals, moving almost as if the swaying mass was one huge creature. Neither Reuben nor Jean had as yet advanced from the camp, but both were waiting with loaded rifles, unable to discover just what the exact course of the fleeing herd was to be.

"How many are there?" inquired Reuben in a low voice.

"About seven hundred."

Reuben whistled, but made no further response. Two minutes elapsed without any change in the direction in which the buffaloes were going. Then Jean said quickly, "I shall go to one side. It ees good for you to wait. When you shoot you must hit a cow, that ees the only meat that one can eat. Il trouverait a tondre sur un oeuf."

Whenever Jean fell into the use of his native language Reuben was aware that his excitement was almost beyond control. What the words meant he had no conception, but an instant later he saw Jean dashing directly toward the approaching herd. His horse now apparently was as excited as its rider. The weariness of the long journey of the day was forgotten or ignored.

Without any definite plan, Reuben departed from the camp, moving in accordance with Jean's advice toward the rear of the animals. The great mass was now less than a half-mile distant, and as the two hunters separated and approached the herd, Reuben saw that they had come within three hundred yards before the presence of the two riders was discovered. Then there was a sudden agitation in the huge body. The band apparently wavered for a moment, and some of the bulls galloped to and fro along the borders of the herd, betraying the fact that the presence of enemies had been discovered.

The progress of the trappers, however, was not stayed. Riding steadily forward, they drew nearer the buffaloes. To Reuben the interest of the chase had now become so intense that all other things were ignored.

Suddenly the movements of the dense mass were changed. The body swerved in a semicircle and apparently was in swift flight for the foothills. Within a few seconds the entire herd had joined in the flight, a guard of bulls as usual bringing up the rear. Frequently some of them stopped, and faced about as if they intended to test the strength or learn the purpose of the men on horseback. In every case, however, the huge animals speedily turned and once more dashed after the band, only to stop again and gaze at the horsemen. Indeed, as the minutes passed, Reuben was persuaded that the animals were minded to stand and fight.

Whatever may have been the impulse, however, as the hunters increased the pace at which they were riding the confusion in the herd became more manifest. The buffaloes were moving over the ground now with increasing swiftness, while the rumbling and roaring became steadily louder as the speed increased.

Reuben, who had followed directions and was making for the rear of the herd, now lost sight of his companion. He had a momentary glimpse of Jean when he was about thirty yards from the border of the herd, dashing into its midst. He heard the loud shout of the Frenchman, "A beau jeu beau retour!" but as he did not understand any of the words he was ignorant of Jean's purpose. He saw the mass give way, and a half-dozen or more of the bulls, that were less fleet than the cows, turned to face the approaching hunter. Several of them, however, were thrown to the earth by the mass of maddened animals and rolled over and over upon the ground, hardly to be distinguished from the clouds of dust that now were settling all about them.

Aware that Jean's plan was, if possible, to separate one animal and pursue it until he had approached its side and then aim directly at its heart, Reuben became so interested that for a brief time he almost forgot the task which had been assigned him.

Recalled in a few moments, however, and aware that Jean no longer was to be seen, he shouted to his horse to increase its speed and soon was swiftly moving toward the rear. He saw one cow slightly separated from the mass, and in a moment he was pursuing her as swiftly as the wolves had followed the buffalo calf a little while before.

Steadily the young trapper gained upon his victim until at last his horse was alongside the animal he was seeking. Partly rising in his stirrups Reuben, when only a yard separated him from the buffalo, fired. The animal fell headlong at the discharge of the rifle, and then Reuben checked his horse and looked about him for his companion. Not far away he discovered Jean tying his horse to the head of a cow, which he was preparing to cut up.

Filled with the spirit of the chase, Reuben decided that he would try to secure another cow. As he swiftly advanced he heard a shout from Jean, "Le cout en ote le gout!" Still he did not understand what was said, and in his determination to secure another victim he did not heed the call, and soon was engaged in the mad pursuit of the flying herd.

Whether or not it was due to the weariness of the horse he was riding, or to the increased speed of the buffaloes, Reuben never knew, but at all events he was compelled to continue the pursuit for a long distance. Unaware of the passing time and unmindful of the fact that the sun now was disappearing below the western horizon, intent solely upon securing another buffalo, Reuben still followed in the chase. A thick cloud of dust filled his mouth and eyes and at times nearly smothered him. There were moments, too, when the herd was not to be seen, so concealed was it by the cloud which the hundreds of feet had stirred up in the desert.

He was aware also that the buffaloes were crowding more closely together, and the body was so compact that he was beginning to question whether or not he would be able to force an entrance and cut off any of the animals from the others. The dull and confused murmuring at times was as distinctly heard as was the noise of the many feet. Many times before Reuben had seen herds of buffaloes in the distance, but this had been the first time he had joined in a chase.

Jean had told him often of his own experiences in buffalo hunting, and in his own peculiar way had declared that "Indians and the buffalo provide the poetry and life of the prairie."

Whenever a discovery of a herd had been made Jean had insisted upon hunting alone. Even now Reuben could picture the excited Frenchman shouting to his horse, "Avance donc!" and cracking his whip to urge the fleet animal into its best paces. Often Reuben had shared in the feast that had followed, enjoying the tongues and steaks which his companion insisted were the only choice bits of meat that the buffalo provided. While these pieces were being roasted on sticks held over the fire, Reuben in a measure had been content because of the feast that was promised. Now, he himself was a buffalo hunter and already had secured one victim.

Unaware how far he was leaving his companion behind him, and ignorant of the direction in which he was moving as he followed the herd, Reuben still maintained the pursuit. He was unaware also of another change in the course of the animals. He had ridden near to the border of the terrified mass, but for some reason had been unable to penetrate it, or to separate one from the others.

As the herd swung to the right, Reuben found that he was being crowded by the animals, that apparently either were unaware of his presence or ignored their peril. He was ignorant of the fact that the herd was passing over dangerous ground. Many times in his long rides across the plains Reuben had passed through a prairie-dog village. The sight of the little creatures sitting erect upon their haunches, watching the approaching stranger on horseback, had become so common that he had given slight heed to the little animals. Nor had he once thought of them as a source of danger.

Still the flight and the pursuit were maintained. Several times the horse which Reuben was riding stumbled and nearly fell, but every time the pony was able to regain its foothold and dashed forward with undiminished speed.

Reuben was now aware that the animal he was riding was breathing heavily and doubtless was feeling the effect of its swift pace after the long ride of the day. As soon as he had secured the cow he desired -- for now the young trapper had selected the animal which he intended to shoot -- he decided that he would give his horse a long rest before he returned to the camp.

Suddenly one of the forefeet of his horse sank into a hole which the prairie-dogs had made. Glancing about him, Reuben saw that he was in the midst of a village of the little animals. With an effort he maintained his seat in the saddle, for he was an expert horseman, and an ordinary fall had little peril for him. This time, however, his horse was unable to regain its foothold. It stumbled and staggered several steps, and then with a groan sank to the ground.

As it fell, Reuben slipped from its back and leaped lightly to the ground. Advancing to the head of his horse, he seized the bridle and attempted to lift the animal to its feet. It was unable to rise, and a brief examination convinced the young trapper that the fall had broken its leg.

The thunder of the flying herd now sounded farther away. In the dim light Reuben saw that the buffaloes were still running swiftly and were headed for a valley or defile among the hills not far distant. Once there, doubtless they would be secure from attack.

His own predicament, however, was too appalling to enable Reuben long to think of the fleeing herd. He was miles distant from his companion, his horse had fallen with a broken leg, and night was upon him, while his perils doubtless would be greatly increased before morning came. For a moment the heart of the young hunter was heavy. A groan of his faithful pony recalled him to the necessity of action. There was no hope of restoring the suffering brute, and, advancing to its head, without hesitating a moment, Reuben fired at the heart of the panting, suffering animal. With scarcely a quiver the horse became still.

His own problem, however, was still unsolved, as Reuben now was fully aware. The cloud of dust in part had disappeared in the dim light. He looked all about him, but not a trace of Jean or the camp was he able to discover. He was alone on the trackless plains and by no means certain of the direction in which he had come or of the way in which he should go.




Chapter III -- Three Cheyennes


Reuben was aware that he was not far from the base of one of the highest mountains. As once more he looked up and peered intently in every direction, he was aware also that no one was within sight. The poor beast on which he had ridden was dead and there was no means by which the young trapper might return to the camp where he had left his friend. In the distance the herd of buffaloes still could be seen, a tiny mass moving across the plains in the dim light. Even while he was gazing at them they disappeared and were lost to sight among the foothills.

Reuben was aware that he had shot one cow, but where the animal had fallen or how far it was from the place where he now was standing he had no means of knowing. He looked behind him, but was unable to discover even his own trail in the sand. All traces had been destroyed by the hoof-prints of the mighty herd of fleeing animals.

In what direction had he come? Reuben was aware that in a general way he had followed the line of foothills, but it was plain to him now that the herd which he had pursued had not moved in a straight course. In and out over the uneven ground, the animals, frantic with fear, had fled for safety.

The young trapper was aware also that he was hungry, and yet he had no food. If he could secure the carcass of the buffalo cow he had shot his wants would be supplied. The light, however, was too dim to enable him to see far away, and even in clear daylight he was doubtful if he could see the body in the distance.

Again he tried to discover the fire or smoke of the camp which he and Jean had made. Not a trace of it, however, was to be seen. It was quite likely that the very fire itself had been scattered by the herd when they had dashed across the plains. The pack-horses, too, doubtless had fled, and Reuben shuddered as he thought what was likely to be their fate before the morning appeared. The pursuit of the buffalo calf by the gaunt, hungry wolves was only an indication of what might occur when the ponies, wearied by their efforts throughout the day, would be in no condition to escape from the attack of the savage animals.

For several minutes Reuben remained standing, slowly turning in his position until he had looked about the entire region. He listened intently, hoping that he might hear the sound of Jean's rifle. The oppressive silence of the great desert, however, was unbroken. Twinkling stars had appeared in the sky, the air was motionless, the solitude was almost appalling, and within a few minutes Reuben decided that he must take his rifle and saddle and proceed in the direction in which he thought the camp was located.

The boy, however, was now feeling the full force of the reaction after his strenuous day. Every muscle in his body seemed to be sore. He advanced with difficulty, and the saddle somehow appeared to be much heavier than when he had thrown it on the back of his pony.

It was impossible for him to think of remaining where he was. He was hungry as well as tired, and the fear of an attack by a pack of hungry wolves was more than a vague impression.

Suddenly Reuben saw the outline of three dim forms approaching on horseback. Startled by the unexpected sight, the boy remained motionless and waited for the strangers to come near him. The sight was not one to soothe the fears of the troubled young trapper, but he was convinced that his safest course was to await their coming.

Accustomed now to the dim light, not many minutes elapsed before the young man was able to see that the advancing party was composed, of three Indians. One of them was much smaller than his two companions and perhaps was a lad. Who they were or why they should be coming at that time he was unable to conjecture.

It was plain, however, that his presence had been discovered, for a slight divergence in the course the Indians were following showed that they were now approaching. In a brief time they drew near and one of them spoke. "How? How?" inquired the leader. At the same time he indicated, by extending his open hands, that no hostile action was intended.

Following their example, Reuben also held forth his hands in a way to indicate his peaceful intentions.

"Where go?" inquired the Indian that before had spoken.

"I want to find my camp," answered Reuben. He was relieved by his discovery that the three Indians were poorly mounted, the beasts which they were riding apparently being well-nigh exhausted. The smallest member of the party he now discovered was an Indian boy, perhaps fifteen years of age. It was manifest, too, that the spokesman was the only one able to speak English.

"Where go? Where go?" repeated the Indian.

"I want to find my camp," again answered Reuben. "I left my partner back yonder somewhere, while I went out to shoot buffaloes. My horse stumbled and fell in a prairie-dog village over here. The poor brute broke his leg and I had to shoot him. I thought I was not very far from camp, but I reckon now I am a good deal farther than I thought I was. Where are you going? Who are you?"

"Cheyenne," answered the Indian promptly. "We go home."

"How far do you go?" inquired Reuben.

The Indian held up three fingers of his right hand to indicate the distance which must be covered before they rejoined their tribe.

"Three miles!" said Reuben, startled by the suggestion.

The Indian laughed and, shaking his head, again held up his three fingers.

"Three hundred miles, you mean?" said Reuben.

The Indian nodded his head several times to indicate that the young white had spoken correctly. Plainly the words "hundred" and "miles" were not in his vocabulary.

Patting himself upon the chest, the Indian said: "Me Breaker of Arrows. Come to Pawnee country. Try to get Pawnee ponies."

"You mean you came out here to steal their horses?" inquired Reuben.

"No steal; take horses."

"How many did you get? It doesn't look as if you had had very great success. These ponies you are riding look as if they had been turned loose by the Pawnees. They aren't worth feeding."

"Pawnee heap coward!" said the Indian grimly. "Pawnee shut up horses in lodges at night."

"Did they find you?" inquired Reuben.

"No find. Breaker of Arrows, Cheyenne. Dark Night, no find," added the warrior, pointing to the boy as he spoke.

The third member of the party apparently was ignored.

"Where did you get these ponies?"

"Ponies wild. Get horses on plains."

"They look as if they were wild," said Reuben. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"No eat," replied the warrior; at least the man was posing as a warrior, although the only weapons the three Cheyennes carried were bows and arrows and one long spear, which was in the hands of the spokesman.

"I shot a buffalo cow."

"Where buffalo?" demanded the Cheyenne quickly.

"I wish I knew," replied Reuben lightly. "I am hungry and tired. I ought to have stopped when I shot one, for one was enough, but I kept on, thinking I would get another, and so I passed the place where the cow fell. If you can find it you will have something for supper, for I will be glad to share with you."

The Cheyenne turned and spoke in his own tongue to his companions. After a hasty conversation the spokesman once more turned to Reuben and by the aid of signs and a few words intimated his desire for the young trapper to remain where he then was while the Indians searched for the body of the fallen buffalo.

Somewhat suspicious that if the strangers should succeed in finding the dead animal they might not return, Reuben nevertheless agreed to the suggestion, at the same time striving to conceal his own fears.

At once the Indians departed after they had secured from Reuben his impressions of the direction in which they should go. The boy watched them until the outlines of their forms no longer could be seen in the dim light. It was plain to him that they were moving in parallel lines at a considerable distance from one another.

Casting his saddle upon the ground, Reuben stretched himself on the sand, using the saddle as a pillow. His rifle was loaded and placed beside him, and in a brief time the young trapper was sleeping soundly.

How long he had slept he was unable to decide when he was suddenly aroused from his slumber by the sound of approaching footsteps. Lifting his head but still retaining his position, Reuben peered in every direction to discover the approaching party. At first he was unable to see what had awakened him, but in a brief time he saw a man approaching on horseback. In a little while he was convinced that the man was an Indian, and if so doubtless was one of the party which he recently had seen. His impression was confirmed when in a low voice the approaching Indian spoke: "Find um buffalo."

"Where is it?" inquired Reuben.

The Indian did not reply, but alighted from his pony, for by this time he had drawn near the place where Reuben was standing, and bade him follow.

"Where are you going?" inquired Reuben.

Still the Indian did not explain, and after a brief hesitation Reuben decided to obey the suggestion.

Slowly the Cheyenne, who still was on the back of his pony, led the way toward the foothills that now seemed to be nearer than before. In a brief time the desired point was gained and there Reuben discovered the Indian boy who had been with him a little while before. The third Indian, however, was no longer to be seen, and no explanations were given for his absence, although Reuben asked several times where the other member of the party was.

Sheltered by a huge rocky boulder, the Indians soon kindled a fire and parts of the buffalo tongue and steaks which they had cut from the carcass were roasting on sticks held over the flames.

Conversation ceased until the repast was prepared and eaten. Then Reuben inquired: "Did you see anything of my friend?"

"No see. What do now?"

"Do you mean what I am going to do?" inquired Reuben. "Well, I wish some one would answer that question for me."

"Breaker of Arrows go home. Black Night come, too. White boy want to go with us?"

"No," answered Reuben, "I must stay here. I must find my friend."

Apparently his explanation satisfied his companions, for in a brief time they mounted their ponies and prepared to leave Reuben alone in the little valley or defile where the buffalo meat had been roasted.

It was impossible for Reuben to resume his search for Jean. In the place where he then was he was protected from sudden attacks and he decided to remain there and await the coming of the morning.

The night passed without any adventures, but when morning came the light revealed to Reuben a sight even more startling than that of the preceding evening, when the three Cheyennes had discovered him alone on the plains.




Chapter IV -- Rat True


In the light of the early morning Reuben saw a man on horseback approaching the place where he was standing. Behind him were two pack-horses, each heavily laden.

Convinced that the man was a stranger and that as yet he had not discovered the presence of any one besides himself in the defile, the first impulse that seized upon the young trapper was to seek some place of safety.

He waited, however, excitedly watching the stranger as he led the little procession up the narrow natural pathway. It soon was evident that the stranger was a white man, and, once convinced of that fact, Reuben's fears in a measure departed. What a man could be doing among the foothills of the Rockies, so far from companions and civilization, was something he was unable to conjecture. The bundles on the backs of the horses indicated that it might be possible that he had come with a purpose not unlike that which had drawn him and Jean to the region. At all events, he decided that he would not flee immediately. Hastily examining his rifle to make sure that it was ready for immediate use if occasion required, he awaited the coming of the man.

There was a slight bend in the valley, which for a moment hid the approaching stranger from sight. As soon as the man turned the bend, however, he discovered Reuben before him, and instantly stopped, grasped his rifle, and gazed intently at the unexpected sight.

"Who are you?" demanded the stranger.

"I was just going to ask you that question myself," replied Reuben, laughing in a manner that served to allay much of the suspicions of the newcomer.

"My name is Rat True. Now that I have told you that much," said the stranger, "tell me who you are."

"My name is Reuben Benton," acknowledged the young trapper.

"Good name," said the other man, laughing boisterously. Now that he had discovered that apparently there was only one man approaching, Reuben's confidence in his own ability to protect himself returned in full measure.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Rat.

"Trying to get out."

"Where did you come from?"

"Last night I came from the plains. I was chasing a buffalo herd and my horse fell in a prairie-dog village and broke his leg. I had to shoot him."

"You weren't alone, were you?"

"No."

"Who was with you?"

"Three Cheyennes came to join me for a little while, but then they went on, so I was left alone."

"Yes, but who was with you before the redskins?"

"Jean Badeau."

"Who's he?"

"A trapper."

"He's a trapper, is he? Well, has he ever tried it before?"

"Yes."

"Where did he sell his skins?"

"Sometimes he took them to the trading-post and sometimes he took them to Pain Court."

"Are you and he the only men here?"

"Yes," answered Reuben with a laugh. "And he isn't here now. At least I can't find him."

"Where did you leave him?"

"I can't even find the place where I left him. You see, as I told you, I started out last night to shoot one or two buffaloes. I got one and then I chased along after another, but I think I must have gone farther than I knew, for I couldn't find my way back before dark."

"Do you think that you can find it now that it is light?"

"I don't know," replied Reuben dubiously. As he spoke he glanced in the direction in which it seemed to him the place where he had left Jean must lie.

"I don't mind telling you," began the stranger, "that I'm a trapper myself."

"Have you ever been here before?"

The man, who was at least six feet three inches tall, and large in every way, threw back his head and emitted a laugh that was proportionate to the size of his body.

"'Have I been here before?'" repeated the stranger. "Well, just a little. Last year I took in over one thousand beaver skins. I shot more than two hundred buffaloes. I hugged a grizzly bear until he yelled for mercy. I killed two Utes with one bullet."

Reuben was looking intently at the stranger as he spoke and was inclined to believe that he was telling the truth. It was plain that the newcomer was a man of great physical strength, and his exploits, which he described in a loud voice, were not altogether improbable. At all events, the boy decided that the man was in nowise bashful, whatever his other faults might be.

"Yes, sir," continued Rat. "I guess if you were to ask the redskins about me there aren't many of them that can't tell you who I am. I've fought them single-handed and alone, and then, again, I've fought them when there were hundreds of them together. I thought at first I would go up along the Oregon this trip, but I soon decided that too many others would be there, too. I don't like company. That's the reason I wasn't very much pleased when I first saw you here."

"Do you own this country out here?" inquired Reuben soberly.

"I can't just say as how I own it," laughed the giant, "but there aren't many who will dispute what I claim. Where did you say your friend is?"

"I didn't say. That's just what I want to know."

"Well, what are you planning to do?"

"The first thing I have got to do is to find Jean. Then I suppose we'll start pretty soon for the place where we are going to begin our trapping."

"I hope you don't trespass on any of my territory."

Reuben did not respond to the suggestion, and a moment later the newcomer said: "Have you had your breakfast yet?"

"Not yet," replied Reuben. "I was just going to have it."

"What have you got to eat?"

"Buffalo tongue and some strips of steak."

"Good! That's mighty good! I'll help you get ready," said the giant. "I'll do you a good turn even if I shan't let you trap along the streams what I preempt for myself."

Acting upon his suggestion the trapper dismounted and removed the saddle from the horse he was riding. The pack-laden animals, however, he did not relieve in the same way.

"I'm thinkin' I'll stay here and help you with your breakfast," he repeated.

Reuben, who at once had begun to make preparations for the morning meal, was unable to see for a time, at least, where the "help" of his uninvited visitor was shown. As soon, however, as the pieces of buffalo meat had been cooked and the repast was ready, Reuben discovered how capable the giant was to "help" in disposing of the food which he had provided. Indeed, Rat was increasingly free with his advice and directions as to what Reuben should do, and for several reasons the boy did not refuse to obey, or even to follow, any of the proffered suggestions.

When at last the food had disappeared, the giant remarked: "Then you think you will look up your camp, do you?"

"I want to look up Jean."

"Well, isn't that the same thing? I'll tell you what I'll do. You have been good to me and given me a bite, now I'll take the pack off of one o' the ponies and let you saddle it, and then we'll go out and look for your friend. I hope he really is somewhere," added Rat, suspiciously.

"He was, the last I knew," laughed Reuben.

In a brief time the suggestion of Rat had been followed, and after Reuben had carefully adjusted his saddle to the pony of his companion they decided to leave the remaining pony in the defile while they set forth on their search for the missing Jean.

Still Rat was loquacious. Apparently it made little difference whether or not Reuben replied or even listened to what he was saying. "You asked me a spell ago did I own these streams out here where I'm trapping. I told you I didn't know as I did, but I likewise remarked that no one else had been putting in no claim for them. I don't think many of them are likely to, not while I'm 'round."

"There aren't likely to be any here, are there?" remarked Reuben.

"You're here, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, isn't the other fellow that was with you? Isn't he here?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," laughed Reuben.

"So am I," roared the giant. "If you're here, it may be somebody else will be here, too. Now, let me tell you that there isn't anybody in creation what is going to set traps along the same streams where I set mine."

"How will you stop it?" inquired Reuben.

"Do you see that?" inquired the giant as he held up for Reuben's inspection an immense fist. "With that bunch of bones I have knocked down an ox. If anything happens to that fist, then I have got something else to fall back upon," and with a loud laugh the giant held up his rifle. "And if worst comes to worst," he continued, "I have got something in my belt here that will help take care of me."

As he spoke he drew from his belt a long, slim, sharply pointed piece of steel, which he explained had once been a bayonet, but by repeated filings had been reduced to its present shape and size. That it was a dangerous weapon Reuben instantly understood.

"That time I was hugging that grizzly," resumed Rat, "or, rather, that time when he was hugging me, do you know I just tickled his ribs with that instrument?"

"Did he like it?" inquired Reuben.

"He didn't live long enough to say. There was a grin on his face though when he doubled over, so I guess he didn't feel so bad as he made out, though he was pretty dead when I left him."

"What do you mean by 'pretty dead?'"

"Dead as a door-nail."

"But when one is dead he can't be any deader, can he?" persisted Reuben.

"I don't know about that. That bear didn't look as if he was dead, but he was. Now, suppose I had blown him all to pieces, and couldn't find as much as a nail or a tooth left, I guess he would be deader then than he was when he just had my knife in between his ribs. Where did you say this fellow came from?"

"What fellow?"

"Why this man that you were with -- this fellow Jean."

"Pain Court."

"Is that where you belong?"

"Yes."

"Ever heard o' Kit Carson?"

"I have that!" said Reuben eagerly. "I know him. I have seen him."

"How long ago?"

"He was there early in the summer not long before we left. Indeed, he wanted us to go with him."

"Why didn't you?" remarked Rat. His eyes, which were unnaturally small, contracted as he spoke, until the expression startled the young trapper.

"Because Jean thought we would do better not to go with a crowd, but to go off by ourselves."

"That Jean of yours is a fool."

"But I thought that is what you yourself said," suggested Reuben, "and that you wanted to trap alone and not with a good many others."

"There's a mighty sight o' difference when I say it and when this friend o' yours says it."

"What's the difference?"

"Look here, my friend," said Rat, turning sharply upon his companion. "There are better men than you got into trouble from asking too many questions."

"But you asked a good many questions of me."

"Did I get into any trouble by askin' 'em?" demanded Rat, as he laughed loudly.

"Not yet."

"What do you mean by 'not yet?'"

"Oh, nothing."

By this time the two men had proceeded far from the place from which they had started, and still Reuben was unable to recognize any signs of the locality where he and Jean had prepared to make their camp the preceding night.

Suddenly, however, he abruptly halted and, pointing toward a spot not far away, he excitedly demanded: "What's that? What do you make of that?"




Chapter V -- The Fame Of The Trapper


In response to Reuben's startling questions both men halted and looked keenly in the direction in which he was pointing.

"Is that where your camp was?" inquired Rat.

"It looks like it," replied Reuben quietly as he hastened toward the spot he had discovered on the plains. Both were silent until they arrived at the place they were seeking. Then, after a hasty inspection, Reuben said quickly: "This is where Jean and I camped last night."

"Are you sure?"

"I know it is," said Reuben positively after further investigation.

"Where is your friend now?"

"That's what I should like to know, myself," responded Reuben, as he peered intently about him in all directions.

"What are you going to do about it?" inquired Rat after a brief silence.

"It's strange where Jean could have gone," said Reuben slowly, almost as if he was unconscious of the presence of his companion. "He isn't a man likely to be drawn into trouble. I have been wondering if the redskins got him."

"If they did they carried him off."

"But there are no signs of any scuffle," protested Reuben, as once more he examined the ground around where the fire had been.

"He may not have put up any fight."

"You don't know Jean," said Reuben positively. "It's strange. The ponies are gone. There isn't a sign of the packs, and Jean isn't to be seen anywhere."

"What are you goin' to do about it?" repeated Rat. "You know I can't stay here forever. I've got to look after my own job. I usually find that if I ever have anything or get anything done it is because Rat True looks after it. Ever noticed that, boy?"

"I wonder where Jean can be," repeated Reuben, almost as if he had not heard the inquiry of the giant.

"Maybe if you stay here long enough he will show up. That's what my father used to tell me about the cows. He told me if I would take my milkin' pail and go out and sit down in the middle of the pasture, pretty soon the cows would all come up and ask me to milk them. So I'm thinkin' it may be a good thing for you to sit down here, and perhaps your friend, if there is such a friend, will come back."

"What do you mean?" demanded Reuben quickly, as he turned and faced his companion. "Don't you think Jean was here?"

"That's what you say; I have your word for it."

Reuben's cheeks slowly flushed, but he wisely controlled his anger and did not respond to the implied unbelief of the huge Rat.

"I told you I couldn't stay here all day," continued Rat. "Now will you go back with me to the place where we started, or do you want to go on alone? I shan't let you have that pony if you don't go back with me, and if you do go I want you to understand right now that we part company when we get back to the gorge."

Still Reuben did not respond to the rough declaration, for he was yet uncertain what his best course would be.

"Come, make up your mind," called Rat, as he turned his horse about so that he faced the direction from which they had come.

"I'm going back with you," said Reuben quietly.

"All right, then, come along."

Together the two men departed from the camp, but they had not gone far before Rat insisted upon drawing his young companion into conversation.

"You was tellin' about Kit Carson a spell ago," he suggested.

"Yes."

"Well, what about him? What is his name anyway? What does 'Kit' stand for?"

"Christopher."

"And they call him Kit for short?"

"Yes."

"Same as they call me Rat instead of Erastus."

"I didn't know but Rat was your real name," said Reuben.

"It is," laughed Rat, "only it isn't all there is of it when my mother speaks to me. Speaking of Kit Carson, you say you have seen him?"

"Lots of times."

"Did you ever talk to him?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about him."

Instantly Reuben's face lighted and it was evident that the request of his companion was one that touched a responsive chord.

"He's the greatest man I ever saw," he declared enthusiastically.

"The biggest?"

"No, I didn't say biggest, I said greatest."

"What's the difference?" roared Rat.

"I cannot explain it to you," said Reuben truthfully, for his feeling toward the boastful Erastus was rapidly becoming one of disgust. The man was so blatant and boastful that the reaction had taken place which led Reuben to believe that he was not all that he claimed to be.

"Where did he come from?" inquired Rat.

"He told me he was born in Kentucky, but that his father moved to the backwoods of Missouri when Kit was a little fellow."

"How old is he?"

"I don't know. I think he is about twenty-five or six."

"Quite an old man, isn't he?" laughed Rat. "Do you think he could throw me?"

"Yes," said Reuben quietly.

"That's a good one!" roared Rat. "I could take him in my hands and crack him the way I would a stick. I am told he is a little fellow."

"Yes, he isn't very large," acknowledged Reuben. "He isn't much taller than I am, and he is light. His voice is as soft as a girl's. Any one might think when he first saw him that he was the most peaceful fellow in the county."

"Isn't he?"

"He never picks a quarrel, but anybody who picked a quarrel with him would wish that he had grabbed a grizzly instead of the quiet, peaceable little Kit Carson."

"Tell me some more about him," suggested Rat.

"I don't know that I know very much. I have talked with him and asked him a good many times to tell me about his adventures, but he is very modest."

"Your modest men are always cowards. They don't say anything, because they are afraid."

"It's plain you don't know Kit Carson. He told me that when he was fifteen years old his father 'prenticed him to a harness-maker. That was a good trade, but such a quick, nimble fellow as Kit couldn't work at it very long. He did stay his full two years, though, and learned the trade, but when his time was out he decided that he would become a trapper. That was what he had always wanted to be. He told me that when he was a little fellow one of the trappers that had come in with his skins let him pull the trigger of his gun. That was the first time Kit had ever fired a rifle, but he wanted to keep at it, he liked it so well, and pretty soon he not only learned to shoot, but he became the best shot in the neighbourhood. The Indians all liked him and they told him a great many things about the woods and the animals that live there. You see, when his father first went into Howard County all the settlers had to live in a log fort for a while, that had guards on the lookout for the Indians day and night. That was a part of Kit's work when he was a little chap. He got so that he knew the war-whoops of every tribe and almost every redskin. My father used to say that if Kit Carson did so well in his harness-making, which he didn't like, he wondered what he would do when he found some work that he enjoyed."

"Did he go to trapping right away?"

"He was on the lookout all the time, and pretty soon he went to the leader of a party that was going to start for Santa Fe. You see, then there were no trails marked out over the plains. That was a good while ago -- in 1826."

"And I wish there wasn't any now," suggested Rat. "In those days they tried to hide the trails, and now they try to make 'em plain. The redskins know every time a party starts with their traps, and wherever you find game you find Indians there, too."

"Yes. Kit Carson told me some stories of how parties of Indians surrounded the trappers or traders and took their guns and horses away from them and either tomahawked the men or left them to starve. But every man in Kit Carson's party was well armed, had a good horse, and was up to all the tricks of the Indians. I have seen them start out, every man wearing a deerskin suit, and some of the men all dressed up with bead embroidery, and the fringes of their shirts dyed half a dozen different colours. They had pack mules to carry the traps, and when they all started they marched in Indian fashion, single file. They took turns in going ahead, for the ones that went first had to break the way for the others. Then, there was a bugler at the head of the line. If any of the men strayed away while they were hunting, the bugle was to let them know where the main line was."

"That's all very pretty," said Rat. "I have heard a good many stories about Kit Carson, but I'm wonderin' if he has any nerve."

"I know he has," said Reuben quickly. "On that first trip one of the men in the party had an accident. He shot himself in the arm. Pretty soon the others decided that the only way for the poor chap to save his life was to have his arm cut off. I don't know whether or not Kit Carson did the job, but I know that he helped. They used a razor, a saw, and a redhot wagon-bolt."

"Did the man get over it?" demanded Rat boisterously.

"Yes. And he kept on with the others. He forded the rivers and climbed the mountains and followed along an Indian trail, over the track that the buffaloes had made, and never once dropped behind. When the party finally got to Santa Fe Kit Carson decided that he would not go back to Missouri, so he pushed on alone to Taos. That was eighty miles from Santa Fe. You know that is a trading station for trappers?"

"So I have heard," assented Rat.

"Well, there wasn't much in that place for Kit. He said the little, narrow streets had mud huts along their sides and that water was pretty scarce, but he always liked Taos, because it was there that he met Kincade."

"Who's he?"

"Didn't you ever hear of Kincade? Why, he was one of the biggest trappers that ever got a skin in the Rocky Mountains. He knew all about the wild beasts and the places where the beaver dams were, and he knew where the Indians that troubled the trappers were likely to be found."

"He knew a lot, didn't he?" laughed Rat.

"Yes, he did. Kit Carson says he did. But what he liked best of all was that he knew Spanish, and he taught Kit how to speak it. He stayed there until spring, and then he decided that he would go back home and start out trapping on his own account. So he joined a party of trappers that were going East and started to go home, but he hadn't gone halfway across the prairies before he met some more trappers that were on their way to Santa Fe, and what they said to him made him change his plans."




Chapter VI -- Alone


"What did he do then?" inquired Rat, who, for some reason which Reuben did not understand, appeared to be intensely interested in the life of the scout who had already become famous throughout the West.

"Why, they offered him a chance to go back with them, and be their hunter, so he joined the new party. He told me, though, that he didn't find any fun in his work. A good deal of the time he was driving a team, and that was the last thing in the world he wanted to do."

"I suppose he wanted to shoot buffaloes and hunt Indians?"

"That's exactly what he wanted to do. He didn't give up his plan, though, all that winter he was a cook for a man named Young, who had made a lot of money trapping. Kit said that was the worst winter he ever had. Sometimes he used to chase the rats out of the corn-bin and then he would say to himself, 'Here are poor Kit Carson's buffaloes.' When the winter was gone he still did not find any party of trappers that was willing that he should join them. You see he was such a slight, little fellow, and, as I told you, his voice was so soft and his manner was so gentle, that the men all thought he would not be able to stand the work and they would have a sick man on their hands.

"In the spring he made up his mind to go back home again. But that time, too, he met a party that was on its way to Santa Fe. They offered him a job which he took and went back with them. Finally he did find something worth doing. He went down into Mexico as an interpreter for a lot of men that were going to Chihuahua. When he got there he hired out again as a teamster for a man who was going to the copper mines. But he didn't really get his chance to begin his scouting and trapping until he came back to Taos. He had become so used to seeing parties of trappers start off without him that when at last this Mr. Young, the man for whom he had been working, told him that he could join a party he was sending out, he took up with the offer right away. The man that hired him knew that he wasn't afraid of anything on earth."

"Ho!" snorted Rat, breaking in upon the narrative. "I guess he wouldn't have felt that way if he had seen me. What do you suppose a little fellow like Kit Carson would do if a man like me got after him?"

"I'd feel sorry for you, if you tried to go 'after him.'"

"That's a good un! That's a good un!" roared Rat. "Do you think he could run away from me?"

"I don't think he would try."

"Well, if he didn't run and I once got my hands on him I would break his back as easily as I would a stick."

Reuben smiled and did not reply to the boastings of the braggart.

"How many men were in this party you are telling about?" demanded Rat.

"About forty."

"How old was Kit then?"

"About twenty."

"Ho, ho!" roared Rat again. "And yet you say he wasn't afraid of anything on earth? How do you know he wasn't? Because he told you so?"

Still Reuben refused to make any explanations to his companion. He was aware that Rat was deeply interested, although the cause of his interest was not yet apparent.

"Probably your wonderful Kit," suggested Rat, "caught more beaver, shot and scalped more redskins, killed more deer and buffalo than any other man in the band."

"I don't know about that. He never told me. He wasn't the one that told about these other things, either. He did say that scouts were always sent ahead of the men to find out whether any Indians were near. Every night they had guards for the camp."

"They didn't find any Indians, did they?"

"Not until they came to Salt River. There they found they were likely to be attacked by the same redskins that had killed the last party of trappers that had been there."

"This time I suppose Kit single-handed killed every one o' them?"

"I don't know; I suppose he did his part. This Mr. Young played a trick on the Indians."

"What did he do?"

"Why, he sent a few men ahead and hid the rest of them among the bushes and trees, and then when the Indians saw the little party they did not know there were any others, so they chased them clear back into the woods. When they came close to the place where the men were hiding the trappers all fired their rifles."

"And killed all the redskins?" laughed Rat.

"Kit Carson said they killed fifteen. Then the Indians ran and never once attacked them again. They did steal their ponies and traps, but they didn't make any more attacks on them. By the time the men had reached the headwaters of the San Francisco River they had so many beaver skins that Mr. Young sent some of the men back to Taos. He kept some of the best ones, though, to go on with him into California."

"I suppose he kept Kit Carson, of course?"

"Yes, sir, he did. It was a terrible time they had, too. There weren't many trails and they couldn't find much grass for the horses, or water for any one, or even wood enough to make a fire. Out there on the desert there weren't any buffaloes or deer, but there were enemies that were a good deal more dangerous than either of them."

"What were they?"

"Hunger and thirst. The men had a little deer meat and some water bags they had made of deerskin, and Kit said they were mighty careful every day when they measured out the water and divided up the meat. When they had been out four days, all at once the donkeys stretched out their necks and began to run. Everybody knew what that meant."

"What did it mean?"

"Why, they had sniffed water somewhere. Pretty soon they came to a stream. Kit said he never had anything in his life taste as good as that water. It didn't seem as if they could get enough. The men rested up a while and then started on again across the desert. On the fourth day they came to Colorado. There they stopped to rest and to cook an old horse which they had bought off the Indians."

"Pretty fine feast," laughed Rat. "Cold water and horse meat! Which did they take first -- the water or the horse meat?"

"I don't know. What difference does it make?"

"Why, I know a man back East who lives on dried apples. He has dried apples for breakfast, cold water for dinner, and swells up for supper. Perhaps the horse meat served in the same way."

"By and by they came to a mission down in the San Gabriel Valley. The priests had taught the Indians there how to make farms. There was everything one wanted to eat."

"What did they do? Help themselves?"

"No, they didn't. They paid for what they took."

"That's a good un," laughed Rat.

"They did, for Kit Carson told me so. He said he paid four butcher's knives for a steer."

"He might just as well bought the steer without handing over the butcher's knives."

"Anyway, the trappers had a good time there. They found lots of beaver and the men had enough to eat and drink. When the warm weather came they went into camp down on the lower Sacramento. They had enough to do, hunting deer and antelope. Kit Carson then was the best shot in the whole band. All the men had somehow come to rely upon him."

"Did he say so?"

"No, sir, he didn't. He never told me about it, but some other men who were with him told me, and they said he was the one man the Indians were afraid of."

"That's a good un, too," laughed Rat.

"Well, the men thought so," retorted Reuben angrily. "One of the priests came over and told Mr. Young how some bad Indians had gone over to an Indian village and wouldn't come out. The priests wanted some of Mr. Young's men to get the runaways. Of course the men said they would, and they said right away that Kit would have to be their leader. So Kit took the men over to the village and told the Indians they must give up the men for whom they had come, but the big chief said they wouldn't do any such thing."

"So they had a fight, did they?"

"Yes, they did."

"And all the redskins were killed?"

"No, not all of them, but they lost so many that they gave up the bad Indians. One night not long afterward a lot of Indians came into the camp of the trappers and made off with sixty horses. Kit said most of the men were angrier to have their horses stolen than they were to have some of the men shot. They were mad through and through, and pretty soon twelve of them, with Kit Carson at their head, started after the thieves. They had a long ride across the mountains and through the valleys, and for a long time they couldn't find any signs of the men they were after. They went more than one hundred miles before they caught up with them."

"Then Kit Carson shot every one of them, I suppose?"

"No, he didn't. He found the Indians in camp, cooking and eating horse meat. Without stopping a minute, Kit called to his men, and they started straight for the camp. They shot eight the first time, and all the rest made for the woods."

"But they didn't get away because Kit Carson chased them into the forest and got them all?"

"No, he didn't; he told the men to get all the horses that had been stolen, and then they started straight back for camp. They were lucky to find some one who bought all their beaver skins. When the summer was over they all started back home, but they kept trapping all the way along. They made a lot of money, and every one got a share. He said he didn't know what to do with the money."

"Probably he found somebody to tell him?" laughed Rat.

"Yes, he did. He said he got into all sorts of bad ways that winter. I don't suppose he was doing anything different from the rest of them, but Kit Carson isn't the kind of a man that could ever find much fun in drinking and gambling. That was about all the other men seemed to care for."

"He must be a wonderful man. I think I must try to see him some time. He wouldn't scare me, would he?"

"No," replied Reuben seriously. "I told you he is as gentle as a girl."

"I am glad," laughed Rat. As he spoke he extended his huge arm, and as he clinched his hand Reuben was almost convinced that even Kit Carson would be powerless in its grasp.

"There's our camp," suggested Rat, as he pointed to the defile in the distance. "There I have got to leave you, if you won't go on with me."

"No, I have got to find Jean."

Not long after their arrival, Erastus True, as soon as he had packed his belongings on the backs of his ponies, bade farewell to Reuben and started on his lonely journey northward.

Reuben had his rifle, his bags of powder and shot, and a saddle and bridle. His pony was dead, but he was hopeful that soon he would find the missing Jean, and then all his troubles would be ended.




Chapter VII -- Mountain Trout


It was not until he was left alone that the full sense of his difficulties came upon Reuben Benton. He watched his recent companion as leading his little train he slowly passed to the north and soon was hidden from sight among the foothills. He might have gone with him, although the man had not been cordial in his suggestion, but the chief barrier was that Reuben had taken an intense dislike to the boastful man. Not the least of the grounds for his prejudice was the ridicule which the giant had heaped upon Reuben's hero, Kit Carson. For a moment, however, Reuben almost wished that he, too, had gone with the man, much as he disliked him. At least he would be certain to go somewhere, and now he did not even know what fate had overtaken Jean Badeau. As yet no suspicion had occurred to him that any serious misfortune had befallen the trapper. Indeed, Reuben was inclined to be angry with the man for having departed without awaiting his return.

He thought, too, of Kit Carson, and the band which he had led into the defiles of the Rocky Mountains on their trapping expedition. He had been eager to join that party, but the same opposition greeted him which years before had been faced by Kit Carson himself. The men were afraid that he was not sufficiently strong to endure the hardships of the long journey and the trying winter that was certain to come. For that reason Reuben had accepted the invitation of Jean to go with him.

Jean did not wish to trap with a band, as we know. And yet he did not plan to be entirely alone. His own thought had been that if Reuben should accompany him, at least he would provide company, and if evil befell him he would not be bereft of all help.

And Reuben had listened to the appeals of Jean, not only because of his eagerness to become a trapper, but also because he was compelled to choose between being bound out to some of the Missouri pioneers or else to learn the harness trade, as Kit Carson had learned it before him.

Reuben's father, a ne'er-do-well, had urged Reuben to accompany his older brother William when he had migrated from Virginia to find a new home in the rich lands of western Missouri. Reuben had been treated with a degree of kindness by his older brother, but his brother's wife objected to his remaining longer a member of the household. She now had six children of her own to care for, and the addition of another dependent had become somewhat irksome. She was a worn, nervous, scolding, irritable woman, and Reuben, after a long talk with his brother, had decided that it was wiser as well as better for him to find a home somewhere else.

It was soon after this decision had been made that the homeless lad had met Jean, who had returned from his annual trip to the fur country. And Jean had not found it difficult to persuade Reuben to accompany him. There were visions held out before him of the great wealth that was to be obtained by trapping, and the adventures which Jean graphically described with many gestures also had their own appeal for Reuben. He was now a well-grown boy of sixteen, strong, skilled in the use of the rifle, and he confidently believed that he was equal to any of the hardships which an ordinary party of trappers might be compelled to undergo.

Not much time was required in preparations for the journey. Reuben's rifle, a few traps, most of which were unreliable, and a few other belongings were collected. A pony was provided by Jean, and when he set forth from Pain Court, aside from his brother William, there was slight regret in his heart for any one he was leaving behind him.

The long journey had been made with but few mishaps. They were now within sight of the land of promise, but on the very border he had lost his companion. And yet, as has been said, Reuben was by no means convinced that Jean was lost. He was inclined to believe that Jean had left him, either expecting to return or that the boy would soon find him. Perhaps he had seen the Indians whom Reuben had met and was fearful of their evil intentions. They might be only the scouts of a large band not far away.

The thought for a moment made even Reuben uneasy and he glanced apprehensively about him. The noisy little mountain brook not far away made the only sound he could hear. Above him in the sunlight towered the summits of the lofty mountains. Trees and grass were about him, and no scene upon which he had ever looked had been more peaceful in its outward appearance.

It was now late in the afternoon. Reuben was aware that he was not only tired, but also hungry. It was necessary for him to obtain something to eat, although he was uncertain where food was to be found. That, like certain other disagreeable facts, however, must be faced.

Near the little brook he suddenly saw a deer approaching from the upper part of the gorge. A moment later he was aware that it was a doe leading her fawn to the brook for a drink. Reuben, who had been seated motionless, had not been discovered by the timid creatures, and as the wind was blowing toward the valley below him the keen-scented animals had not noticed his presence.

Here was his supper sent directly to him!

The sight of the graceful little fawn, however, caused Reuben to hesitate. He hated to shoot the pretty little creature. He watched the fawn as it glanced up into its mother's face with an expression that was as filled with affection as that which he had seen sometimes in the face of a child. Already he had raised his rifle to his shoulder, but for some reason he did not shoot. The sudden loosening of a stone by his foot produced a sound which made the two animals look quickly in his direction, and instantly he was aware that he had been discovered. For a moment the doe anxiously gazed at the intruder, and then like a flash she was gone, followed by the fawn. The supper which had come to him almost miraculously was lost, and for a moment Reuben was inclined to blame himself for yielding to his feeling of sympathy for the fawn.

And yet what was he to do for his supper? Carelessly he advanced to the border of the brook and looked with interest at the hoof-prints of the doe and the fawn. He was aware that there were occasional pools in the little stream, and as he glanced into one he had a momentary vision of a fish darting under the shadow of the overhanging bank. Reuben had never heard of mountain trout, but the sight of the fish instantly suggested a plan by which he might be able to obtain his supper.

A few yards below the place where he was standing the stream narrowed until it was not more than two feet wide. Quickly he rolled some of the loose stones to the place so that when they fell into the water they served as a barrier in the stream. When a half-dozen stones had been placed in the narrow neck of water Reuben cut a good sized club, and, going up the stream a short distance, stepped into the water. As he advanced he shouted and struck the water and was positive that several times he saw fish dart swiftly down the stream before him. Proceeding cautiously and using his club all the time, he soon drew near the dam he had made. As he did so he began to leap up and down in the water and shout and strike the bank as well as the stream with his club.

The hungry boy was delighted when a few moments later a fish, finding its progress barred in either direction, leaped out of the water. Reuben succeeded in striking it with the club he was carrying, and watched it as it fell on the ground several feet away from the stream. If there was one fish in the water, he concluded there must be others, and quickly he repeated his tactics. After two failures he succeeded in obtaining another fish, and finally threw the third up on the bank. The last was larger than the other two combined.

Again the problem of his supper had been solved. He soon secured the three fish he had taken and, returning to the spot where he had left his belongings, he at once made them ready for cooking. Afterward he collected a mass of branches which had fallen from the nearby trees and was preparing to kindle a fire.

In the midst of his occupation he abruptly stopped. Should he light a fire? It is true it might not only provide a means of cooking the fish, but also indicate to Jean, who could not be far away, the presence of his camp. On the other hand, the Indians he recently had seen had told him that many more redmen were among the mountains. They, too, might see the fire and might steal upon him unaware.

The feeling of hunger, however, was so strong that Reuben soon decided in favour of a fire. Disregarding the danger, by means of his flint and tinder he soon started a roaring blaze. He had made a rude little fireplace by piling some of the stones in such a manner that the top was covered. On this top he placed a large, flat stone, and upon this he laid two of the trout.

It was not long before Reuben had a supper not only "fit for a king," but such a supper as a king is seldom permitted to enjoy. It is true all the salt which he and Jean had brought had been in the saddlebags of the trapper, but the mountain trout were delicious even without salt.

By the time Reuben's supper was eaten he was aware that the brief sunset was nearly ended. Much of his anxiety had now departed and he was quite content, as he said to himself, to let Jean do the searching. He seated himself upon the ground, leaning back against the trunk of a huge tree, and as he listened to the music of the noisy little brook and watched the scurrying clouds pass across the evening sky he was even more decided that Jean might find him if he should search diligently.

Not long after the coming of the night, however, this feeling of confidence gave place to one of loneliness. Indeed, the consciousness that he was alone soon became oppressive. He recalled the sight of the pack of gaunt and hungry wolves that had run down the buffalo calf. Perhaps they would be glad to feast upon a young trapper for supper, just as he himself had feasted upon the trout he had taken from the mountain stream. Aroused by the suggestion, Reuben started to his feet and made a tour of his camp. Although he walked one hundred yards in every direction, he was unable to discover any signs of danger. When he returned to his camp the fire had burned low, but it was plain that everything was as he had left it. His troubles might wait until morning, he finally decided, and not long afterward, stretching himself upon his blanket, he was sleeping soundly.

It was daylight when he awoke, and as soon as consciousness returned Reuben was aware that he had been awakened by sounds that even now he could still hear in the distance.




Chapter VIII -- An Unexpected Meeting


At first Reuben was unable to decide whether the noises that came into the narrow valley were the howlings of wolves or the yelpings of dogs. Startled by the unexpected sound, he hastily seized his rifle and, taking his stand behind one of the huge boulders, awaited developments.

In a brief time he saw, plunging up the narrow defile, a wounded buffalo cow. Only one glance was required to show the young trapper that the animal had been hurt, for she was limping badly, though her flight was not slow in spite of her trouble.

In a brief time it was manifest that the sounds that came from beyond were the yelpings of several dogs that were in pursuit of the fleeing buffalo. How dogs could be there, far from the habitation or the camps of man, was a problem Reuben was unable to solve. The sight, however, of the fleeing animal recalled to him the possibility of securing breakfast. As the buffalo came near, he raised his rifle and fired at her.

The buffalo was under such momentum that, although the shot had been true, she plunged forward several yards before she fell to the ground. Running hastily to the spot, Reuben quickly saw that his aim had been fatal and the animal was lifeless. He hastily reloaded his gun and prepared to face the dogs. He was aware that his shot might reveal his presence to enemies if they were near. It was well known that the Blackfoot Indians and several other tribes were intensely hostile to the whites. They were determined that the white man should not enter the grounds which they believed belonged to themselves, inasmuch as they had received them from their forefathers. Not only had several parties of trappers been attacked, as Reuben knew from the stories of Kit Carson and Jean, but also some of the white men had been killed and many more had been driven away from the streams where they had set their traps and had been compelled to withdraw from the region.

Thoughts of his own danger now returned with increased force. He did not believe the dogs belonged to any Indian tribe, but if they were owned by trappers, how had it come to pass that white men were now in this region? He had understood from Jean that Kit Carson's party had gone far to the north and that in all probability no men of their own colour were likely to be seen until they returned to Pain Court.

Reuben's meditations were interrupted by the coming of the dogs. He saw four of the savage animals approaching, and the sight convinced him that he would as willingly face the gaunt and savage timber-wolves as the animals he now saw before him. It might be necessary for him to defend himself against their attack.

By this time the dogs had discovered the young trapper. Instantly stopping in their tracks, about one hundred feet distant, they were all silent for a moment as they stared at the unexpected sight. A moment later, however, all four, throwing back their heads, emitted the most plaintive and prolonged howls to which Reuben had ever listened. They did not, however, make any advance upon him.

This fact caused Reuben to decide that he would attempt to drive the animals away. Doubtless the men who owned them were not far distant and if they had heard the shot they soon would appear. Seizing two stones and still holding his gun, Reuben ran toward the brutes and shouted in his loudest tones, "Get out! Get out!" At the same time he hurled one of the missiles and was delighted when he saw all four of the dogs turn about and run swiftly down the defile.

Reuben waited half an hour for the return of the dogs or the appearance of the party to which they belonged. The minutes passed, however, and he was still alone. At last, persuaded that his hiding-place was unsuspected, he hastened to the spot where the body of the dead buffalo was lying and cut from the carcass the pieces which he already had learned were the most eatable. In a brief time he had his fire kindled and was busily engaged in the preparation of his morning meal.

Frequently he glanced toward the entrance to the valley below him, still aware of the possibilities that his hiding-place might not escape the attention of others who might be in the vicinity. If they were white men he believed that his safety would be assured. His great danger lay in the fact that the dogs which he had seen might belong to some roving band of Pawnee or Blackfoot Indians.

Time passed, however, without interruption, and when his hunger had been appeased, Reuben took his rifle and cautiously began his descent of the valley. When he came out into the more open country he was startled at the sight of a campfire not far away. Gathered about it were half a dozen men, and to them doubtless belonged the dogs which he had seen. Indeed, while he was looking at the camp he saw these same dogs moving about near the spot.

Assured that he would find help there, Reuben started toward the place where the fire was burning. He had left his saddle and bridle and a few other belongings in the defile among the mountains, but he was convinced that if he could secure aid from these men it would be an easy matter to obtain his possessions which for a little while he had abandoned. As he came near the camp the dogs discovered his presence and, with loud barking, started toward him.

At the sound the men about the campfire instantly leaped to their feet and seized their rifles, and all were looking in the direction from which the young trapper was approaching. Apparently convinced by what they saw that they were in no danger of an immediate attack by enemies, they waited for Reuben to approach the camp.

Greatly to the astonishment of the lad when he had come near enough to distinguish the faces of the men, he saw that the leader of the little party was none other than Kit Carson himself. How it was that the trapper and guide was so far south of the region into which he with his company originally had gone Reuben did not understand. There was no question, however, as to the person before him, and he was greatly pleased when a moment later the guide said to him: "You are Reuben Benton. The last time I saw you was in Pain Court. What are you doing out here on the plains?"

By this time Reuben had been admitted within the circle. The glances of suspicion which were given him when first he had appeared were gone as soon as the leader explained that he personally knew the young trapper.

"I came out here with Jean," explained Reuben.

"Jean? Jean who?" inquired Kit Carson.

"Jean Badeau."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. I don't know where he is. I wish I did. We came out here day before yesterday. We made a camp, and while we were there a herd of buffaloes came along and Jean and I started after them. I haven't seen him since."

"He may have been trampled by the herd," suggested Kit Carson.

"I don't think so," asserted Reuben. "There was a man here who helped me look for the place where we had camped and after a while we found it, but the ponies and saddles and traps and everything were gone."

"A man with you?" inquired the guide, glancing keenly at Reuben as he spoke.

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

"Rat True."

For a moment Kit Carson was silent as he looked steadily at Reuben. "What has become of him? Where is he?" he inquired at last.

"He left last night and took his ponies and his traps and said he was going up among the hills. He said he wanted to trap alone. That's what Jean said, too, and that was the reason why we camped down here."

"He cannot be very far away, then?"

"I don't know how far. He took his ponies with him, and the little beasts were tough, and they may have been able to make good time."

"And you haven't any idea what has become of Jean?"

"No. I don't know where he is. I must look him up to-day. He may have been captured by the Indians and they may have carried off his ponies and his belongings."

"So they might," said Kit Carson in a low voice. "Very likely that's just what they did. We'll have to give you a lift, however, and help you try to find him. Have you had any breakfast?"

"Yes. Your dogs chased a wounded buffalo into the gorge where I was and I shot it."

"Yes," explained Kit Carson. "We saw a big herd this morning and cut out two or three cows, but two of them gave us the slip and the third we wounded, but it got away, though the dogs took after it."

"It is only a little way back yonder; you'll find the carcass there now."

"I don't think we shall go back for the carcass," said the guide quietly. "There are too many herds around here for us to bother about a little thing like that. How are the streams?"

"I don't know," answered Reuben. "The only ones I have seen were in that valley where I was, and there they were not very full."

"Did you see any beaver?"

"Yes. Jean and I found several dams."

"Have you seen any Indians?"

"Yes, the night I lost Jean I met three Cheyennes, two braves and a boy. They had been out trying to steal horses from the Pawnees. They said the Pawnees were cowards because they kept their horses shut up every night."

A smile appeared on the face of the guide as he said: "The redskins are like the rest of us. When we don't get what we want we're down on our luck, or blame the other fellow. How old a boy was the young Indian?"

"About fifteen or sixteen."

Turning to his men Kit Carson related the story which Reuben had told him, and in response to his suggestion the men all declared that they were more than willing to join in a search for the missing Jean.

Soon afterward, Reuben conducted the men to the place where Jean's camp had been made, but a careful investigation failed to reveal any signs of the fate which had overtaken the trapper.

The men then separated into three parties and, moving in different directions, tried to ride in circles about the camping-place in their efforts to discover some indications of what might have befallen the missing Jean. Their search was continued throughout the day, but when night fell it was still unrewarded. Not a sign had been discovered as to what had been the fate of the trapper.

Upon the suggestion of Kit Carson, Reuben then led the way to the defile where he had passed the preceding night. Abundance of food had been secured, because late in the afternoon a herd of buffaloes, numbering no less than five hundred, had appeared. Several of the animals had been shot by the hunters, who brought the meat which they had secured to the place that had been selected for the camp.

Although Kit Carson did not refer to his fears, it was evident that he was somewhat uneasy, as several times signs of Indians had been discovered by the men in their search of the afternoon. Although he still did not refer to his fears, when arrangements for the night were made he insisted upon a guard being established.

Before darkness had fallen upon the region the trappers became aware that their hiding-place had been discovered.




Chapter IX -- Wolf's Clothing


Excitement first arose when the dogs, growling, and the hair on their backs standing erect, began to circle the camp and peer angrily into the darkness. The action of the animals caused the men at once to look more carefully to the horses. Every one of the beasts had been hobbled, and were all within the circle of the camp. Although few words were spoken, it was plain every man was suspicious that enemies were not far away.

Soon in the deepening twilight several long, gaunt, shadowy forms were seen creeping about the place. They were the timber-wolves, the most savage of all the wolf tribe. Reuben, congratulating himself that he was no longer alone, thought what his own feelings would have been if, without the presence of the other trappers, he had heard these hungry and savage animals prowling about his camp. He was positive that he would not have given in without a struggle, but his confidence certainly was much stronger now that he was in the company of Kit Carson and his men.

The actions of the guide, however, were peculiar. Only two of the wolves had been seen, and the sounds which they emitted were unlike those which had been heard when they had been farther away. Occasionally one or the other seated itself upon its haunches and, throwing back its head, sent forth its mournful howls. At the same time it was manifest that, although they kept well out of sight, the wolves were stealthily creeping nearer the horses, which now had been assembled at one side of the camp.

Kit Carson, too, was unusually watchful, although he had little to say to any of his friends. When some of the men suggested that it would be wise to shoot the treacherous animals, he had quietly and yet sharply objected. "There isn't one of you," he said, "but might hit a dog, mistaking it for a wolf. I would rather have a dozen timber-wolves yelling around here all night than to lose one dog."

The actions of the dogs also increased the uneasiness among the trappers. Now they either were afraid or had lost the first fierceness of their desire to drive away their foes. All four were whining and, although the hair about their necks was still erect, they displayed less inclination than before to attack the marauders. Crouching and growling, they slunk back toward their masters.

For several minutes Kit Carson remained seated near the border of the camp, holding his rifle in his hand and listening intently to the sounds made by the two wolves. These animals had acted peculiarly from the first. Both now were near the horses, and the terror of the frightened animals was almost pathetic.

Beckoning to his friends to remain where they were, Kit Carson suddenly raised his rifle to his shoulder and shot one of the wolves.

A strange, well-nigh unearthly sound followed the report of his rifle. A scream, loud and prolonged, in no way resembling the howl of a wolf, broke the silence. For a moment the men in the camp stared blankly at one another, while Reuben was appalled by the weird and unnatural cry.

The guide, however, apparently was unmoved by the alarm of his friends. Laughing lightly, he ran quickly to the place where the wounded wolf was lying. The other beast had instantly turned and fled into the darkness.

The approach of the guide produced an immediate effect upon the wounded animal. Struggling desperately, it rose upon its hind feet and for a brief time struggled to escape. The effort, however, was unavailing, and it soon fell to the ground again and became motionless and silent.

Every one in the camp now was watching the leader with intense interest, Reuben being the most excited of all. Indeed, the lad had followed Kit Carson and was only a few yards behind him when the guide stopped to watch the struggles of the animal before him. When at last the wolf became motionless, Kit Carson advanced upon it and at once lifted it to an upright position.

The strange events which had occurred were followed by those that were stranger still. Seizing the wolf by its fore-shoulders, the guide alternately with his foot and knee kicked the animal, compelling it to walk in advance of him on its hind feet.

"Look out there, Kit!" called some one in the camp. "If you let that fellow bite you it will be sure poison!"

No response was made by the guide, who had been intently watching the wolf, which when standing up on its hind feet was as tall as he. Strange to say, the animal made no attempt to bite its captor. As soon as it was discovered that all efforts to free itself were useless, the wolf was forced to approach the campfire, where the men curiously were watching the antics of the strange animal. Never before had Reuben seen a sight like the one he was now beholding. Why the wolf did not fight he was unable to understand. The very fact that it had been wounded was sufficient to arouse its anger, but, as far as he could see, it was advancing as meekly as if it had been a lamb instead of a wild animal in the hands of Kit Carson.

When the guide had brought his victim nearer to the fire in the camp, he suddenly forced back the head of his prisoner, and then with one quick motion tore back the skin, revealing the head and face of an Indian. The sight, startling as it was, caused most of the men to laugh. Reuben recalled now the stories which Jean had told him of how some of the Indians, disguising themselves as wild animals, in the darkness of the night had crept near the camp of the trappers to steal their furs or run away with the ponies that belonged to the outfit. The howlings he had heard then had been made by the Indians, and yet as Reuben looked at the prisoner it was difficult for him to believe that the human voice could so closely imitate the cries of a prowling wolf.

Meanwhile Kit Carson, who not for a moment had relaxed his grip of his captive, suddenly tore away the skin in front, and as it fell to the ground the entire body of a young Indian was revealed to the excited assembly.

"Kill him!" shouted one of the men. The cry was taken up by others, and for a brief time the fate of the young Indian was in the balance.

It was marvellous to Reuben at this time to see the young leader quietly step in front of his men and say in a low voice, "We will have none of that. He is my prisoner, anyway." The guide, slight and boyish, in his figure, speaking in a tone so low that it did not betray any excitement under which he might be labouring, instantly checked the anger of his men.

As they made no further effort to advance, he said: "This redskin is only a boy. I shot him in the leg. I suspected just what he was trying to do, and though he played the trick well, he lost. Come up here!" he said to his captive, as taking him by the arm he led him near the fire.

A hasty examination of the wound disclosed the fact that it was slight, the ball having not more than grazed the calf of his leg. A bandage was soon made and applied, and after the feet and hands of the prisoner had been securely bound he was placed upon the ground between the fire and the trappers, who were soon asleep.

Meanwhile a guard had been established by the leader and a careful watch was to be maintained throughout the night. If Indians were as near as the presence of the prisoner indicated, Reuben was at a loss to understand why the fire should have been kept up. However, as he had complete confidence in the leader, he asked no questions, and soon he, too, was sleeping as soundly as his companions.

When morning dawned and Reuben arose, he found Kit Carson talking to the prisoner. "Come here!" called the leader when he saw that Reuben was awake. "Have you ever seen this young redskin before?"

Reuben looked keenly at the captive before he replied. "He looks like the young Indian that I saw two or three nights ago," he said. "He was one of the three I told you about that had been trying to steal horses from the Pawnees. At least that's what the Indian said who could speak English."

"Doesn't this one talk English?"

"He didn't that time, and the one who did speak it said he was the only one that understood it."

The trapper turned again to the Indian boy and tried to engage him in conversation, but either the lad did not understand what was said or he did not want to, for he stolidly refused to reply.

Once more the guide examined the young Indian's wound, and soon afterward turned to his followers, explaining that as soon as they had all had breakfast and the horses had been watered and permitted to gather such food as they could obtain in the little valley, the entire band would resume its journey.

"But what shall I do?" said Reuben. "Shall I go away without trying to find Jean?"

"Jean can take care of himself if he is alive," said Kit Carson quietly, "and if he is dead he will not need your help. I think the only thing for you to do is to come with us."

"Where are you going?"

"That will depend somewhat on what comes to us. We shall go back to join the main camp pretty soon, but just now we are busy on some other work. You will be safe with us, and if you stay here you may not see another white face in a year."

"But I don't like to leave Jean," persisted Reuben.

"As far as I can see you are not the one that left him. He left you. Come, my lad, there's nothing else to be done."

"I have no pony."

"What became of it?" inquired Kit Carson.

"While I was chasing a buffalo I ran into a prairie-dog village and the horse stumbled and fell, and broke its leg. I had to shoot it."

"We can fix you up. We have several ponies that are not being ridden. You may have one of them to use."

Somehow, feeling as if the matter had been decided for him rather than that he had had any part in the decision, an hour later Reuben found himself astride a stocky little pony riding beside Kit Carson, who was leading the way. Conversation ceased, for still the guide did not explain the purpose of their journey.

A brief time later he selected two men to go in advance of the others. It was evident to Reuben that they were following what appeared to be an Indian trail. The captive Indian was still in their midst, although, he was no longer bound. What had become of his companion no one in the party knew. He had vanished in the night as soon as his comrade had been hit by the bullet of Kit Carson.

The journey was uneventful until the noon hour had passed, then when the guide began to look about for a suitable place where they might halt and prepare such food as they possessed for the mid-day meal, he said abruptly: "Do you see what that is ahead of us?"

"Where?" inquired Reuben, who still was nearest the leader.

"Right ahead on the right. Close to the trail. Look at it closely and tell me what you see."

Doing as he was bidden, Reuben soon discovered an object that instantly aroused within him a keen feeling of excitement.

"I see it!" he said, turning quickly to Kit Carson. "I see it! What are we going to do?"




Chapter X -- Attacked


Not far in advance the body of an Indian was seen lying directly across the trail. The entire band stopped abruptly at a signal from Kit Carson, and a moment later all were running forward to the place where the Indian was seen.

"He may not be dead," suggested one of the men. "He may be playing 'possum."

"That's right, too," suggested another. "They may be fixing a trap for us."

At the bidding of the leader the men all halted, every one holding his rifle in readiness for instant use, and all alike striving to keep watch on the various points from which they thought an attack upon them might be made.

Alone and cautiously, Kit Carson advanced, and in a brief time he returned saying: "The man is dead. He had the smallpox. I don't want any of you to go near him."

It was well known by the trappers what a terrible scourge smallpox was among the Indian tribes. Entire villages had been wiped out of existence by its ravages.

"What do you think, Kit?" inquired one of the men. "Is this redskin left here for us, or do you think the village was trying to run away?"

"Perhaps both," replied the guide quietly. "At all events we'll go around the hill."

"Better than that," suggested one of the men. "I have had the smallpox and I'll go ahead and drag the body out of the way."

At last the advice of the volunteer was accepted, and as soon as the dead body had been removed from the pathway the advance was resumed.

Although he did not explain nor share his feelings with his companions, it soon became evident that Kit Carson was suspicious of the presence of other foes. Several times he had dropped behind the little cavalcade and as frequently had gone in advance of the body. It seemed more and more strange to Reuben that a man so boyish and slight as Kit Carson, in spite of his youth, should have such absolute control and such loyal support of the men who made up the little company.

Late in the afternoon Carson, who had been serving for an hour as the advance guard, hastily rejoined his fellows and said: "There are twenty-five redskins ahead. They have stopped right near the trail."

"What are they?" inquired one of the men in a whisper.

"Blackfeet."

"Are they armed?"

"Yes."

"How many horses have they?"

"There are as many horses as there are men."

"Do you think they know we are coming?"

"I have no doubt of it."

"What shall we do?"

"Drive them out."

"It can't be done! It can't be done! We haven't but seven men."

"Yes, it can be done," said Kit quietly. "Now if you'll do just what I say, I'll show you how."

Seeing his calmness and confidence, a new spirit of enthusiasm entered the hearts of the men, and they all cordially and willingly followed the directions of the young scout. Three of them were selected to advance along the trail toward the Indians. The other four, together with their prisoner, were to be concealed in a cluster of bushes near which the halt had been made. Just what the young Indian in their midst would do if left to himself no one of the trappers knew, but as they were fearful that he might try to betray them it was deemed wiser to compel him to remain where he then was.

"Now, men," said Kit Carson, as he and one of the trappers, named Jake, and Reuben prepared to leave their companions, "see that you do not expose yourselves. Every one of you hide and keep hidden until we have joined you. You may think when you first see us that you ought to fire right away, but hold your powder until we come. Now, don't forget that!"

As soon as these instructions had been given, the scout, together with his two companions, started along the trail in the direction of the place where the Indians had been seen.

Reuben was excited and yet he was so elated over the consent which had been given him to accompany Kit Carson on this perilous adventure that he was almost unmindful of the danger that confronted him. They had left their ponies behind them, and now as they drew near the place where they were expecting to behold the Blackfeet Reuben glanced excitedly at his two companions. Neither of them, however, betrayed any alarm, and in a brief time they had come within sight of the camp.

"I want both of you to show yourselves directly behind me," directed the scout, "and then I want you to jump back into the bushes on either side of the trail, run back a few feet, and then come out where you can be seen again. We must make these redskins think there are at least a dozen of us. You'll have to move fast, too, because we aren't going to stay here very long."

A few moments later the men came within sight of the Indians. The discovery of their presence was greeted by a shout, but as yet none of the braves manifested any desire to start in pursuit of the white men.

Acting promptly upon the suggestion of Kit Carson, Reuben and Jake darted into the bushes, emerging several times in a manner that might confuse their foes and lead them to believe that there were more in the party than at first appeared. Soon after the war-whoop of the Blackfeet had been heard Kit Carson and his companions started swiftly back over the trail by which they had come. Their flight was greeted with a loud yell, and instantly most of the Indians started in swift pursuit.

"It's the same band that killed the last party of trappers," said Kit Carson in a low voice to Reuben. "We'll fix them this time so that they won't make any more trouble of that kind."

Reuben was running rapidly, but all three knew that they were a considerable distance from the Indians and that their own friends were not far back on the trail; so he was not unduly alarmed. Somehow his complete confidence in the young guide caused him to believe that even in their present peril he would find a way out.

The yelling band of braves soon appeared. They were running swiftly and it was evident that they had cast aside their usual caution. The confidence of the attacking party was unabated. If Kit Carson was correct in his statement that the band following them was one which had destroyed the company of trappers the preceding year, it was plain now that they were equally sure the whites were afraid of them.

At all events they were swiftly pursuing and were steadily gaining upon the three fugitives. The air resounded with blood-curdling war-whoops. The faces of the warriors, smeared with war-paint, were terrifying, and every time Reuben glanced behind him his fear increased, although he still was convinced that Kit Carson was not attempting any trick for which he was not fully prepared.

Strong in their belief that the men who were fleeing were afraid, the Indians pressed still closer in their pursuit. Indeed they were almost upon the heels of the fleeing men. A few steps more and the venturesome trappers would be in their power.

At last Reuben and his companions arrived at the thicket in which their friends were concealed. Darting quickly into the midst of the band, they cast themselves upon the ground, concealing themselves behind the trees, and prepared to join in the counter-attack which was about to be made. At that moment a shower of arrows fell among the bushes, and almost as if in response to this action the thicket resounded with the reports of the guns. The resounding yell of triumph from the eager Blackfeet was lost in the midst of the roar of the guns. Clouds of smoke slowly rose above the bushes and hid the scene from the sight of the anxious defenders. However, as soon as the smoke lifted a little, the bodies of the fallen Indians were seen upon the ground. On every side was the neighing of the terrified and the riderless horses. The startled Blackfeet in the midst of it all heard the click that indicated the reloading of the guns of their enemies. Too late they were aware of the mistake they had made.

The band of warriors instantly broke and fled, and in the midst of the wild confusion that followed the first attack the weapons of the trappers had been reloaded and again the reports of the rifles rang out. With wild cries of terror the Indians continued their flight. Nor did they stop until they had disappeared from sight and had run far into the wilderness.

Then it was that Kit Carson, bidding his men follow him, led them once more upon the trail. Scattered on the ground nearby were the bodies of ten of the Indians that had fallen under the fire of the trappers. Brave as the redmen had been, too late they had discovered that their bows and arrows were of no avail when they were fired upon by men armed with rifles and who were expert shots.

Convinced at last that the danger was passed, Kit Carson summoned his men about him and first of all inquired whether or not any one had been hit in the shower of arrows that had fallen upon them. Fortunately no one had been injured, for the Indians had fired without any sight of the white men, simply trusting to their knowledge that some of them at least were concealed within the underbrush.

"What will happen next?" inquired Jake.

"No man can say," replied Kit Carson.

"Do you think they will attack us again?"

"Not soon. They have learned a lesson which they will not forget right away."

"Then we can go right ahead?"

"We shall keep on," replied the guide quietly, "although I am sure that we are not done with our troubles."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I am sure they will not leave us. They will follow us, and when night comes they will try to steal our horses, and if we were trapping here they would try to get our traps. I shall be surprised if we do not find that they are watching us all the while."

"Don't you think we had better turn back?"

"I have never travelled that way," replied Kit Carson lightly. "The safest thing for us will be to show the Blackfeet that we are not afraid of them and are prepared to meet them."

In accordance with the suggestion of the scout, preparations were made at once for resuming the journey. It was plain, however, that not all of the men were of the same mind as their leader and that some were still fearful of attacks by the band which they had successfully driven off. Some time elapsed, however, before the true purposes of the Blackfeet were discovered.




Chapter XI -- A Trying Experience


Meanwhile the little band continued steadily on its way. Reuben now thought of the missing Jean less frequently. He was confident that the French trapper was abundantly able to protect himself, and, besides, there was less peril for a man alone than there was for a large force of the trappers. The Indians were intensely jealous, fearful for the safety of their possessions, and angry at the intruders for daring to come in numbers to trap along the streams which the redmen had been taught to believe belonged to them by inheritance.

There were occasions when the presence of the prowling Indians was evident, for horses several times vanished from the camp and were not found again. The traps, too, which were used by the men in their advance, frequently disappeared, and there was slight question in the mind of the young leader that the Blackfeet, although they had not dared to make an open attack since the ambuscade, none the less were steadily following their enemies.

At last it was decided that the division should go on toward the Sacramento River, while part of the force already had been sent back to Taos to dispose of the beaver skins which had been secured and also to get more traps. All the remaining men agreed to continue on to the Sacramento, and in this company was young Reuben Benton. To the lad the days were all filled with interest the chief of which was in the expeditions for hunting the savage grizzly, whose reputation for blind and savage courage increased as the men journeyed farther among the towering mountains.

The Indians, however, whom they met as they proceeded on their way, proved more and more friendly. The stories, too, which the redmen told of the marvels of the valley of the Sacramento increased the desire of Reuben and his companions to see the land which was declared to be not only marvellously beautiful and fertile, but also to abound in beaver.

To reach this land of promise, however, it was necessary for the little company to make its way across a country upon which neither grass nor trees grew, and where water was seldom found. Even the wild animals avoided these desert plains. Not a deer was likely to be found in the course of the journey, and the buffaloes were far behind the mountains, which now were in the rear of the advancing trappers.

Before entering upon the final stage of the journey it was decided that there should be a rest of several days. Accordingly the entire party went into camp. The horses were fed far better than had been the daily custom and were not compelled to carry any burdens. The trappers employed the time thus afforded in hunting. There was need of food in the party, and to supply this need Kit Carson and a half-dozen others, among whom was Reuben, devoted much of their time to hunting for animals that would provide meat.

On the second day, while Reuben, Kit Carson, and a man who was called Jack were about six miles from the place where the camp had been pitched, they discovered a herd of deer. The curious animals plainly were not familiar with the sight of men. They were discovered near a spring on the border of a grove that grew far down into the plains. At least a dozen of the creatures were seen by the keen-eyed leader.

"We mustn't lose any of them," said Kit Carson in a whisper, as he turned to his followers. "The best thing we can do is to spread out and come up to them in a semicircle."

"They have seen us already," suggested Jack.

"That's true," replied Kit Carson, "but the very fact that they have not run away will make it easier for us to get more of them, and we must have them. Our very lives may depend upon our aim. I hope every one will hit his target."

In accordance with the directions of the hunter, the party spread out and prepared to creep nearer the spring, advancing in a semicircle. Even when they had come within fifty yards of the water the inquisitive animals were still standing, gazing almost stupidly at the approaching hunters. Indeed to Reuben it almost seemed as if the timid creatures were unable to flee. Even the fawns, with ears erect, stood gazing open-eyed at the men.

In this manner the trappers approached, as has been said, within fifty yards, and then at a given signal all arose and fired upon the timid animals. Two of the deer were seen to fall. Then with a loud summons to his followers, Kit Carson, after he had hastily reloaded his rifle, darted toward the spring from which even yet the startled deer had withdrawn only a few yards.

In a brief time the guns were reloaded and almost together the trappers once more fired at the graceful creatures that were still gazing at them. A third deer fell to the ground, but all its companions instantly fled from the spot.

"We didn't get as many as we ought to," said Kit Carson quietly when the men approached the place where the fallen deer were lying. "I shall be surprised if we do not find that some of these deer are pretty well filled with lead. We ought to have arranged for no two men to fire at the same animal." The trapper's suggestion was found to be correct, for six bullets were found in one of the bodies.

In response to the directions of the scout, the men at once took their knives and skinned the creatures, and then, while part of them sewed the skins into water-bags, the others prepared to smoke the meat which had been secured.

Haunches of venison were dried on the branches of trees above the reach of prowling wolves, and fires were kindled beneath them which it was believed would last throughout the coming night. The smoke from the flames soon hid the suspended bodies, and, satisfied that their work for the day had been completed, the hunters turned and departed for the camp in the defiles of the mountains.

To Reuben Benton these experiences were all so novel that he had ceased to think often of the missing Jean, and he was thoroughly enjoying his adventures. Such a life was wholly new to the eager-hearted boy. In the vicinity of his home he often had trapped and hunted, but nothing had occurred like the exciting incidents of his hunting with the great scout. Perhaps the honour of being associated with Kit Carson, whose name was already familiar in all the West, provided the greatest enjoyment of all. More and more Reuben was impressed by the quiet self-control of Carson and the respect which was paid him by all the men in the company.

Reuben, who was a strong and rugged boy, had found no difficulty thus far in keeping up with the men. Indeed, his spirit of eagerness several times had led him far in advance of his companions. Kit Carson, however, occasionally had rebuked him for his foolhardiness and told him that his safety depended almost entirely upon his remaining in the company of his fellow trappers. There was slight question in his mind that the Indians had followed them all through the defiles of the mountains. Whether or not the pursuit would be maintained was a question which could be solved only by the events which might occur when once the party had entered on its way across the pathless desert.

On the day after the shooting of the three deer Reuben and Jack, together with two other trappers, were sent to obtain the carcasses, which had been left hanging from the boughs of the tree under which the fires had been kindled. For the meat to be thoroughly cured a longer time would be required, but as the horses were now rested, the men were eager to push forward.

Just before the departure from the camp was made three Indians were seen approaching, leading a poor old horse that was soon found to be blind as well as lame. By the use of signs the Indians finally agreed to sell the poor old creature and then departed with the money which they received. After they were gone the horse itself was killed and roasted, and the trappers that night enjoyed a feast of tough horse-meat and water from the mountain springs.

The following morning the entire band set forth on their long and difficult journey across the plains. When three days had elapsed, the riders, wearied by their journey and nearly parched with thirst, were well-nigh exhausted. The supply of water which they had brought with them had proved to be inadequate.

All the efforts of Kit Carson were required to keep up the courage of his followers. The heat had been intense, and the brief rest which had been given the horses and mules had not been sufficient to restore their full strength. Even the animals were dejected as they lifted their feet from the heated sands and slowly moved forward.

Not a word of complaint, however, had escaped the lips of Reuben. Fearful that the objection which had been made at St. Louis against his joining a party of trappers would be repeated here, the boy had done his utmost to bear the hardships that he was compelled to endure. His lips were swollen and cracked, and the intense feeling of hunger which he had the preceding day had given place to a dull ache. His manner was thoroughly dispirited as he slowly followed his companions. The mule which he was riding had lagged behind the other animals, until Reuben was several yards in the rear of the little company.

It was at this time that Carson, noting the plight of his young friend, dropped behind and waited for Reuben to approach.

"Well, lad," he said, striving to speak cheerfully, "how is it?"

Reuben, almost unable to speak, shook his head as he tried to smile in response to the query of his friend.

"It's a pity, lad," continued the guide, "but there's no going back. We have got into a hard piece of work, but the only thing to do is to go ahead. That is the only way out, so keep up your heart and don't give in."

Reuben nodded decidedly to show that his determination was still unbroken, and as he did so the mule he was riding suddenly lifted his head and, after he had sniffed the air, lowered it almost to the sand, and emitted several prolonged, heart-breaking, agonizing brays.

The stentorian blasts were quickly answered by similar sounds from the other mules in the train. Despite the efforts of the weary men to control the beasts, they all immediately began to run, followed speedily by the horses.




Chapter XII -- A Puzzling Messenger


"What's wrong? What's the matter?" demanded Reuben excitedly of Kit Carson, who was riding by his side.

"Don't you know?" laughed the leader good-naturedly.

"No, I don't know, that's why I asked," replied Reuben in the disjointed words he was able to speak, while the mule which he was riding increased the speed at which he was running.

"They have sniffed water."

"But I can't see it anywhere!"

"That's likely," replied the hunter, smiling as he spoke. He was having less difficulty than his young companion in controlling his mount.

The animal which Reuben was riding had stretched forth its neck and its muscles were almost as tense and stiff as if they had been made of bone. Occasionally one of the excited mules stopped, and, planting its feet firmly in the ground, stretched forth its neck, elevated its tail, and at the same time emitted another prolonged and discordant bray.

The minutes passed swiftly and no signs of the longed-for water were discovered. An hour passed in the wild flight and still the stream was not found. To Reuben's protest that the mules had been mistaken, Kit Carson made no reply save to smile in the quiet manner which was characteristic of him, and slowly shook his head as if he still had faith in the instinct of the strange beasts.

Ten minutes later a cry arose from the dry throats of the men when a stream not far in advance was seen by them all. In a brief time the entire line had gained the banks and men and animals alike plunged into the water and drank their fill.

"I never knew before how good it seemed to have all the water I wanted to drink," said Reuben with a sigh of relief when he returned to the bank and once more stood beside the leader.

"It's just like air and sunshine and other things that are so common that no one thinks they are worth much," replied Carson thoughtfully. "It is only when we lose them that we think they are worth having."

"This certainly is worth having," said Reuben fervently.

"It's so good that I think we'll stay here for a little while. Turn in, boys," the leader added, calling to his companions, "and we'll make camp."

The courage and hope of the men had now returned in full force, and the long journey across the desert was forgotten or ignored. Eagerly they responded to the call of their leader, and in a brief time a comfortable camp had been made on the banks of the little stream.

For two days the weary men remained in the camp. In a few spots near the spring grass had grown, and this, together with the leaves of the trees, provided food for the horses. No wild animals were seen during the stay of the men, and on the third day, when the journey was resumed, there were few traces to be seen of the suffering which the trappers had endured in their ride across the desert. There still remained, however, a long and toilsome journey between them and the region which they were seeking. Occasionally a stream of running water was found, and then the party went into camp for two or three days.

When at last they arrived in the beautiful valley of San Gabriel they were nearly exhausted, but the sight which greeted their eyes did much to restore their spirits.

In the valley was the Mission of San Gabriel, established many years before this time by the Spanish padres in their labours among the Indians of that region. Already the fruits of their devoted work were to be seen. In the valley there were many fields of waving grain and great orchards whose trees were bending under the loads of fruit which hung from their branches. In certain parts of the valley there were large herds of cattle, and many flocks of sheep were to be seen, almost as numerous as the cattle.

The sight of all these good things instantly revived the drooping spirits of the trappers. It is true they had little to offer in exchange, but the people of the mission and the Indians of the vicinity were kind to the newcomers, and in a brief time the wants of the nearly famished men were all supplied.

Perhaps some of them rejoiced more over the fact that water and food for their horses abounded than they did over the reports that were given them of the multitudes of beaver that were to be found in the nearby streams. To Reuben the region seemed to be a land of plenty. The Indians were peaceful and apparently happy, and the few white men that were to be seen in the vicinity were prosperous and contented.

After the men had been thoroughly rested, Kit Carson explained to Reuben that the time had come for them to enter upon the work which had been their object in seeking the marvellous valley.

"We'll go down the San Joaquin River," he explained. "We shan't have any trouble in getting the skins we want, and at the same time we'll find game enough to supply all our needs. All you have to do," he added, with a laugh, "is to look at the men. A little while ago they were half-starved and as lean as bullrushes. Just look at them now! Almost every one is getting so fat he won't be able to do his trapping."

"Yes," laughed Reuben. "They all look as if they would rather stay here than go on any farther."

"That's just what they must do, though," said Kit. "I have seen a good many men in my life who did all right until they came to the last thing that had to be done and then they gave out. I believe there are more men that lose because they don't follow up to the very end what they have begun than from any other one thing. Who's this coming?" he added abruptly as he turned and saw a stranger approaching on horseback.

At first the approaching man was thought to be a priest, as he was dressed in a strange garb that somewhat resembled that worn by the priests in charge of the mission. As he came nearer, however, they discovered that he was not a priest, and when he spoke, his words confirmed Kit Carson in his conclusion.

"I am looking for a man named Kit Carson," explained the newcomer.

"You won't have to look very far," replied the guide quietly.

"Where is he?"

"Not very far away."

"Tell me where he is and I will go to him."

"I reckon I am the man you're looking for."

"You?" exclaimed the stranger in surprise. "You? Are you Kit Carson? Why, you're nothing but a boy."

"I'm not very old," replied the guide with a smile, "but that's a fault I hope to correct some day. Meanwhile let me tell you that my name is Kit Carson. If you have any message for him you had better give it to me."

"I came from the Mission San Gabriel," explained the newcomer, after a brief silence in which he had steadily looked into the face of the young hunter. "One of the padres sent me. He says that some Indians have run away with some of our sheep. It is the same band that stole some horses from the mission a few weeks ago. Before that they stole some of our cattle. The padre wants to know if some of your men will help us to punish them."

"Where are they?" asked Kit Carson.

"We don't know exactly, but we suspect that they have gone to one of the strongest of the Indian villages."

"Will they fight?"

"I think they will."

"Then we will go," said the guide quickly. "You tell the padre that we'll help him out. How many men does he want?"

"All you can spare."

"Tell him we'll be at the mission to-morrow morning. There will be as many of us as care to go, whether it is the whole eighteen or only one."

"You will be the one?" inquired the stranger.

"I will be one," laughed Kit Carson, "but I do not think I will be the only one."

Reuben had been silent throughout the conversation and seldom had turned his face away from the man who had brought the message from the San Gabriel Mission.

When the messenger departed Reuben turned to Kit Carson and said: "That man looks enough like Jean Badeau to be his own brother."

"Who is Jean Badeau?"

"Why, he's the trapper that I came with from St. Louis."

"The one you lost in the camp when we first saw you?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure he isn't the same man?"

"No, I am not sure, and that's just the trouble. Of course it is some time since I saw him."

"Don't you know his voice?"

"His voice certainly sounded like Jean's."

"Why didn't you ask him if he is Jean?"

"I don't know why I didn't," replied Reuben. "He looks like him, and yet if it is another man it might make trouble."

"How would it make trouble?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied Reuben somewhat uneasily. "I cannot see why Jean should be down here in this valley, anyway, unless he wanted to get away from everybody."

"Is that the reason why we came?" demanded Kit Carson quizzically.

"No, we came for the beaver skins."

"Perhaps your friend came for the same reason. You'll soon know, though, whether he's the real one or not, because when we go over to the mission to look up these thieving redskins, you probably will see the man again and can find out just who he is and why he is here."

For the time Reuben was forced to be content, and yet on the following day, when with eleven others he went to the San Gabriel Mission, the question in his mind still remained unanswered. He looked about on every side, but did not discover the messenger. Nor was he able to make inquiries, for he understood neither the Spanish nor the Indian tongue.

In a brief time, however, his thoughts were withdrawn from Jean to the task which immediately confronted them. A band of twenty-five or more soon set forth from the mission, half the men belonging to the force which Kit Carson had led into the valley.

The trappers and the volunteers from the mission rode swiftly away, and not more than three hours had elapsed when they arrived at the Indian village which they were seeking. When they drew near, the advancing party halted, while one of the white men advanced to meet three Indians who had now come forth from the village. It was impossible for Reuben to hear what was said, nor would he have understood the conversation had he been able to hear it. It was not long, however, before the white man returned to his followers with the statement that the Indians had absolutely refused to give up the redmen for whom they had come.

The village was not large, but the warriors plainly outnumbered the white men. To attack seemed foolhardy.

Greatly to Reuben's surprise, after a brief consultation had been held between Kit Carson and the leader of the men from the mission, the hunter turned to his followers and said quietly: "There is only one way for us to get those rascals. We must attack the village."




Chapter XIII -- Pursuit


For a moment the startled men gazed silently at their leader. Every one had been confident that when they drew near the Indian village the redmen would give up the culprits. However, the quietly spoken declaration of Kit Carson speedily aroused a spirit of determination, and every one of his followers was willing to do his utmost to carry out his directions.

Before an attack was made, however, the daring hunter approached the village alone and noisily summoned the braves to a second conference. Doubtless the slight form of the hunter and his boyish appearance created a false impression in the minds of the Indians. That such a man could really be the leader of the white men and that his courage would be equal to an attack upon their village was plainly something the braves did not believe. A brief conference followed, but the result of it was not any more satisfactory than had been that of the former interview.

Turning sharply about, Kit Carson quietly went back to his companions, and then before the Indians were fully aware that he was gone, he said in a low voice to his men: "Fire on the village! Every one pick his man, and don't one of you miss!"

Instantly dropping upon their knees the men obeyed the order. Almost like the report of one gun the rifles rang out together.

Without waiting for the smoke to clear and reveal the result of their attack, every man hastily reloaded his rifle and raised his gun to his shoulder, ready for instant use. The Indians were not armed except with bows and arrows, and the distance at which Carson's followers had fired was believed to be out of range of the warriors.

Cries of alarm and confusion arose from the village. Few of the redmen had believed that the white men would dare attack, and the unexpected action had thrown the entire place into confusion. It is true the Indians greatly outnumbered the little attacking party, but as soon as it was discovered that the white men were deadly in earnest and determined to secure the culprits for whom they had come, their greater numbers did not afford much comfort to the startled braves. Many of them fled from the village, and those who remained speedily decided to give up their guilty comrades who had sought refuge among them. It was impossible to resist the onslaught of the band which had attacked them, when it was led by such a man as the quiet, courageous scout.

For the third time the rifles were loaded, but before they were discharged an Indian was seen approaching, extending the palms of his hands in token of his peaceful purpose.

Directly behind him appeared a young Indian on horseback. He followed the chief, who was advancing toward the white men, until he came near the place where the spokesman halted. Although the followers of Kit Carson were prepared for any event, no gun was fired, while all the men awaited the coming of the messenger. It was believed now that there would be no further attempt to shield the guilty parties for whom the padre at the San Gabriel Mission had sent the expedition.

For a moment, although none of the watchful observers was able to discover the cause, the herald remained silent. Reuben, who was deeply interested in the exciting event, now saw, approaching from the village, a young squaw. Just what was her purpose in coming was not apparent.

The herald began his speech. "We shall no longer protect the men for whom the white brothers have come," he explained. "We did not ask them to come to our village. They were in trouble and they sought us out. We would punish them for the evil they did to the good padre, but now that the padre's men have come to take back to the mission the men who have done evil, we shall no longer try to hold them in our village. The brothers of the padre when they see the evildoers coming forth from our village will not then make any more attacks upon us."

The spokesman paused as if he was waiting for Carson to respond to his implied question. As the hunter remained silent, the Indian herald continued his appeal. "Already we have children that are fatherless because the white men have killed our braves. You can hear the wailing of the squaws whose husbands and sons you have slain. Is not this enough punishment for the white men to visit upon us? We shall no longer try to shield those who fled to us for refuge."

"Will you give us every one?" demanded Kit Carson abruptly.

"Every one," replied the Indian.

"Then tell them to come out to us now."

The Indian turned back toward the village and then, abruptly halting, once more faced the scout. "And will my white brother promise that no harm shall befall us? That he will take the bad Indians only? Will he promise that they shall be dealt with justly, and that no harm shall come to them on their way back to the mission?"

"I make no promises except to tell you that every man will be treated as he deserves."

"That's just the very thing they don't want," muttered Jack, who had been listening as he stood opposite Reuben. "If they got what they deserved there wouldn't be many left in the village."

"I'm afraid there wouldn't be very many left among us either," suggested Reuben quietly.

"What do you mean?" demanded Jack.

"Why, I mean that if every man got what he deserved perhaps he would be worse off than he is now."

"I never got all that I deserved," said Jack sharply. "I've seen a good many men who passed for more than they were worth and then again I've seen others who didn't pass for what they were worth."

"Which is your class?" said Reuben, laughing. Throughout the conversation he had not turned away his gaze from the exciting events which were occurring before him.

"It doesn't make any difference which is my class," retorted Jack. "All I say is that Indians are all in one class --  -- "

Jack stopped abruptly, for at that moment it was seen that the young squaw who had come from the village had now turned quickly toward the young Indian who had approached on horseback. Suddenly the mounted Indian darted ahead, his horse apparently breaking into its swiftest paces at its first leap forward.

The action of the Indian girl, however, was most startling of all. As the young brave fled from the spot she grasped the tail of the horse he was riding, and, clinging tenaciously to it, she was partly dragged and partly helped forward as both fled from the spot.

At the first sight of the unexpected happening the men with Carson laughed loudly. To them it was apparently a joke of some kind that was being enacted before them. In a moment, however, Kit Carson turned to Reuben and Jack and said: "Take your horses and follow that redskin. He's trying to get away and he's using the squaw as a shield. If he thinks that she is going to protect him, just show him how mistaken he is. Take after them and don't come back until you get them both."

Instantly Reuben and Jack obeyed the command which had been given them, and putting their horses into their best paces started in pursuit of the fleeing pair.

It was not long, however, before they discovered that the Indian pony, in spite of the load he was carrying and the weight that was attached to his tail -- for the Indian girl still was clinging tenaciously to her hold -- was much swifter than those of his pursuers.

The marvel of it all was the fearless manner in which the young squaw still clung to the tail of the running animal. There were moments when she was dragged over the sands, and then again she would regain her footing and, running swiftly and leaping wildly, continue her flight. But whatever befell her, whether she was dragged or drawn, her grasp was not relaxed.

The horses which Reuben and Jack were riding were old and slow. The main thought in the minds of the men when they departed from the mission did not concern any possible pursuit. They all had confidently believed that as soon as they approached the Indian village the culprits whom they were seeking would be delivered into their hands.

Their plans, however, had undergone a change, owing to the attack which they had been compelled to make. And now the wild flight of the two Indians convinced the pursuers that the brave was a man of importance in the tribe and that there were special reasons why he was eager to escape.

Doggedly the white men held to the pursuit, but as they fled across the level plains toward the defiles of the mountains not more than ten miles away, they were soon aware that there was slight probability of their overtaking the fugitives.

"My horse is winded!" called Jack sharply. "Let's turn back!"

"We can't turn back," replied Reuben.

"We can, and I shall," retorted Jack.

"You'll have to go alone," said Reuben. "Kit Carson told us to follow this redskin until we got him. We have been following him, but we haven't got him yet."

"Well, I can't follow any farther," said Jack, and as Reuben glanced at the horse of his companion he was convinced that the man had spoken truly. The sides of the poor beast were heaving convulsively and its suffering was clearly apparent.

"You stop here!" called Reuben. "I'll go ahead alone. I have a rifle and the redskin hasn't any, so I'm not afraid."

In response to his suggestion Jack drew rein on his horse, and when Reuben glanced behind he saw that the poor animal was barely able to stand. The necessity of urging his own horse forward, however, soon caused him to ignore the plight of his companion and he continued his well-nigh hopeless pursuit.

Reuben was convinced that the Indian, although now he had stopped and had taken the squaw behind him on the back of his pony, would be able to outdistance him. In the pursuit they had steadily drawn nearer the foothills and once among them Reuben was convinced that the fugitives would escape. Doubtless they were familiar with the valleys and the gorges and would speedily find some place in which to hide. But remembering the words which had been spoken to him by Kit Carson, and in a measure unconsciously imitating the spirit of the young scout, which knew no such word as turning back, Reuben still clung to the chase. The horse he was riding was slow, but its wind apparently was holding out. Again the boy glanced behind him, and quickly discovered that he was no longer able to see his companion. What had become of Jack was not plain, but without any thought of giving in, Reuben urged his steed forward.

In a brief time he was approaching the valley which he had seen when the pursuit first began. It was a narrow pass between the foothills. What lay beyond it he did not know, but his spirit of determination was so strongly aroused that when the Indian whom he was following turned into the narrow defile he decided at once to follow him.

Not long afterward Reuben found himself in the gorge. It was several hundred feet wide and on one side there was a steep, precipitous rock. On the opposite side the valley extended for several hundred feet to the right, and apparently much of it was under cultivation. Surprised by his discovery, Reuben still did not stop. He was relying chiefly upon the rifle he carried for his defence.

He had not advanced more than two hundred yards beyond the narrow opening before he was aware that further pursuit of the fugitives would be useless. Both had disappeared from sight and doubtless were hidden in some one of the many caves past which he had been riding.

Still keenly alert, Reuben turned and began to retrace his way toward the entrance of the valley. He had advanced only a few yards, however, when his progress was abruptly halted.




Chapter XIV -- Captured


Directly in front of Reuben five Indians stepped from behind a huge rock and halted his progress. Two of them seized his horse by its bridle, while two more advanced upon him, one from each side.

Startled by the unexpected sight, Reuben gazed at the men a moment, and then when he tried to bring his gun to his shoulder his arms were held powerless in the grasp of his captors. A moment later he was thankful that his enemies had prevented him from using his weapon. If he had succeeded he was well aware that instantly he would have been overpowered and doubtless slain by the young redmen.

Several times one of the Indians questioned Reuben, but the boy was unable to understand what was said, and consequently attempted no reply. In a brief time the conversation ceased, and his hands were securely bound behind his back. He was compelled to dismount and to follow the men, who now took his pony and led the way farther within the valley.

They were moving cautiously, too, an act which Reuben did not understand. His confusion, however, was soon gone when, after a walk of a half-hour, he was conducted to a camp in which fifteen Indians were seated around a fire over which they were roasting pieces of meat that he strongly suspected had been cut from the cattle stolen from the mission.

As the young prisoner was ignorant alike of the language spoken by the Indians and of the few words of Spanish which one of them was able to speak, he was at a complete loss to understand not only who they were and what their plans might be, but also what was likely to be his fate. His hands had been freed after he had been brought to the camp, but he was not permitted to leave the enclosure. When night came he was conducted to a cave among the nearby rocks and there by signs was informed that he was to remain throughout the night.

Several Indians seated themselves before the mouth of the cave, and Reuben was convinced that escape for the present at least was impossible.

Three days slowly passed. Not once was he permitted to leave his prison, although he was not treated unkindly. Food was given him every morning and night, and a gourd of water every morning was placed at his disposal.

As the afternoon of the third day wore on, Reuben became aware of a partly suppressed but increasing excitement among his captors. At first he was hopeful that the place was about to be attacked by some of his friends, in which event he might hope for release. It was impossible for him, however, to obtain any information from the Indians, and indeed few of them now even glanced at him as they apparently prepared to depart.

Reuben was disappointed when he learned that only half of the Indians were to leave the place. The excitement among the others, however, did not die away, and they frequently talked with one another in low voices and pointed anxiously in the direction in which their friends had gone. When darkness fell Reuben stretched himself upon the hard floor of the cave, and although he was aware of the excitement which still possessed his captors, he was convinced that he would be unable to learn the cause of it, and soon was sleeping soundly.

The first faint streaks of daylight were seen when Reuben was awakened by the return of the men who had departed the preceding night. Instantly it was plain to him what the purpose of their journey had been. With them now were at least threescore horses, and as he looked keenly at the animals Reuben recognized some of them. They had belonged to the men whom Kit Carson had been leading. Had their owners perished? Had there been a night attack by the redmen and had Kit Carson's band been destroyed? Excited as Reuben was he was not able to find any answer to his questions, though he eagerly interrogated several of the redmen with signs. Not one of them, however, gave any heed to their prisoner and his demonstrations. All about the camp the redmen were in action, and it was plain to the boy that they were planning to depart quickly.

His surmise proved to be correct, for within a few minutes all their weapons and belongings had been packed on the backs of their horses and they were ready to start. For a moment Reuben was hopeful that he was about to be left behind, but this was not to be, for one of the Indians approached and motioned for him to follow. Obedient to the command, Reuben accompanied his captor, who led the way to the spot where several of the Indian ponies were standing. Altogether there were not more than twenty of the Indian braves. How they had been able to secure so many horses and to return to their camp without any one having been injured was still a puzzle to Reuben. In obedience to the motion of his captor he leaped upon the back of one of the horses and took the reins in his hands.

The excitement of the band increased when at last it set forth from the place. Every rider was leading two or three horses. It was plain, too, that the Indians were fearful of pursuit. Frequently they would glance behind them, as if expecting an attack. They had not gone far, however, before a brief halt was called and three of the braves were sent back to form a rear guard.

Throughout the day the flight was continued, with only two or three breaks, when the men and horses stopped to quench their thirst at a running stream. Even when night fell the march was continued. Occasionally the band halted, while the men who formed the rear guard joined them and a brief conference was held. In every case, however, either the guard or those who were to take their place returned to the rear and the journey was resumed.

There were only slight and occasional rests during the second day. It was becoming increasingly plain to Reuben that the men were not only in desperate haste, but were in great fear of pursuit.

Grimly the young prisoner assured himself that their fears were well grounded, if their horses had been stolen from the band of which Kit Carson was the leader. Still Reuben was not ill-treated, although his conviction became stronger that if he should try to escape his fate would be quickly sealed.

The way over which they had come had been rough, and in places it was only with great difficulty the horses were able to advance. The ride was hard and all the braves by this time were showing the effect of their almost continuous ride. The distance which they had covered, however, had been much less than if they had been fleeing over the plains.

When the darkness of the third night fell the wearied warriors halted, and Reuben suspected from their actions that now a longer time for rest was to be granted. It was also plain that much of the fear which had urged the Indians forward was gone. And even Reuben did not dare to hope that his friends would follow the redmen so far. One hundred miles or more had been covered in the three days, he assured himself. With a sinking heart he was beginning to believe, with his captors, that the possibility of pursuit no longer existed. Evidently the Indians all felt now that they were safe. The silence which had rested over the party gave place to noisy calls and shouts.

Not long after the halt had been called, Reuben was startled when he saw that the Indians were preparing for a feast. Two of the poor beasts that had carried them safely throughout their flight and were nearly exhausted were taken apart from the others and killed. The skins were stripped from the bodies, and then over the fires, which were speedily kindled, the flesh was roasted, and a wild feast followed.

With strength restored by the food they had eaten and their fears of pursuit now gone, the Indians were like children. They laughed and even played pranks upon one another.

After the hunger of the band had been appeased Reuben was given a portion for his own needs. It was almost impossible for him to bite through the tough flesh, but hunger provided a strong incentive and soon he, too, was sharing in the changed mental attitude of the entire group. As he glanced behind him at the hills among which they had passed he saw that the moon had risen and that night was at hand. There was still sufficient light, however, to enable him to see distinctly all about him as he watched the antics of his childlike captors.

Suddenly in the midst of their pranks there came a rude and sharp interruption. The reports of rifles were heard from two sides of the camp. Several of the Indians fell to the ground, and Reuben instantly followed their example, although he was uninjured.

With wild cries the redmen now ran for their horses, but as they approached the place where they had corralled them there were fresh shots, and others of the Indians fell.

With renewed and louder shouts they now turned and ran swiftly toward the plains beyond. Many of them had been able to secure mounts and some of the horses were carrying double loads. Most of the animals, however, had been abandoned in the sudden flight.

By this time the men who had attacked the camp were near enough to enable Reuben to recognize them as his recent companions. Among them he saw the youthful form of Kit Carson riding at some distance to the left of his comrades and evidently fearful of an attack from the redmen who might still remain in the camp.

Aside from those who had fallen, Reuben was convinced, as he lifted his head and gazed about him, that he was the only one left there alive. All those who had been able to escape had fled from the place.

"Here I am, Kit! Don't shoot!" he called loudly, afraid to lift his head lest instantly he should be made the target of the excited trappers.

"Who's calling? Who is it?" demanded Kit Carson quickly, as he and his companions stopped to stare blankly all about them at the unexpected hail.

"Here I am!" repeated Reuben. "If you won't shoot I'll stand up."

"Go ahead, show yourself!" called Kit Carson.

At the command Reuben instantly arose and was recognized by the scout and his band.




Chapter XV -- A Lonely Ride


The surprise of the trapper at first made him speechless, as he gazed at his young companion. He had been aware that Reuben had left the camp, but as yet he was without any suspicion that evil had befallen the lad.

"Where did you come from? Why are you here?" he demanded slowly, as he advanced to the place where Reuben was standing.

"I came because they made me come," replied the boy somewhat ruefully. "They cut me off in the valley, so I couldn't get back to the camp, and then they tied me up and made me come."

"You were very good to consent," replied Kit Carson dryly.

"That wasn't the point," laughed Reuben, immensely relieved now that he was once more among his friends. "It wasn't whether I wanted to come, it was simply because I couldn't get away!"

"How far do you think you have come?"

"I haven't any idea. It seems like a long way."

"It's a hundred miles."

"Whew!" whistled Reuben. "The way we came when we first started made me think that you were close on our heels. I never saw a band go faster than they did, and they kept the horses well together, too. Why didn't you overtake us?"

"The redskins had too good a start. Some of the men thought we ought not to keep on."

"Why not?"

"Because they said they were hiding among some of the gulches in the Sierras, and we never would stand any chance of getting them, while there was every chance that they would get us."

"But it has turned out all right," laughed Reuben. "You have found me and you have got back your horses."

"Yes, and we got some redskins, too," added the guide quietly. As he spoke he turned toward the place where several of the fallen bodies were lying, and after he had examined every one to make sure that all were lifeless he turned once more to his followers and said: "I don't think there is much danger of the rascals following us, but at the same time I think we had better start back for camp."

His suggestion was speedily acted upon. The horses of the trappers had travelled so fast and so far that some of them were well-nigh exhausted. In spite of their condition, however, Kit Carson insisted upon the men rapidly withdrawing from the region. Reuben, as a matter of course, had joined the band, his heart lighter, now as he was confident that his troubles were ended. His own pony was in better condition than those of his companions, and it was not difficult for him to maintain the speed at which they were riding.

When two hours had elapsed and the sun had disappeared from sight, at the word of Kit Carson the men halted in a narrow ravine, and after guards had been established on each side of the camp, preparations for supper were made speedily.

These preparations, however, did not require much time, as the supplies which the men had brought with them had been mostly consumed. Kit Carson and his young companion entered into the nearby region hoping to discover a deer or some birds which they might secure for supper. Their efforts, however, were unavailing, as no signs of any living animal were seen. When they returned to the camp the jerked venison which had provided the diet for the past twenty-four hours was all the food in the possession of the trappers.

To Reuben the supper was tempting, because in the swiftness of the flight of his captors they had stopped only twice to eat, although they had halted several times for rest or to discover whether or not their enemies were close upon their trail.

Before midnight, at the call of the leader, the men once more rode forward, and driving before them the ponies which they had reclaimed, they resumed their journey toward their camp.

No signs of pursuit had been discovered, and the quiet declaration of Carson that the redskins would not attempt to follow them was accepted by all the men as correct. The loss of so many of the warriors -- for eight had fallen at the first fire -- doubtless had alarmed the Indians, who in their flight were not fully aware of the numbers in the attacking party.

On the fourth day the band, with the horses which they had retaken from the Indians, re-entered the camp. Kit Carson and Reuben at the time formed the rear guard, so that they were unable to hear the words of welcome which were given the returning men when first their presence was discovered. In a brief time, however, the shouts were redoubled when the stolen horses were all made secure and the leader and Reuben rejoined their companions.

"How did you do it, Kit?" called Jake.

"We just kept at it."

"How far did you go?"

"Better than one hundred miles."

Jake whistled and said: "We never believed you would keep up. When you didn't come back at the end of the first day we began to think something must have happened to you and we were going to send a party out to rescue you."

"That was mighty good of you," replied Kit Carson demurely, "but I'm not in the habit of giving up when I start."

"So it seems," laughed Jake. "I begin to understand why it is that the men are all willing to follow you."

"Why should we give up?" inquired the scout simply. "We started out to get the horses, didn't we?"

"Yes, but I've seen a good many men who were willing to start, but that's as far as they ever got."

"Well, we started and we came back, and when we came back we had the horses with us. That's all there is to the story."

The words of Kit Carson, however, belied the feeling of the camp. There was great enthusiasm among the men, who were loud in their praises of the young leader who had followed the fleeing Indians far beyond the regions where they had believed he would be able to make his way or to discover their trail.

"It's all right now, anyway," said Kit quietly. "I'm ready to turn in for the night."

As soon as the simple supper had been prepared and eaten, all the men in the camp sought their blankets. The horses which had been restored had been hobbled, and the various guards of the camp had been so placed that the approach of any one would be known at once.

The following day, after a long conference between the young scout and several of his men, Carson approached Reuben and said: "Do you think you could find your way to San Gabriel if you were to go alone?"

"Yes," replied Reuben quietly. "I am sure I can."

"Through the Sierras?"

"Yes, through the mountains. It is a simple path to find."

Kit Carson smiled as he said: "I hope you'll find it so, because we want to send you back to the mission."

"When am I to go?"

"Just as soon as you can get ready to start."

"I shall be ready in five minutes."

"That's the way to talk," said the scout quietly. "I'll tell you what we want just as soon as you are ready."

Within the time which he had allotted for his preparations Reuben had all things in readiness for his departure. He had selected a pony which he was confident would be fleet and sure-footed, and his few belongings had been packed on the back of the faithful animal. Kit Carson handed him a letter, sealed and addressed to "Captain White, at the San Gabriel Mission."

"It is very important," said Kit Carson in a low voice to Reuben after the latter had mounted his pony. "Come back just as soon as you have an answer. As I told you, it may be that there will be a man who will come with you, but of that I am not sure. At all events you are to look out for yourself, and don't get caught again by the redskins."

"Do you think I shall meet any?" inquired Reuben, startled by the suggestion.

There was a quiet smile on the face of the scout as he said: "I don't think you'll have any trouble. About all the Indians out here on the coast do is to steal our horses or traps and get away with our skins. Take care of the letter and don't lose it!"

Armed with his rifle, and with provisions sufficient for his journey strapped upon the back of his sturdy little pony, Reuben departed from the camp. The way he was to follow lay for a time among the hills. In the heart of the excited boy there was a feeling of elation that he had been selected for this journey. He was eager to show Kit Carson and his comrades that they could depend upon his coolness and that he would be able to make his way in safety to the old mission and there deliver his message. He was mindful of the heat of the plains and of the length of the journey and consequently he did not urge his pony. At last he found himself among the narrow defiles of the bleak and towering Sierras.

It was not difficult for him to retrace the way by which he had come from the old mission the last time he had visited the station. It was now early in the morning, and he was hopeful that before sunset he would once more be among the friendly Indians and the whites who dwelt at San Gabriel.

The morning passed without any adventures, and the afternoon sun was waning when at last Reuben entered a defile that was, as he recalled it, several miles long. On his left were stunted growths of trees and the sides of the mountains sloped gently back with the valley. On the opposite side, however, the cliffs were steep and the mighty crags in places hung directly over his pathway. He was following the bed of a stream, which was nearly dry, as the snows had largely disappeared from the slopes of the mountains. The sense of his absolute loneliness was resting more heavily upon him now that he was tired from the long ride.

Suddenly the pony stopped and trembled violently in every muscle. An instant later the frightened animal did its utmost to leap forward, and it was only by using all his strength that Reuben was able to restrain him. Then it was that he glanced behind him to discover the cause of the terror of his horse. His own alarm was hardly less when not more than twenty yards behind him he saw the crouching figure of a mountain lion. The savage beast evidently was following him, occasionally seeking the shelter of some huge rock, or climbing among the bushes. It was unusual, however, for such treacherous animals to come into the open, as the one behind him now was doing, and for a moment Reuben was at a loss to account for the tenacity with which the powerful beast had been clinging to his trail.

Instantly Reuben raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired. At that very moment, however, his pony, maddened by terror, suddenly leaped forward, and the aim of the young hunter was destroyed. It was plain an instant later that the savage mountain lion was unharmed.




Chapter XVI -- A Mountain Lion


Reuben was aware that if he permitted his pony to run, the beast would instantly pursue him. He knew also that it would not be long before the mountain lion would overtake the fleeing pony. As long as he moved slowly, he had been frequently informed by his companions, a lion, though it might creep close upon his trail, would not be likely to attack him. On the other hand, if he should show his fear by flight the courage of the lion instantly would be strengthened and it would follow and attack any man or animal that fled in this way from his presence.

The snorting and trembling of the pony he was riding were pitiful. The flanks of the swift little animal already were wet, and its eyes were rolling and bloodshot with terror. By a supreme effort, however, Reuben succeeded in bringing the pony to a walk, and though there were moments when his mount was so terrified that it almost crouched upon the ground, still he was able to prevent it from running. It was impossible now for the boy to reload his gun. The actions of the pony prevented him from holding his rifle sufficiently quiet to enable him to ram home the bullet.

Occasionally Reuben glanced behind him, and he was aware that the one long leap forward which the mountain lion had taken when the pony had first darted ahead had given place to a more wary and careful approach. The savage beast was creeping along the ground. For several yards it would advance in this crouching manner, and then when Reuben looked behind him it would leap back into the bushes or seek the shelter of some huge crag.

Reuben was carrying his rifle in his hands, ready to defend himself if the beast should leap upon the flanks of his pony. The lion was now not more than thirty feet behind him, and why it did not attack him the young trapper was at a loss to understand.

Reuben glanced anxiously at the sky, and his fears increased when he discovered that already the afternoon sun was below the rim of the mountain. Darkness would soon approach and would come, as he was aware, after the manner of the sunset among the towering mountains. Usually there was only a brief period of twilight. The day abruptly ceased and night with equal abruptness swept over the land. Confident that his perils would be greatly increased with the coming of night, Reuben was at a loss how he was to prevent the lion from following him, until in the darkness in some narrow defile it would leap upon its victim.

Again he glanced behind him at the beast, which now was motionless, crouched as if it had been a cat ready to spring upon a helpless and unsuspecting bird. A moment later, however, he saw it leap gracefully into the bushes and disappear from sight.

The young trapper was still compelling his horse to walk. His arms were aching from the strain of the pull upon the bridle, and he was nearly as wet as the horse he was riding. Several times he glanced back, but the pursuing mountain lion was not to be seen. Could it be possible that the beast had abandoned the pursuit?

The attitude of the animal when last it had been seen was not such as to convince Reuben that there was any ground for such a hope. Suddenly he recalled a statement he had heard made by Kit Carson. One time when the young scout had been relating an experience which he had had with one of the savage mountain lions, he had told how the beast after following its victim for a considerable distance, sometimes disappeared within the forest and later was seen far in advance when the unsuspecting party it had been following had relaxed his watchfulness, believing himself to be safe because the pursuit had been abandoned. The thought was not reassuring, and instantly Reuben gave rein to his sturdy little pony.

The terror-stricken horse dashed forward. The ground was uneven, and several times the little animal nearly fell as it bounded ahead. It was a wild and a mad flight, and Reuben not only did not hold back the pony, but continually urged it to a swifter flight. In this way he rode forward for a half-mile or more until the heaving sides of his horse gave evidence that its strength was nearly exhausted.

At the time he was entering a narrow passage in the valley. The light was becoming dimmer, but he was able to see that still about one hundred feet of the defile was before him.

Soon after he had given a brief breathing spell to his pony he was startled when the horse suddenly emitted a snort of terror and once more bounded forward. Glancing swiftly behind him, Reuben's fears all returned when he saw approaching from among the trees on the mountainside the same mountain lion which had pursued him and whose savage attack he had hoped had been abandoned.

Yelling loudly, Reuben once more urged his horse into its swiftest paces. There was a scream of anger from the pursuing lion, and Reuben's heart almost ceased to beat when he saw that the animal already was leaping forward in swift pursuit.

Abandoning his grasp on the bridle, Reuben seized his gun by the barrel and turning partly around in his saddle, with his uplifted gun he awaited the attack. The snarling beast advanced until it was within a few yards of the terrified boy. The pony, meantime, was running swiftly, snorting with terror and groaning with every breath it drew.

Abruptly Reuben turned still farther about in his seat, and yelling in his loudest tones shouted: "Get out! Clear out! Get away from here!"

He followed his words with a hissing sound, and to his delight the beast suddenly stopped, gazed in surprise or alarm at what he had evidently believed was a terrified victim, and then with long leaps instantly turned, bounded into the forest, and disappeared from sight.

Whether or not the pursuit had been abandoned Reuben did not know. He quickly gave all his attention to the horse he was riding, and as he passed beyond the border of the defile and was unable to discover any signs of the presence of his recent pursuer, he decided to continue the flight and do his utmost to escape from the savage animal.

For ten minutes the wild flight continued, until the pony no longer was able to maintain its pace. Again and again Reuben had glanced behind him, but not once had he seen the mountain lion. What pleased him still more was the fact that in advance of him he saw the end of the narrow valley. Once there he would be able to move down upon the plains, and he did not believe that the hungry brute would dare to follow him beyond the protection of the mountain. However, he halted and with trembling hands reloaded his rifle. He had decided that it would be safe as well as wise for him to take this precaution. If the beast should appear again he would stop his horse and fire at the animal. Resuming his flight, not many minutes had elapsed before Reuben found himself upon the plains.

The night now was upon him, but the light was still sufficient to enable him to see, though somewhat indistinctly, the outlines of the rocks and trees behind him. But the valley was no place of shelter, although he was aware that the Mission of San Gabriel was not more than seven or eight miles distant.

Only a brief time had elapsed before the young trapper was convinced that the mountain lion had abandoned its pursuit and turning back had sought the shelter of the defiles of the mountain.

Satisfied now that he had nothing more to fear, Reuben allowed his horse to proceed more slowly, though the manner in which the poor beast was holding its head as it advanced clearly indicated how nearly exhausted the pony was.

In this manner he moved steadily forward until he had come near to one of the farms owned by the mission and cultivated by the Indians. A rude little house was plainly to be seen in the distance, but as no light was shining from its windows, the young trapper decided to push forward and not stop until he had arrived at the destination he was seeking.

He had left the farmhouse far behind him and was moving forward over the dusty road when suddenly he saw before him the outlines of an approaching man. The man, however, was advancing in a strange manner. He was moving from one side of the road to the other, and yet as Reuben keenly watched him he was sure that the stranger was not intoxicated. Why then was he approaching in such a strange manner? He was carrying no burden upon his back, and both hands were free.

Still keenly watching the man who was steadily coming nearer, Reuben suddenly was startled by a motion that seemed to him strangely familiar. It reminded him of the companion whom he had lost among the foothills of the Rockies. But not a word had been heard from Jean Badeau.

Still believing that it was impossible that anything more than a resemblance had been discovered in the man, when Reuben came close to him he halted his horse and peered intently into the face of the stranger. The face strongly resembled that of the missing French trapper. And yet it was so unlike his friend's that Reuben was at a loss to decide whether or not his former companion was indeed now before him.

The strangest part of all was that the man appeared to be entirely unaware of the presence of Reuben. He seldom glanced at him, and even when he did so Reuben felt a shiver creep along his spine, for there was something uncanny in the expression of the man's face. Reuben somehow had a feeling that the man was not so much looking at him as looking through him. Indeed, his fear increased when he became aware that the man not only did not reply to his questions, but that he did not even seem to be aware of his presence.

"Jean, Jean!" called Reuben in a low voice. "Is that you?"

As no answer was given to his query, the excited boy in a trembling voice again said: "What are you doing here? How did you escape from the Indians?"

Either ignoring or unaware of the questions which had been asked, the man continued his zigzag journey and soon passed out of the sight of the perplexed young trapper.

Partly convinced that he had mistaken the strange man for Jean Badeau, and that it was impossible for his former companion to be among the men assembled at the San Gabriel Mission, Reuben quickly resumed his journey. His pony now was somewhat rested, and in a brief time, of its own accord, it broke into the swifter gait it had maintained most of the way since the camp of the trappers had been left.

Reuben was still thinking of the two strange adventures which had befallen him on his ride when at last he drew near the walls that surrounded the old mission, and in response to his pull upon the bell-rope the gate was opened and he was admitted.




Chapter XVII -- The Coming Of Rat


The man to whom Reuben was to deliver his message was not to be found at the mission. However, the tired young traveller was warmly welcomed, and soon after he had eaten his supper he was soundly sleeping.

The following morning his message was delivered to Captain White, who was in command of a schooner which had sailed from New York around Cape Horn. The captain read the letter which Reuben had brought, and then looking keenly into the face of the lad, he said: "How many skins have they?"

"There are a good many," replied Reuben, "but I don't know just how many."

"Do you think they have got enough to fill the hold of the Charming Nancy?"

"I've never seen the Charming Nancy!"

The captain, who was a large, good-natured man, laughed noisily at the response and then said: "I guess you're a Yankee?"

"I am not a Yankee," retorted Reuben. "I come from Pain Court."

"Whew!" whistled the captain. "You're a youngster to be so far away from home. How old are you?"

"I'll be sixteen my next birthday."

"Is that so? You'll be quite an old gentleman soon if you don't look out. I guess you had better go back and tell your boss that we can strike up some kind of a deal, if he doesn't want too much for his furs."

"Shall I take that message?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you going to write a letter?"

"I hadn't thought anything about it. Can you write?"

"Yes," answered Reuben.

"Well, then, you write the letter. I'll tell you what to say."

Suspecting that the handwriting of the captain was perhaps not of the best, Reuben obtained a quill pen and some paper and ink and soon had written a letter at the dictation of the man. Just why he should be asked to do this he did not understand, inasmuch as it would be as easy for him to report what was said as it was to write out the direct message of Captain White. However, he discreetly held his peace, and the following day, with the letter in his pocket, set forth on his return to camp.

In spite of his determination to be brave, Reuben's heart was beating rapidly when once more he rode into the ravine where the mountain lion had threatened to attack him. It was speedily manifest also that the pony had vivid recollections of his experiences in the narrow valley and was eager to be beyond its confines.

Without any reluctance Reuben gave the hardy little beast free rein and at a rapid pace rode through the place of peril without any mishap. He maintained a keen outlook on both sides of the gorge, but did not discover any signs of the presence of the enemy which had so nearly attacked him two days before. Nor was Reuben molested in the remainder of his journey back to the camp.

When he arrived he at once delivered his message and explained to Kit Carson and others the questions which Captain White had asked him.

"We can fix this all right," said Kit Carson quickly. "I think we have skins enough to fill the hold of the Charming Nancy so that neither Captain White nor her owners will have any reason to complain."

Several days elapsed, however, before the bargain was completed. In this time the scout himself went to San Gabriel and had two or three personal interviews with the jovial sea captain.

When Kit Carson returned, Reuben was particularly interested in the description he gave of an attack which had been made upon him by the mountain lion.

"Where did you find him?" inquired Reuben.

"Why, it was among the foothills about seven or eight miles this side of San Gabriel."

"That's exactly where I met one. Did you kill it?"

"I think so," replied Kit Carson quietly. "The beast crept up behind me and I had all I could do to keep my pony from running away with me."

"That's exactly what happened to me. I don't see how you shot him."

"I think it must have been pure luck. I got the pony quiet for a minute and turned around and fired at the beast when it was not more than ten or twelve feet away. A blind man couldn't have missed it."

Reuben had his own thoughts as to the truthfulness of the modest declaration, but he did not give expression to them. In response to the questions of the scout, he modestly related the incident which had befallen him in his own journey in the same region.

"You were a lucky lad," said Kit Carson warmly. "And you couldn't have acted better if you had been sixty-one instead of sixteen. You never had seen one before, had you?"

"No."

"I don't understand yet why it was that you didn't put your pony into a run and try to escape. It was lucky for you that you didn't, for if you had tried it the beast would have got you as sure as fate."

"I had heard Jean tell about the lions, and all that he had said flashed into my mind in a minute. And I saw a man at San Gabriel that looked so much like Jean that I was almost sure that it was he."

"Are you sure that he wasn't?"

"No, and that's what puzzles me most of all. You see I left him the other side of the Rocky Mountains. It can't be possible that he made his way all alone through the Rockies, and across the plains and over the Sierras into San Gabriel. Besides, this man looks as if he was either crazy or a fool. There's something the matter with him anyway. He stared at me as if I was like air and he could look straight through me."

"I never met a man like that," said Kit Carson quietly, smiling as he spoke. "I guess it will turn out all right, and, besides, you may have several chances to see him again in the next few days. We're going to load up our ponies with the furs we have taken, or at least with a part of them, and send them down to Captain White."

"What is he going to do with them?"

"Take them to New York for us. We shan't let him have all that we have taken, but it will save a long hard ride if we let him have some of them here, and besides, I think now we shall trap much of the way back to Taos. By the time we get there we ought to have a load that will satisfy every man, to say nothing of our horses."

In the three weeks that followed, all the ponies of the camp were brought into service. They were heavily loaded with the skins that the trappers had secured and then began their long journey to the Charming Nancy. A careful record was kept, and a division among the trappers of the amount received from the sales of furs was to be made later.

Soon afterward the men returned to their camp and for several days were busily engaged in other tasks. Indeed, they were unusually successful, and the piles of beaver skins steadily mounted higher and higher.

At last when it was decided to break camp the trappers delayed a day in order to make a cache. A long trench was made in an unusually dry bank of earth not far from a stream on which the men had been trapping. A deep hole or excavation was made in this bank until a trench several yards wide and many yards long had been fashioned. All the time the men maintained guards and also took the utmost pains to hide every trace of their labours so that none of the prowling Indians would suspect either the task in which they had been engaged or the place where the skins had been hidden.

The turf was cut with great care and placed on one side of the hole. Much of the top soil then was placed on blankets or buffalo robes. The rest of the dirt which they dug while they were making the excavation was carried in pails by the men to the middle of the stream and there poured into the rushing waters.

At last when the hole was as large as they desired, twigs and dry grasses were cut and with these the trappers carefully lined the hole which they had dug. After all this had been done the furs were tightly packed and stored in the place. Last of all, grass and loose skins were placed over the bundles of furs and pounded with the top soil, which had been saved and had now been brought back from the place in which it had been stored. Then all the ground was watered and the turf was replaced with utmost care. After the task had been accomplished, unless a man had been informed of the work which had been done, it would have been almost impossible for him to discover any signs about the place that the trappers had made a storehouse in which they had concealed their furs.

A little later, when the September days came, it was decided by the trappers that they would start homeward. But it was also agreed that they would trap throughout their journey. They were to escape the hardest part of the ride across the desert because they now planned to follow the Colorado River in its course until they came to the Gila. Then their course again was to be changed and they were to follow that river on their homeward way. In this manner they were confident that they would be able to trap as they journeyed and, if fortune should favour them, they would add many skins to those which they already had taken.

The plan was speedily approved, and as the men sat about the camp talking of the return which they were now eager to make, the proceedings were interrupted by the approach of a stranger.

Instantly Reuben recognized him as Rat, the braggart whom he had last seen when he was among the foothills of the Rockies.

Confidently, as if the man himself had been a member of the band for a long time, the stranger approached and said: "I want to stop with you over night."

"You're welcome," replied Kit Carson, nevertheless gazing keenly at the stranger as he spoke.

"I have taken about fifteen hundred skins," said the visitor, laughing loudly as he spoke.

"Where are they?" inquired the scout.

"They are where I have hidden them so that neither you nor anybody else ever will find them, if I don't want you to. There isn't a man this side of Pain Court that can make a cache as good as the one I made."

"You're fortunate," said Kit Carson quietly. "You're lucky not only to have the skins, but to be able to hide them so that no one will ever find them."

"That's where you're right," laughed the stranger. "What have you done with all your skins?" he added as he looked about the camp.

"We have been lucky, too," said Kit Carson quietly. "Captain White of the Charming Nancy has shipped a lot of our furs as a part of his cargo."

"Maybe he'll take mine, too."

"It's too late. He has sailed before now."

"That's a pity," said Rat. "I'll have to tote mine clear across the desert. I think I'll have one or two of your men go with me."

"That cannot be done."

"Oh, yes, it can!" roared the man.

"No," replied Kit Carson, still speaking in low tones. "There isn't any one of us that wants to go with you."

"What do you mean by that?" roared Rat, leaping to his feet as he spoke. "Do you mean to say my company isn't desired?"

"That isn't what I said."

"Is that what you mean?"

"I usually mean what I say."

"Is that what you mean?" again thundered the angry giant, who acted now much as if he had been striving to pick a quarrel with some one.

"I haven't anything more to say. If you want to pick a fight with some one you had better go on to some other place."

Rat now was angry and he took no pains to conceal his feelings. As yet he had not recognized Reuben, and the lad was too keenly excited by what was occurring in the camp to call the attention of the quarrelsome man to himself.

"I don't have to go on. There isn't any American in this camp that I can't switch."

A silence followed the speech of the boastful man and it was not broken until Kit Carson said quietly: "It's plain you're not an American. I am, and I demand that you take back what you said."




Chapter XVIII -- A Fight


Instantly a silence that was tense and could almost be felt fell upon the entire camp. All the trappers gazed in surprise first at the tall, awkward boaster and then at Kit Carson, who in comparison with the other man seemed to be little more than a boy in size. Brawls and quarrels were not uncommon among the lonely men, but this was the first time any one had known Kit Carson to join in the petty bickerings of the camp.

Reuben, startled at first by the quiet manner in which his friend had spoken, now looked at him in alarm. It did not seem possible that so slight and light a man as the guide would be able to defend himself against the braggart, who was known as the bully of the West. It is true Rat had no friends among the trappers. Every one had looked upon him as one who talked much but whose deeds were lacking. It was commonly reported that he was better able to tell other men how to trap the beaver than he was to secure the little animals in his own traps.

To the excited Reuben the huge shoulders of the bully looked broader than ever he had seen them before. And yet for some strange reason Rat did not leap forward to attack Kit Carson when the latter in his quiet manner had demanded that he take back his remark that he could "switch any American in the camp."

The silence, however, was soon broken. Rat hesitated a moment and then, turning abruptly, with long strides walked to his tent. At the actions of the bully Kit Carson also started for his own tent, and every man present understood at once what was about to occur. The two men, who seemed to be so unequally matched, were to fight, and each had gone to his tent for his weapons. This method of settling quarrels was the one commonly used on the border.

With this thought in mind, every member of Kit Carson's band was eager to see the coming contest. At once they all drew more closely together, and although many were fearful for the life of their brave little leader, there was no one that ventured to express his opinion.

In a few moments the swaggering Rat, holding his rifle in his hand, and his face fierce in its expression of rage, rushed forward on his powerful horse. Almost at the same moment Kit Carson, light and graceful in every movement, approached on horseback from the opposite side of the camp. He carried no rifle, but from his belt there protruded the stock of his pistol.

Kit Carson had always been a lover of good horses. Several times in the journeys along the streams and in the valleys of the mountains he had turned aside a part of a day from his regular task of trapping and had caught the leaders of several bands of wild horses. The horse upon which he now was mounted was one of these captives. Its black coat was shining in the sunlight and its expression of intelligence almost seemed to convey the idea that it understood the peril of its master and was determined to do its utmost to aid him. Carson rode without any saddle. No man in all the camp was considered a better rider, or more able to compel the animal he was riding to obey his every word. At full gallop the young scout advanced swiftly toward Rat, who, as has been said, was also mounted upon a powerful horse.

Suddenly checking his horse as he approached Rat, Kit Carson in a low voice said: "Am I the man you are looking for?"

For a moment the two men gazed steadily each into the face of the other, and then Rat replied, "No."

As he spoke, however, he lowered his rifle, and although his actions apparently were without any design, his gun was pointed directly at the heart of the scout.

But Kit Carson was not to be taken unaware. He had heard Rat's declaration that he was not looking for trouble, but the action of the treacherous boaster when he had lowered his rifle so that it was aimed directly at his heart did not escape him. He understood fully what the plan of the treacherous man now was likely to be.

Like a flash he pulled his own pistol and fired at his enemy. True to his aim the bullet struck the arm of Rat, even while his fingers were almost upon the trigger of his rifle. Indeed, as Kit Carson fired, Rat's rifle also was discharged, but the wound which he had received caused his arm to turn and the ball which he had intended to send into the heart of the scout passed harmlessly above his head. Instantly the men of the camp ran forward and surrounded the two fighters.

Kit Carson smiled quietly as he saw his friends approach, and then waving them back, said in a low voice: "I have done just exactly what I planned to do. I have prevented him from shooting me, and I think I have given him a lesson that he will remember for some time, and yet I have not killed him."

"That's right, Kit! That's right!" spoke up Jack. "We know that you're not quarrelsome, and this is the first time I ever saw you draw a gun on a white man."

Meanwhile the bully, groaning loudly and holding his wounded arm in his hand, was led from the spot, while two of the trappers, with water from the spring, washed his wound and bound up his hand after the fashion employed by the men of the frontier. In the days that followed Reuben was not able to induce Kit Carson to refer to the fight into which he had been drawn.

Not many days elapsed, however, before Rat declared that he would no longer stay in the camp, and true to his word, he soon afterward withdrew from the place. Nor was he seen again until several months had elapsed, and then it was under conditions that caused every member of the band to remember his coming.

"It's time for us to be turning back," said Kit Carson early one morning, not long after the contest which has just been described.

"Go back where?" inquired Reuben quickly. "To Pain Court?"

"No. I don't intend to go back there for years."

"Where are we going?"

"To Taos."

"We'll have to come back here again," suggested Reuben. "We have cached our furs."

"Oh, we shall come back," replied Carson, smiling as he spoke. "Very likely we'll be back here the next trapping season."

In accordance with the word of the leader, it was not long before the few wagons in which the trappers had brought their provisions, in addition to the supplies which had been carried on the backs of their ponies and mules, were loaded with the furs which had been secured after the cache had been made. Then following the course which already had been decided upon, the men slowly made their way down the Colorado, trapping as they went, until they at last arrived at the Gila. Then, turning once more in their course, they trapped along the banks of the latter river and finally, well laden with the skins they had taken, set forth on their journey to Taos.

After their arrival there and in the days that followed, Reuben Benton made many visits with his friend Kit Carson among the Indians, until he, too, had learned much of their language and also had learned enough Spanish to express his wants in that musical tongue. He shared fully in the feeling of respect and love which the Indians manifested for the young scout, who now was becoming famous among the scattered people on the border. In this manner the days passed until at last the time had come when once more the trappers were to return to the region from which they had recently set forth.

As they advanced, the friendly Indians gave place to those who were more hostile. The fame of Kit Carson already had preceded their coming, and many of the redmen, although they hated the whites, nevertheless were fearful of an encounter with them. Indeed, the trappers were not molested throughout their long journey, until at last there came a night which was long remembered by Reuben.

At that time, when the trappers had gone into camp, they had established a guard for their horses. This guard was on duty throughout the hours of the day, being shifted several times so that no one man would be compelled to serve an undue length of time. When night drew nigh the horses were hobbled. Frequently, however, the fear of the prowling Indians caused Kit Carson to direct his men to tie the animals to stakes which had been driven into the ground.

All these precautions, however, did not avail. There were times when prowling Indian bands stealthily crept near the camp, and while the men were sleeping the redskins cut the ropes by which the horses were fastened to the stakes and either led them quickly away or tried to secure a larger number by driving some of their own horses directly through the camp, the Indians themselves closely following the frightened animals and yelling in their loudest tones. At such times there was danger that even the picketed horses would break away and join the herd that was rushing upon them.

And this very event occurred on a never-to-be-forgotten night. Before morning dawned Carson, having discovered the loss, quickly selected a half-dozen of his followers and upon the backs of the horses that were still left in the camp hastily followed the fleeing Indians.

Reuben, who was permitted to follow the men, although his friends strongly urged him to remain in the camp, was soon aware that the Indians were well armed and were not inclined to give up the prizes they had taken without a struggle.

Many of the Indians now were armed with rifles, and the members of the thieving band far outnumbered those of the little party that was pursuing them. Several times among the mountains the Indians stopped and from behind huge rocks fired upon the approaching white men.

Reuben was aware soon after the party had set forth that the night was to be intensely cold. Indeed, his fingers soon were so numb that he was scarcely able to hold the reins of the pony he was riding. However, he was determined not to give way to his suffering, and without a word of complaint steadily maintained his place in the line.

The men were confident that the Indians were not far before them. Already they had had two brisk encounters, in which each party had fired at the other, but whatever the results may have been among the Indians, no one among the whites as yet had been hit.

Kit Carson's men were making greater haste than they would had they not been so eager to recover the horses they had lost. Because of this fact they had advanced boldly into a long and narrow valley and had not stopped to make sure that a part of the force they were pursuing had not been left at the entrance while others had gone in advance to draw the white men forward.

When the angry trappers had arrived at the place midway in the valley, suddenly shots were heard not only in front of them but also from the rear. In an instant it was plain that an ambuscade had been made and the whites had been caught between the two lines of their foes.

As the party still continued on its way, Kit Carson ordered every man to hold his fire. Suddenly one of the trappers, who was riding on Reuben's right, uttered a loud cry and, dropping his rifle as he threw up his arms, almost fell from the back of his horse.

"Go on, men!" called Kit Carson, instantly, while he himself dropped back to assist his companion in his peril.

An instant later, however, a cry went up from all the trappers when it was seen that Kit Carson himself had been hit by a rifle ball and was reeling on the back of his pony.




Chapter XIX -- Trapped


The confusion among the trappers instantly was almost overwhelming. The affection which every member of the party had for the brave little scout was strong, and all the men were fearful now that with the fall of Kit Carson the destruction of the band might follow. There was no one to take his place as leader.

It was the wounded leader himself, however, who in his quiet tones reassured his comrades as soon as they had carried him to a place of safety. "Don't be scared," he urged them, when they had placed him upon the blankets which they spread upon the ground.

"Where were you hit?" inquired Reuben, his voice breaking as he spoke.

"The fellow got me in the shoulder," replied Kit Carson. In a moment his hunting shirt was torn away by his excited friends. The weather was intensely cold and the blood from his wound had quickly frozen on his clothing.

After one or two attempts had been made to lay bare the wound, the young scout, who was suffering intensely, said: "It will be better if only one of you tries to help me." His face was drawn and colourless, but his courage in the midst of his suffering appealed so strongly to his friends that his directions were instantly followed.

"Go down to the brook," suggested Kit Carson to Reuben, "and bring back your cap full of water."

At his utmost speed Reuben ran down the slope of the valley to the noisy brook at its base. In his excitement he dashed into the stream unmindful of the fact that he might obtain the water he desired without wetting his own clothing.

He was still unaware, however, of his condition when he rushed back to the place where his friend was lying, and in a brief time the trapper that had been designated for the task was washing the leader's wound.

Once during the operation the face of the patient became deadly white. He did not lose consciousness, however, and although he was suffering intense pain not a murmur escaped his lips. This heroic endurance of suffering was one of the cardinal requirements of the hardy men of the frontier. No one was surprised at their leader's power of endurance, but the fact that he still directed his friends in their efforts to aid him, sending Reuben several times to the stream for fresh supplies of water, nevertheless impressed them all. Throughout this time guards had taken their places to make sure that the horde of Indians did not break through and attack them again while they were unprepared. In a brief time it became manifest that the Indians were unaware of the damage they had wrought, for they did not offer to advance from the rocks behind which they had been concealed.

When at last the wound had been bathed and bandaged as best the men were able, and a hunting shirt from one of the trappers had been tied about the shoulders of the suffering man, preparations for the return to camp were speedily made.

"The best thing to do is to make a litter and take me home on it," said Kit Carson in a low voice. "Cut some poles and swing two of the blankets on them. I think that will be the best way to carry me."

In accordance with these directions a rough hammock-like litter was soon made and the wounded trapper was tenderly placed upon it. His friends gently lifted the poles to their shoulders and then, after advance and rear guards had been established for the little line, they proceeded on their way back to the camp. Fortunately they were not molested on their way. Once in the camp, the men no longer were afraid, and quickly a bed was made for their leader upon which he soon was placed.

The clean life and the strong constitution of the young trapper now came to his assistance. In spite of the fact that the wound was painful the precautions which his friends had taken had prevented the development of serious trouble and not many days had elapsed before Kit Carson declared that he was as well as ever. Indeed, only a few weeks had passed before Kit Carson's activities in visiting his traps were as great as they had been before his unfortunate adventure with the Indians. It was upon one of his daily rounds, in which Reuben accompanied him, that the lad gained a fresh insight into the character of the man of whom now he was intensely fond.

Meat was needed in the camp, and Kit Carson, whose skill as a hunter was acknowledged by all, promised to provide fresh game. His traps already had been visited and much of the day's work had been done when he turned to Reuben and said: "Lad, would you like to go with me?"

"Where are you going?" inquired Reuben.

"I want to get some game."

"Yes, I'll have my rifle in a minute."

Hastening into the tent he occupied, Reuben soon returned with his rifle, powder-horn, and bullet-pouch. Together the two men started on their hunt among the mountains. They had not gone far before they discovered that they would be able to obtain as many rabbits as they might desire.

"I want bigger game than that," said Kit Carson dryly. "If you want to turn back you may go, Reuben, but I'm going on a little farther. I have seen some signs that make me think there are some elk not far away."

"Have you seen their tracks?"

"Yes, there are some now," replied the scout, pointing, as he spoke, to some spots in the ground before him.

Reuben was unable to discover any resemblance to the track of an elk, even after he had carefully inspected the places indicated, but his confidence in his companion was supreme and he quickly said, "I'll go on with you."

He was rejoiced when not long after the advance was resumed they saw near a clump of trees in the distance a small herd of the animals they were seeking.

"The thing for us to do," whispered Kit Carson, "is to try to get closer to those trees. If we once get under cover there I think we can bag two or three."

Cautiously and slowly the two eager hunters worked their way toward the trees in the distance. Both were aware how keenly alert the elk were and how difficult it would be for the hunters to obtain the shelter they were seeking. Frequently the animals lifted their heads and gazed in their direction. Less than a half-hour had elapsed before Kit Carson said abruptly in a low voice: "They have seen us! The only thing to do now is to try to bring down one of them. Be quick, Reuben!"

Both men knelt and aimed at the animals, which already had turned to flee from the place where they were feeding. Together the reports of the two guns rang out and a moment later one of the running elk fell to the ground.

"I missed him," said Reuben dolefully.

"You don't know whether you did or not," laughed Kit Carson. "Only one was hit, that's plain, but whether it was by your gun or mine no one can say. Come on, we'll get this one anyway."

Advancing rapidly, the two hunters ran toward the place where the body of the elk was lying. They had approached within a few yards of the body when both young hunters were startled by the sound of branches snapping in the bushes nearby. As they looked up they saw two immense grizzly bears advancing upon them. It was instantly clear that the bears were as hungry as the men and that they, too, had been doing their utmost to obtain fresh meat. Perhaps also the huge bears were angry that unexpected rivals had appeared in the hunt. At all events, the only safety for the two young hunters was to seek flight instantly.

Neither had stopped to reload his rifle, so eager had both been to make sure that the elk which had fallen was killed.

Without a word to his companion Kit Carson instantly ran for a nearby tree, leaving Reuben to use his own devices. And Reuben was not slow in following the example of his friend. In spite of his fear he recalled the conversation which he had had with the scout not long before this time. Kit Carson at that time had declared that it was much better when a man was hunting for him to go alone. In response to the protests of Reuben he had said: "If two go together and something comes up that makes it absolutely necessary for quick action, if there are two hunters they will stop and talk before they decide what to do. The result will be not only that much valuable time will be lost, but the plan they will follow will probably be neither that of one nor of the other, but a sort of compromise. The only way is for a man not to stop to discuss things when he must make up his mind in a hurry. If he's alone, there won't be any trouble, and he will not only do what he wants to, but probably will do what was the best thing for him to do under the circumstances."

Recollections of this conversation were in Reuben's mind as he ran at his utmost speed toward a sapling he saw not far before him. Fortunately the boy was able to gain the shelter up which he was confident the bears would not attempt to climb. It is true they were able to climb almost any tree which a man could use, but the one in which Reuben had sought shelter was so small that he did not believe the lumbering bears would attempt to climb it. He was satisfied, when at last he rested in a crotch of the tree, that he was twelve feet from the ground and beyond the swing of the paws of the angry beasts.

Assured of his safety, Reuben excitedly turned to see what had befallen his companion. His own gun he had dropped at the base of the tree when he had made his ascent. He was therefore without any means of defense or of aiding his comrade.

Not far away he saw the scout just as he arrived at the base of a tree. Without hesitating a moment Kit Carson nimbly seized a branch and swung himself up into the tree, while the two bears -- for both had started in the pursuit of the fleeing scout -- were several yards behind him.

Excitedly Reuben watched the grizzlies as they bounded forward. The steady swing from side to side which marked their course while they were running had disappeared. Reuben's heart almost stopped beating while he gazed at the awkward and yet swift animals. Would they be able to reach the tree before the scout could climb higher among the branches? Reuben speedily was aware that the bears had by no means abandoned the chase. As soon as they arrived at the base of the tree one of them quickly began its ascent.

The trembling boy was able to see the scout as he drew his knife after he had ascended as far up the tree as evidently he had planned to go. Quickly a sturdy branch was cut and trimmed. The grizzly was steadily mounting, but the victim that he was seeking now held a stout club in his hands and was preparing to defend himself.

"And yet," thought Reuben, "what can Kit Carson do with only a club to protect himself against the savage brutes?"

The bear which had remained on the ground several times threatened to climb the tree after its companion. Apparently, however, it was satisfied to leave to the other bear the task of securing their dinner, or else it was fearful that the tree would not bear the weight of both.

At that moment the climbing bear had approached close to the crotch in which Kit Carson was standing. With one arm around the branch the hunter leaned forward in such a way that he was able to lift his club and look directly down into the face of the savage animal. Suddenly drawing back with all his force Kit Carson brought his club down directly upon the nose of the grizzly.

The hunter was aware of the fact that there is no part of the body of the grizzly bear quite as tender as its nose. Reuben laughed excitedly when a roar of pain came from the animal as soon as the blow had been struck, and he saw the brute slowly make its way backward down the tree, shaking its head and occasionally roaring with pain in the descent.

When the bear at last had regained the ground, as if by a mutual understanding, the second bear at once began to climb the tree. Kit Carson meanwhile had obtained shelter in a crotch somewhat lower than the one in which he had first stood. In the place he now occupied he was able to obtain a greater sweep for his club, while his foothold was equally safe.

Rapidly the climbing bear came to the place where the hunter was waiting. Again Kit Carson drew back his club and with the fuller sweep which now he was able to obtain he dealt a still more savage blow directly upon the nose of the approaching bear.

Again there was a roar of mingled pain and rage, and the grizzly, like its companion, quickly decided to retreat. As soon as the lumbering animal, still roaring with pain and shaking its head, regained the ground at the base of the tree, its companion, having somewhat recovered from the results of its former attempt, once more began to climb.

But Kit Carson, now more confident, met the ascending bear with a second resounding blow upon its nose. Evidently the spot was somewhat tender, for the grizzly emitted a loud roar of pain and with still greater haste started to the ground.

Once more the second bear attempted the ascent, but the result which had followed its former efforts speedily compelled the attack to be abandoned. Both bears now were steadily shaking their heads, growling and in pain, and yet neither apparently was inclined to withdraw from the spot where they had trapped the scout.




Chapter XX -- Wild Horses


Apparently the two grizzlies were confident that they would be able to wait as long as the man whom they had compelled to seek refuge in the tree. The slow minutes passed, and even Reuben, who was watching from the distance and as yet had not been discovered by the bears, was becoming cramped and impatient. He was not willing to call to his friend, for he dared not do anything to attract the attention of his enemies. He was well assured that he would not be able to drive them away as successfully as had Kit Carson by wielding a club.

At last when what Reuben was convinced was at least two hours had passed, apparently the two bears decided to abandon their vigil. Apparently, too, they did this not because they were discouraged, but because their feeling of hunger drew them in another direction. With the strange lope or rolling motion with which bears run, both grizzlies advanced to the place where the elk which Kit Carson had shot was lying. This was not far distant from the trees in which the young trappers were hiding, and in a brief time the sounds of the repast were distinctly heard. Snarls and occasional growls were frequent. Once one of the bears rose to a sitting posture and viciously struck his companion on the head with his paw. The action apparently did not arouse the anger of the second bear, who was thoroughly busy in his task of devouring the body of the slain elk.

Would the animals never eat their fill? Reuben, cramped and with every nerve tingling, had watched the savage beasts, hoping that they soon would be satisfied and then would depart from the region.

At last, when the grizzlies had devoured most of the body, apparently satisfied with their repast, they both turned and for a moment threatened to come back to the place where they had tried to climb the tree in which the young scout had found refuge.

Apparently, however, recollections of their experiences at the hands of the fearless young hunter were still vivid. Abruptly they turned away, and, swinging and swaying, made their way toward the mountains and soon disappeared from sight.

With the departure of the bears Reuben was confident that he and his friend might safely leave their places of refuge. As Reuben started to descend the tree he was startled by a call from his comrade.

"Don't do that, lad!"

"But they have gone," protested Reuben.

"You can't trust them. No one knows how far away they are. They may simply be waiting for us."

"But I'm all cramped, I have been here so long. It doesn't seem to me I can stay much longer."

"Oh, yes, you can," called Kit Carson encouragingly. "We can stay here all night, if we have to."

It was late in the afternoon when at last a low call from Kit Carson caused Reuben to descend the tree. His muscles were so stiff from remaining such a long time in his cramped position that it was with difficulty that he was able to walk. His friend stopped for a moment as soon as he drew near and showed Reuben how he stretched his own weary muscles and exercised his arms which were almost numb.

"Do you think the bears have gone for good and all?" inquired Reuben.

"I think so. You had better load your rifle, though I don't know that it would do you very much good. I have known a grizzly to be shot in the head, and, as far as one could see, pay about as much attention to the bullet as he would to a pebble. They must have heads that are mighty strong and thick. However," he continued, "see that your rifle is all ready and we'll start."

Cautiously the two trappers made their way from the place where both had been so nearly caught, and after a quarter of an hour had elapsed Kit Carson declared that the bears must have gone in the opposite direction from the one which they were following and were no longer to be feared. Somewhat assured by his companion's confidence, Reuben nevertheless kept a careful watch as with his friend he advanced through the valley.

The young hunter was greatly surprised when they came near to the end of the valley to discover a small Indian village before them. He had been unaware of the presence of the redmen and now that he saw this camp his fears returned.

"Come on, lad. Don't be afraid," said Kit Carson quietly. "I have been here a great many times."

"You have?" exclaimed Reuben. "I didn't know there was an Indian camp within ten miles of ours."

"Well, you see there is," replied the scout dryly.

"How long has it been here?"

"A year or more."

"How do you know?"

"I told you I have been over here a good many times and I know all about it. I have talked with some of the braves and they think I'm almost fit to be received into the tribe." Kit Carson spoke quietly, and yet there was a tone in his voice that caused Reuben to glance sharply at him. There was no change, however, in the expression of the face of the scout, and as apparently he did not wish to continue the conversation the subject was dropped.

Not long afterward, however, both trappers were welcomed into the Indian village. The suspicion which possessed Reuben he was not able entirely to conceal. Even the dogs that came sniffing about his feet seemed to be treacherous. Few words were spoken to him, although his companion was cordially received and the statement which he had recently made to Reuben was manifestly confirmed. The Indians all looked upon him as a friend, and in the spirit of friendship bade him and his companion welcome.

Reuben, who was eager to be back in camp, found it difficult to understand why Kit Carson insisted upon remaining longer in the village. Indeed, an hour elapsed before he gave the word and the journey was resumed.

"I'm going to marry the daughter of the chief," said Kit Carson, speaking almost as if he were referring to some ordinary occurrence.

"What!" exclaimed Reuben, as he spoke gazing in amazement at his companion.

"That's just what I'm going to do," said Kit Carson, smiling slightly at the astonishment of his friend.

"But I don't see --  -- " began Reuben.

"No, you don't see, but I do, and that's enough."

"Well, you're the one to be pleased," said Reuben. "I wish you much joy."

"Thank you," replied the scout, laughing quietly. "I reckon some of my friends back at Pain Court would think I was out of my head to marry an Indian squaw. From the expression on your face, Reuben, I can see that you, too, have something of the same idea in your mind."

Reuben did not respond, and for a time the two men continued in silence.

"I have known that little Indian girl," explained Kit Carson, after a long silence, "more than a year. She is as pretty as a picture and as good as she is pretty. It was a long time before the old chief would give her to me, but to-night he told me that he had decided that if I wanted her for my wife and would promise that she might stay in the village while I was trapping he would not oppose me any longer. And he doesn't like the white men, either," he added with a laugh.

"How is it that he is willing for you to have her, then, if he doesn't like the whites?"

"Oh, he has a notion," replied Kit Carson simply, "that he can trust me. He says if I say I will do a thing I don't try to lie out of it."

"He's right about that," said Reuben warmly. "That's just the way everybody that knows you feels."

"Thank you." There was a tender expression in the eyes of the young scout that prevented Reuben from making any further protest against the action of his friend.

"I am going to take you with me to-morrow into the village and let you see how they treat me. Just now, however, Reuben, I would rather you would not say anything about what I have just told you."

Abruptly both men stopped, and in a low voice Reuben said: "What is that? It sounds like thunder."

"It is a drove of wild horses," answered Kit Carson quickly. "Come with me and we'll see what they are."

The sun was now about a half-hour above the horizon. In the soft light of the closing day the sound of the approaching body was almost weird. The band of wild horses was steadily drawing nearer the place where the two scouts had concealed themselves. The wind was blowing toward them, or otherwise the horses would not have approached the spot. They were almost as keen in their ability to detect by their sense of smell the presence of an enemy as were the prowling beasts.

In a brief time the drove came within sight. At the head was the leader, a powerful and beautiful creature, running easily, his head carried high and his pride showing in his every movement.

"Did you ever see such a tail on a horse?" exclaimed Kit Carson in a low voice. "Look at it -- it sweeps the ground! Do you know, I believe I'll get that fellow. If there is anything I am fond of it's a good horse."

The scout's fondness for fleet-footed ponies was well known by his friends. Not a man in the camp was his equal as a rider. He seldom used a saddle, and whatever the motion of the animal he was riding might be, Kit Carson bestrode it almost as if they were parts of the same being.

Reuben, whose heart was beating wildly as he saw the drove approach, said in a whisper: "How will you get him?"

"We'll fix that up to-morrow. We'll see to-night where they go."

The approaching horses soon swept past the hiding-place of the two trappers, and turning abruptly disappeared from sight at the entrance to one of the valleys.

"They will stay there all night," said Kit Carson quickly. "Come on now, lad, we'll go back to camp."

"What makes you think they will stay all night? They may leave before morning."

Kit Carson smiled and shook his head, but made no further response, and in a brief time, delaying only until they had secured a few rabbits and a deer which they chanced to see, soon rejoined their companions.

For some reason Kit Carson was silent concerning their visit at the Indian village, and Reuben himself naturally did not refer to it. The leader, however, made much of the drove of wild horses, and it was plain that the young scout's enthusiasm increased as he described the strength and beauty of the black pony at its head.

"I must have him," he said.

"That's easy to say," suggested one of the men. "I have heard others talk the same way, but when you run down a pony like that you'll have your work cut out for you."

"But I'm going to get him," said Kit confidently. "And I'll tell you how."

In a low voice he explained to his companions the plan which he had formed for catching the black leader. Every man in the camp was interested, but when at last they sought their tents it had been decided that only Reuben and two others were to share in the attempt.




Chapter XXI -- The Chase Of The Leader


Long before daylight the following morning Kit Carson and his three companions mounted their horses and departed from the camp.

The plan which had been agreed upon was for Kit Carson himself to go into the valley into which the drove of wild horses had disappeared and await their return to the plains. It was confidently believed that the horses would leave their place of shelter about sunrise or a little before. The three companions of the scout had been stationed at intervals of two or three miles among the foothills in places where they would be concealed from the sight of any passerby. It also was planned that the scout, if it was possible, was to separate the leader from the other horses in the drove and to chase him at his highest speed. If it was in his power to do so, the scout expected to turn the black leader toward the south, where Reuben and Jack were to be ready to take up the pursuit as soon as Kit Carson drew near their hiding-place. In this manner it was believed that however swift the paces of the leader might be he would be soon worn out by the swiftness of the pursuit of the three horses, every one of which was fresh at the beginning of his part of the chase.

Never before had Reuben seen Kit Carson so eager to secure one of the wild ponies. Frequently the men in the camp had caught and broken horses, which they had taken on the plains. Indeed, almost every horse in their possession now was one that had been captured and broken and trained to service by the trappers. Several times men had secured these horses by firing at them, stunning the animals without injuring them. However, only the most expert shots were able to do this, and even with them the danger of killing or harming the horses they were chasing was so great that the plan was seldom tried.

In the present case long ropes of a lariat or noose were hanging from the horn of Kit Carson's saddle. It was not often that the fearless scout deigned to use a saddle, as we know, but in this case, as he needed his rope and at the same time was aware that occasions for the use of his gun might arise, he consented to use a light saddle.

"Now, then, every man look sharp!" he said in a low voice, as he parted from his companions. "One of you go to the north and the other two to the south. Be sure to hide in places where you can take up the chase without having to climb very much. The most important thing, however, is to find some rock or hill behind which you will not be seen, for this leader, unless I am much mistaken, will be off like a shot the minute he sights you, and you'll need to be fresh to keep close to him in the chase."

The directions of the scout were carefully followed, and Reuben secured a place behind a rocky barrier near the border of the foothills. His companion proceeded two or three miles farther before he, too, concealed himself. By the time each of the trappers had found his hiding-place, Kit Carson had disappeared from sight. Cautiously the scout made his way up the narrow valley or gorge in which the wild horses had sought refuge for the night.

The sun had not yet risen above the eastern horizon, but the light of the coming day was already beginning to appear. This hour was selected because, as has been stated, it was believed by the trappers that the horses would leave their shelter among the hills at the approach of day.

Reuben, who had dismounted and thrown the bridle over the head of his horse, an act which as effectually prevented his horse from leaving as if he had been tied to a post, impatiently awaited the coming of the day.

He now was almost as eager as his friend to secure the wonderful leader of the drove of wild horses. The shining coat and the proud air of the black horse had marked the animal as one not only of unusual beauty, but of marked speed and power as well. In his mind Reuben again saw the arched neck, the long sweeping tail, the high step, and the pride of the animal as in response to his call the twenty-five or more horses followed his lead. Surely he was worthy of all that the effort to catch him might cost.

The horses which the trappers had selected for the chase were all fleet, but as Reuben glanced at his own beast he smiled as he thought of the possibility of the black leader being overtaken by such an animal. To divide the pursuit into relays was the only feasible plan. And his own part, provided the wild leader turned southward, would not be slight. There was, however, the possibility that instead of turning either northward or to the south the black leader might move directly toward the east. In that event pursuit would be well-nigh hopeless. There were no horses in the possession of the trappers that would be able to overtake the fleet-footed leader in a straight chase across the plains.

A half-hour slowly passed and still no signs of Kit Carson or of the wild horses had been seen. A second half-hour passed and still the silence was unbroken. The sun was now well above the horizon and the peaks of the mountains were capped with light. Indeed, the glory of the coming day was already reflected from the snowclad mountain peaks, from the occasional little lakes on the mountainside, and from the crags and rocks that were to be seen in whichever direction Reuben looked. The air, too, was marvellous, and Reuben said to himself that, as he breathed it, it almost seemed to him as if he could bite it, it was so strong and bracing.

The young trapper was becoming impatient. He was almost convinced that Kit Carson had failed to discover the hiding-place of the wild horses. If that were true, it was strange that the scout did not return. Reuben smiled, however, as he recalled the fact that when Kit Carson had decided to follow any line of action it was almost impossible to divert him from his purpose. Quiet the scout always was, but it was the quiet of confidence and strength.

Suddenly Reuben darted forward and seized the bridle rein of his waiting horse. At the same time he was peering eagerly toward the outlet of the valley into which Kit Carson had entered not long before. A moment later the young trapper was convinced that his surmise was correct. Forth from among the rocks suddenly the black leader appeared, running swiftly and yet lightly. Indeed, it almost seemed to Reuben as if the feet of the animal scarcely touched the ground, so lightly did he step. What pride and confidence, too, were in his very air. Occasionally he glanced behind, snorting with anger, but his swift pace was unbroken. Behind him came the other horses of the drove, the colts running in the centre, protected by the others. The presence of the colts prevented the leader from increasing the speed at which they were moving.

Not long after the appearance of the wild horses Reuben discovered Kit Carson. The scout was riding at the pace which the leader had first taken, and it was quickly plain that he could increase his speed at any moment. Several times the black leader halted and turned as if he almost had decided to stop and give battle. Each time, however, apparently he thought better of the project and returned to his place at the head of the drove.

For a mile or more the flight and the pursuit continued, Kit Carson not gaining, or even apparently attempting to gain, upon the horse he was so eager to secure. The scout, however, had outflanked the wild ponies and had succeeded after a time in turning their flight southward.

Assured now that the chase would lead directly to the place where he was waiting, and that he was almost certain to have a share in the exciting pursuit, Reuben drew his horse a little closer to the rock and in such a manner that he would be able to peer around its edge and watch the events that were occurring not far away.

Try as he might Kit Carson had been unable entirely to separate the black leader from his companions. Several times the wild horse had circled the body without permitting them to lessen the speed at which they were running. In this manner apparently he had satisfied himself that the pace he had set was not too swift for the colts.

On every such occasion the leader had stopped behind the running drove, watching the man approaching on horseback. Evidently he was suspicious of the danger that was threatening him, as indeed he well might be. Had he ever before been chased by the white men? The question was in Reuben's mind, as he watched the actions of the departing animal, and the young trapper was convinced that the horse never had been in captivity. His spirits were not broken and his confidence in his own ability apparently was supreme.

When the chase had led two or three miles beyond the entrance to the valley, Kit Carson succeeded in turning the flight of the horses he was pursuing. Shouting and brandishing his gun, he rode directly toward the band, and in a moment the leader had changed the course and swung southward.

Kit Carson still remained upon the outer flank and once he discharged his rifle, an act which, as Reuben believed, was intended only to frighten the horses. If that had been the hunter's purpose it was easily achieved, for the speed at which the drove was running quickly increased. At the same time it was equally clear to the leader that he had been unable to shake off the enemy that was pursuing him.

Shouting still more loudly and persistently increasing the swiftness of his pursuit, Kit Carson succeeded in steadily pressing the horses to his right and at the same time compelling them to move much more rapidly.

Reuben's excitement increased as the band steadily drew nearer the place where he was awaiting their approach. As yet Kit Carson had not succeeded in separating the black horse from his companions. It was not until the hunter drew near the place where Reuben was hiding that he suddenly, with a renewed shout and a second discharge of his gun, dashed swiftly in between the leader and the drove. Again shouting in his loudest tones, he forced the startled animal southward and at the same time glanced all about him, evidently expecting Reuben to appear.

Only a few moments elapsed before Reuben decided that the time had come for him to join in the chase. He dashed forth from behind the sheltering rock and, urging his horse into its swiftest paces, took up the chase as Kit Carson dropped behind.




Chapter XXII -- A White Man In The Indian Village


As Reuben dashed forward he speedily discovered that swift as was the pony he was riding it was unable to overtake the wild leader he was following. Indeed, in a brief time it became plain to the young trapper that his own horse was steadily dropping behind.

Aware, however, of the plan which was in the mind of Kit Carson for chasing the horse they were all so desirous of securing, he sturdily continued his efforts, all the time urging his horse to still greater endeavours. It seemed to Reuben that never before had he ridden so swiftly. The air appeared to strike him in the face, the hoofs of his flying animal barely touching the sand. And yet every time he glanced ahead he saw the black horse running easily, his neck arched and his head held high, the long tail sweeping the ground at every leap.

What a magnificent animal the leader of the drove was! And how easily he maintained his lead! Frequently the horse stopped and seemed almost to be tempted to turn and dash past its pursuer and rejoin his companions that had started toward a valley several miles distant.

And the hopeless part of his task was, as Reuben soon discovered, that the animal he was following did not seem to be tiring. It still ran easily when two miles or more had been covered by the pony which Reuben was riding. Jack could not be far away now, Reuben thought, and he began to peer anxiously ahead of him for the coming of his ally.

For some strange reason the black leader did not turn toward the plains. He was running nearer the hills than was Reuben's mount, holding to his course, doubtless from the very fact that his pursuer was coming from the same direction.

On and still on fled the pursuer and the pursued. In spite of all his efforts, Reuben steadily dropped behind until, as he estimated the distance, there was at least one hundred yards between him and the pony he was so desirous of capturing.

Again Reuben rose in his stirrups and shouting into the ears of his horse urged it to still greater efforts; and the pony responded nobly. Its sides were heaving now and a sound very like a groan came with every breath. He could see by an occasional glance that the nostrils of his pony were red and dilated. There was no time for mercy, however, and with every forward leap now Reuben shouted into the ears of his horse.

He was wondering why Jack did not appear. He was confident that he had passed more than the number of miles that had been assigned to him in the race, but his friend still was nowhere within sight.

In a brief time, however, riding forth from behind one of the foothills, Jack suddenly appeared. And it was high time for his aid to be given. The poor beast upon which Reuben was mounted was now trembling in every muscle and its strength was so nearly gone that when Reuben halted it was barely able to stand.

Hastily dismounting, as soon as the young trapper was aware that the chase was to be taken up by his friend, Reuben patted the neck of his pony and in low tones spoke soothingly to it. The poor animal was standing with lowered head and with an air of such complete dejection as Reuben thought he never before had seen displayed by any living animal.

His meditations, however, were interrupted by the report of a gun in the distance and the faint sound of a shout that came across the sands. Glancing hastily in the direction from which the hail had come, Reuben saw that soon after his friend had appeared to join in the chase the black horse had swerved in his course and instead of continuing on his way had turned backward and now was directly approaching the place where Reuben was standing.

And still the horse was running easily and apparently without fatigue. To overtake him seemed almost a hopeless undertaking. Again Reuben assured himself that never before had he seen such strength combined with swiftness and grace.

Aware, however, that he must do something now to help, Reuben leaped upon the back of his tired horse and urged it once more to join in the pursuit. A challenging neigh now came from the swiftly running black horse, and almost as if he ignored the puny efforts of his foes to overtake him, the course he was following again was changed and with a sudden burst of speed the animal, like a thunder-bolt, dashed past the place where Reuben was standing.

The young trapper now joined in the shouts and he, too, discharged his gun as a warning to Kit Carson, who was doubtless waiting at the place where he had abandoned the chase. The efforts, however, were useless, as in a brief time once more, swiftly swerving to his left, the black horse dashed into what at first seemed to Reuben to be an unbroken mass of rocks. In an instant the animal had disappeared from sight.

As rapidly as his horse was able to bear him, Reuben rode to the place where the leader had so strangely disappeared. As he came near he discovered a narrow opening or gorge apparently caused by some great crack in the formations centuries before. As Reuben entered the narrow place he saw eight or ten feet below him a stretch of more level land, though it was dotted here and there with stones and boulders.

It seemed impossible to the young scout that a horse could have leaped to the ground below. However, at that moment he heard the sound of a defiant neigh and in a brief time was able to discern the outline of the form of the black horse speeding along a narrow trail which was at least twenty-five feet above the plain on which he was riding.

It was plain that the horse was familiar with every foot of the region. Along this narrow ledge the black horse now was running with confidence unbroken, although the pathway was not more than a yard wide. Indeed in several places it seemed to the astonished Reuben that the width was still less.

Every moment he expected to see the black pony lose his foothold and fall to the rock-covered ground below him. His expectations, however, were not fulfilled, for the sure-footed animal, scarcely pausing in his flight, steadily continued on his way. At one place Reuben saw him leap across a narrow ravine and without any slip regain his footing on the opposite side. Although the young trapper's admiration of the horse increased, he was now well-nigh hopeless that the animal ever could be taken.

Indeed it was not long before the horse disappeared from sight, and Reuben was unable to determine which of the numerous gorges he had entered, as several converged at the point where the black leader was lost to sight.

It was impossible for Reuben's horse to attempt to follow. Not only was the leap from the rock one which few animals would be able to make with safety, but also the nearly exhausted condition of his mount made such an attempt worse than reckless. There was nothing to be done except to return and join his companions.

"Did you get him, Reuben?" inquired Kit Carson dryly, as the young trapper, discovering his friend, rode slowly to meet him.

"No, I didn't," said Reuben glumly.

"I'm surprised. Still, when we have him broken, I think you'll enjoy a spin on that black demon as much as any of us."

"If you ever take him," suggested Reuben dryly.

"Why," said Kit Carson in apparent surprise, "you haven't any question about that, have you? Of course we're going to take him."

"Not to-day," suggested Reuben.

"No, not to-day," acknowledged the scout; "but there are other days to come."

"Do you believe that that black leader, after to-day's chase, will stay around this part of the country any longer? He will take his followers and start for some other part of the mountains."

"Perhaps he will," acknowledged Kit Carson, "but before that time comes we'll have another chance at him."

"You never can take him," asserted Reuben. "I never in my life saw anything run the way that pony did. And it doesn't make any difference whether he's running on the plains or along a ledge of the rocks. Why, he followed a narrow little ledge for three hundred yards. I expected every minute to see him tumble into the bed of the stream that was twenty-five or thirty feet below him. As far as I could see he didn't slip once."

"Oh, yes, he's a wonderful animal," said Kit Carson quietly, "and we shall appreciate him all the more after we have had a chance to break him in."

"You won't break him in very soon," said Reuben, shaking his head. "You stand just about as much chance of getting that black horse as you do of grabbing a streak of lightning by its tail."

Kit Carson smiled and made no response to the assertion of his young companion, and then at his suggestion they all started on their way back to camp.

In silence the men advanced, and when two hours had elapsed, Kit Carson suggested: "I think I'll go over to the Indian village. Do you want to come, Reuben?"

The lad hesitated a moment and then said, "I'm hungry."

"Come along with me and the squaws will feed you. And Jack, too, if he wants to come," added the scout amiably. Jack, however, insisted upon returning to his companions and rode away alone as Kit Carson and Reuben started toward the Indian village.

It was not long before they found themselves in the little settlement, where the words of the scout were confirmed, for food was soon provided for the hungry hunters, and, as Kit Carson had said, the squaws seemed to vie with one another in their efforts to please their white visitors.

Soon after Reuben had finished his repast he was startled by the sight of an approaching white man. To all appearances the man belonged to the village. He was, however, neither dressed as were the Indians nor did his appearance suggest that he was a newcomer or a stranger in the midst of the redmen. Reuben's surprise, however, was caused by his conviction that the man before him was the same one he had seen at San Gabriel, and if he was not the missing Jean, at least he so strongly resembled him that a stranger might take one for the other.

"Look at that man," said Reuben in a low voice as he turned to Kit Carson. "Do you know who he is? He looks to me like Jean Badeau."

In response to the suggestion of his young friend Kit Carson glanced hastily at the man to whom Reuben had referred and then said, "Are you sure?" As he spoke the scout glanced at the young trapper, but he quickly was aware that Reuben had not heard his question. He was staring blankly at the white man.




Chapter XXIII -- Baffled


In his excitement Reuben, almost unmindful of his companion, started at once toward the place where the man whom he believed to be Jean Badeau was standing. As he approached he was speedily aware that if the man before him was his lost friend there was no evidence of recognition of that fact in the expression of his face. Indeed the man scarcely seemed to be aware of the coming of the young trapper.

Puzzled and slightly alarmed by the strange appearance of the man, Reuben stopped a moment and then said: "Who are you? What is your name?"

To the lad's amazement the man to whom he had spoken gazed into his face and smiled in a manner that was like that of a little child. He did not speak, however, and for a brief time the two men stood and looked, each into the face of the other.

"What is your name?" again demanded Reuben.

Once more the bland expression appeared on the face of the stranger, but no reply was given to the query.

"Are you Jean Badeau?" demanded Reuben sharply.

Again the smile was seen, but still there was no answer.

Reuben was almost persuaded that the man before him was indeed his lost companion, but the expression in his eyes and the childlike smile on his face certainly were not characteristics of the missing French trapper. He was a man strong and of slow speech, even when he spoke, as he did only on rare occasions. Unlike most of his race in the North, apparently he did not show any signs of the impulsive temperament which many of the early French possessed. Now the lad felt that his flesh was creeping. There was something in the uncanny bearing and expression of the man, who, if he was not the trapper, Jean Badeau, at least strongly resembled Reuben's former comrade.

"Lad, don't you know?"

Reuben turned quickly at the unexpected question and saw that Kit Carson was beside him. "Don't you know," repeated the leader, "that this man is crazy?"

"No, I didn't know anything about him. He looks so much like Jean Badeau that I was sure at first that it was my friend."

"It may be and it may not be."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is this: this man is the same one we found at San Gabriel. Somehow he made his way to the North and the Indians have taken him into their village."

"Why did they do that?" inquired Reuben.

"The Indians are always good to crazy people. They think they are under the special guidance and protection of the Great Spirit. Perhaps they are. I don't know," said Kit Carson, thoughtfully. "Certainly they act as if there was something in their life different from what we see among the trappers."

"That's so," said Reuben in a low voice, as he again looked keenly at the subject of their conversation, who, apparently unmindful of the attention he had aroused, had now turned away. In a low voice he was speaking to himself and apparently was unmindful of the presence of any one near.

"That may be Jean Badeau," again suggested Kit Carson. "If it is he has a long and strange story to tell."

"What do you suppose happened to him?"

"I haven't the remotest idea. Of course, I am not even sure that he is your friend, nor are you positive that he is, but I am willing to take your word for it. No one in the tribe here knows where he came from nor what made him crazy."

"What do you think did?"

"As I told you, I have no idea, and I am not even sure that it is your friend. All I am saying is that he may be and that something may have happened after you left him that brought this trouble upon him." Reuben was silent throughout the remainder of their stay in the village and indeed seldom spoke when they rode back to the camp of the trappers.

Early the following morning Kit Carson appeared and at his suggestion Reuben accompanied him in the round of his traps. An unusually good catch was made, and the spirits of both trappers were high when soon after noon they returned to the camp.

Directly after dinner had been served Kit Carson suggested to his young friend: "I think it is time for us to see if the wild horses have not come back. I don't want that black leader to get away from us."

Reuben laughed as he said: "Do you still believe that you're going to catch him?"

"I know I am," said Kit Carson. "It's only a question of time."

"He certainly is able to make good time," retorted Reuben. "He ran away from us day before yesterday almost as if he didn't know we were on earth. My horse was almost winded and that fellow trotted along almost as if he were laughing at us. Do you think a horse can laugh?"

"I have heard of a 'horse laugh,'" replied the scout, smiling dryly.

"I have not only heard of one, but heard one."

"Well, if you heard one you haven't forgotten it. Tell Jack, and we'll start right soon."

A half-hour later the three trappers, after they had carefully looked to their mounts, departed from the camp and again saw the valley where the black leader and his drove had first been discovered. A careful search was made, but no signs of the presence of the wild horses were discovered.

"We'll wait until night," suggested Kit Carson. "It was after sunset when they put into this gorge before."

The men waited in accordance with the suggestion of their leader, but when darkness fell the horses had not been seen.

"There's no use," said Kit Carson. "They aren't coming here to-night."

"How do you know?" inquired Reuben.

"Why, you can see for yourself. The wild ponies, as a rule, do not travel much after dark. It is almost dark now, and if they were coming here they would have shown up before this time."

"Where do you think they are?"

"I don't know where they are. I thought they were here. If I knew just where they were I would go there, wouldn't I? I think they will come back here, though, and the only thing for us to do is to keep watch and be sure to be on hand when they do come."

On two successive days the eager trappers returned to the valley, but the wild horses were not seen. Alone Kit Carson made excursions for many miles in the immediate vicinity, but his efforts were unrewarded and not a sight of the handsome black leader was had. Still the scout did not abandon his efforts. A few days later, at his suggestion, Reuben and Jack once more accompanied him, departing from the camp soon after dinner.

Quietly they rode among the foothills, keeping careful watch on every side. They had almost returned to the place where first the wild horses had been seen when Kit Carson abruptly stopped and, pointing to a place in advance of them, said in a low voice: "There are ponies yonder. Do you see them?"

"I can see something moving," replied Reuben, after a long silence.

"Well, that's a drove of ponies. The only thing for us to do is to put out for it and find out whether or not the horse we are after is still there. It may be some other drove. You know they are likely to break up into smaller bands when they get too many together." Swiftly the trappers rode forward, and their disappointment was keen when they discovered that the horses before them were not those for which they were seeking.

Apparently still as confident as before that he would capture the animal he was so eager to have, Kit Carson either alone or in the company of Reuben daily returned to the valley until more than a week had elapsed. Their efforts were rewarded at last when late one afternoon they discovered the horses making for the same valley in which they had sought shelter when first they had been seen. There was no elation displayed in the manner of the scout, but the determination expressed in his face was so plain that Reuben was deeply impressed.

"Give up? Give up?" said Kit Carson in response to a suggestion of his friend. "I never learned to do that and you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I simply am going to have that black rascal. It's too bad that Jack isn't here, for we'll need him, but we'll go ahead without him and do the best we can."

Together the two horsemen rode swiftly forward, doing their utmost to gain a point nearer the valley than the one where the horses were first seen grazing. Apparently they had succeeded, when the startled leader lifted his head, neighed sharply, and instantly warned his family of the danger that was near.

"Come on, Reuben! Come on!" shouted Kit Carson, as putting his horse into its swiftest paces he advanced far into the entrance of the valley.

The efforts, however, of the trappers were doomed to failure. With a disregard of their attempt to head him off that was almost ludicrous, the swift horse led his followers almost directly into the entrance and in a brief time all, including the colts, had disappeared from sight among the boulders of the ravine.

"No use, Reuben. No use trying to do any more to-night. We have got to think up some other way of trapping that black rascal. Did you ever see such a handsome animal in your life?"

"I never did."

"Nor I. And every time I see him I simply am more determined than ever to get him. I am going to catch him just as sure as the sun rises!"

Several days later it seemed as if the words of the scout were about to be fulfilled. Accompanied by Reuben and Jack and two others of the campers, Kit Carson succeeded in locating the drove and immediately attempted the plan which he had already formed for capturing the daring leader.




Chapter XXIV -- A Fresh Attempt


So eager was Kit Carson to secure the wonderful leader of the drove that he had spent much time in thinking out various plans by which the black pony might be captured. There had been times when he acknowledged that it seemed a pity to try to take such a noble-looking animal from its state of freedom and compel it to become a servant. And yet, although the trapper's feelings were tender and he seldom permitted his men even to shoot game without some necessary purpose in view, nevertheless the eagerness of the leader to obtain possession of the beautiful animal increased with every passing day.

When at last he explained his plans to his friends he said: "I have discovered a pocket about ten miles below that gorge into which the black rascal led his followers. I think it will be possible for us to run him into that. There will be no use in trying it until we have tired him out, but I think we shall be able to do that."

"How?" inquired Reuben.

"I have found that the wild horses come about two nights a week into that valley where we drove them. They seem to have regular rounds. The old fellow that leads them is smart, and if any bears or wolves have thought they could lie in wait for him they have been mistaken, for he never is two successive nights in the same place."

"But how do you think you are going to drive him into that pocket?"

"I'm telling you, lad, to-night the wild ponies will be in the place where we drove them the last day we chased them. We mustn't let them get inside. Probably the leader will do just what he did before -- send his family and his friends off in one direction and he will start for another. Then the thing for us to do is to chase him back and forth over the ten miles."

"But you'll need an army of men to do it," suggested Reuben.

"I have already sent ahead four men. They are as full of the game as we are. They haven't seen that black horse, but what I have told them about him makes them all hungry to join in the chase. I'm going to put you and Jack down below that pocket. You two must turn back the fellow if he tries to get past you. I don't think he will, for he won't want to leave his charges quite so far away. I have got some pieces of tin and I want you both to pound on them and yell like good fellows. Turn him back anyway. Chase him. Make him go as far as the place where I am going to have two other men waiting. Then I'll have two more up near the valley."

"Where will you be?" inquired Reuben, who was becoming deeply interested in the project.

"I'm going to be where I'm needed most, for my horse is the swiftest in the camp. I want to be in at the finish, too, for I'm going to lasso the rascal. And this time we're going to succeed."

In spite of the failures of the preceding attempts somehow Reuben was convinced that a greater measure of success was likely to crown their efforts in the present chase. Obedient to the word of their leader the lad and his companion rode in the direction indicated and in a brief time had arrived at the position they desired.

Upon their arrival they were speedily convinced that the description which Kit Carson had given of the spot was more than fulfilled. A narrow space not more than forty feet wide seemed almost to provide an end for the long valley. Beyond it was another valley, the passage between being like an isthmus joining two larger spaces.

Every rider carried his gun, and in addition to these weapons Reuben and Jack had tied to the pommels of their saddles some large pieces of tin which had served as the bottoms of certain pans that had been used in the camp.

As soon as they had taken their positions, they threw their bridles over the heads of their horses and climbing to the shelter of the overhanging rocks seated themselves to await the signal that might be given for the approach of the horse they were so eager to capture. Between the places occupied by Reuben and his friend two other men were stationed, but they were hidden from the sight of their companions.

Slowly the afternoon waned, but patience was a lesson which Reuben had learned from the scout. Never yet had he heard an impatient word or a word of complaint escape the lips of Kit Carson. For one whose natural temperament was so fiery, who was so quick in his movements, and so thoroughly alive to every form of physical activity, his powers of repression and self-control were marvellous. In part it was due to his natural disposition, but still more it was the result of his training. The school in which he had studied was hard and the lessons were not taught by a schoolmaster. In order to succeed as a hunter or trapper infinite patience was required. The very success which had attended the efforts of the young scout had been a part of his duties, and Kit Carson had been a diligent pupil. In all his experiences with him the only time Reuben had ever seen him respond to the words of his comrades, which easily aroused the anger of one another, had been the time when Rat had declared that he would thrash any man in the camp who declared himself to be an American.

Even now the recollection of the boaster caused Reuben to smile, and turning to his friend he said: "Do you know what has become of Rat?"

Jack laughed as he said: "I reckon he evaporated. He hasn't been seen near here nor in these parts for a long time."

"Do you suppose he will ever try to get even with Kit Carson?"

"I don't think he will even try any such thing. What he will try hardest to do will be to put all the space he can between him and the scout."

Reuben laughed as he said: "I wouldn't have believed that a little fellow like Kit Carson would have dared to fight such a great hulk as Rat."

"You don't know him. He's afraid of nothing on earth, and yet, like other men who are good fighters, he doesn't fight often. There is a big difference between a man who is always picking a quarrel and one who can put up a good fight."

"I reckon Rat knows that now."

"He surely does, and I don't think he will want to take the lesson over again either. He won't have to stay after school to learn the rules of that game."

"The only thing I have heard Kit Carson talk much about of all the things he has done was what he did in his fight with the two grizzlies."

"That's right," replied Jack, laughing loudly as he spoke. "I have heard him tell that story a good many times. He almost makes me see that big grizzly swinging and snorting and swaying his head when Kit struck him on the nose with his club. The nose is about as tender a spot for a grizzly as his shins are for a darky."

"It was mighty funny," laughed Reuben. "I saw both of them. When the first one came down the tree the other one acted just as if he was giving his opinion of a fellow who would back out like that. He would show him how to do it; so up he goes, and Kit Carson gets a good swing on his club and lands it right plumb on the snout of that grizzly. The way that bear snorted and shook his head almost made me laugh."

"I should think it would have made you laugh."

"The only reason I didn't was because I was afraid the bear would see me, and turn around and come for the tree where I was. I hadn't any desire to have him know any more about me than he did right then."

"'Ignorance is bliss,' they say."

"It was with me when I thought of that bear. Can you see anything of Kit Carson and the horses?" Reuben added as he peered intently in the direction from which the expected approach of the black leader was to be seen.

Jack was silent a moment before he said: "I see something moving up yonder."

Instantly Reuben leaped to his feet and gazed long and earnestly in the direction indicated by his companion. Not many minutes had elapsed before both men were convinced that some large animals were approaching. Both were hopeful that the cloud of dust which was now steadily increasing as it drew nearer concealed the black horse and his pursuers. The cloud approached rapidly, but it was long before Reuben was able to discover the outlines of a horse running swiftly and pursued by two riders.

"There they come! There they come!" exclaimed the boy excitedly. "The old fellow is making straight for this place where we are."

"We had better hide so that he won't turn off," suggested Jack. "Then when he comes a little nearer we'll take the tin pans and sticks and serenade him."

"We'll have to be quick about it," suggested Reuben as he saw the black leader now swiftly approaching. Apparently he had been chased far and long, for his body was flecked with foam and his breathing was laboured. In spite of his appearance of distress, however, the steed was such a noble-looking animal that Reuben's admiration was keener than when he first had seen him. There was a wildness in his manner now, however, that had not been seen on the former occasions. The poor beast, fighting for his liberty, and perhaps believing that he was struggling for his life, was now thoroughly alarmed. His speed had diminished, and, pursued by fresh horses, he was no longer able to outdistance them easily.

The horse now was within fifty feet of the place where Reuben was standing. Quickly he and his companion began to pound upon their tins and at the same time they shouted in their loudest tones.

The startled horse swerved in his course, and, snorting with anger or fear, started for the familiar entrance. Evidently he was fearful that a trap of some kind had been laid, for, turning sharply about within the narrow valley, he started swiftly back over the way by which he had come.

"Chase him! Chase him!" called one of the pursuers. "You and Jack take your ponies now and give him a good run. We'll go into the other end of the pocket so that he won't go through there, and when he runs in the next time, why, we'll let Kit Carson take him."

In response to the suggestion Reuben and Jack speedily were mounted and in swift pursuit of the running horse. Their own mounts were somewhat fresh now, and as neither was slow, the speed at which they advanced was marked. It was plain, too, that the leader was distressed. Occasionally when he glanced backward his nostrils seemed like coals of fire and an expression of fear as well as of anger flashed from his eyes.

"Keep it up! Keep it up!" called Jack. "Spread out a little! Drive him back so that Kit Carson can start after him! This time I think he will get him for sure."

It was fortunate for Reuben and his companion that their own horses were not compelled to cover all the distance between the pocket and the valley. Both ponies were soon labouring hard and with difficulty maintaining the pace into which their riders had urged them. Hard, however, as they soon were working, their distress was markedly less than that of the animal they were following.

Spreading out when they came nearer the place where they expected to find some of their comrades, the boys were not surprised when suddenly Kit Carson and four of his companions, yelling in their loudest tones and brandishing rifles, several of which were discharged, dashed after the startled wild horse. Again he retraced his way, but his distress was increasing so rapidly that it was a question whether or not he would be able to gain the pocket before he would be taken.

Kit Carson was carrying his lasso, and it was plain to Reuben that at almost any moment now he was prepared to dash ahead and try to cast the rope over the neck of the suffering steed. For some reason, which Reuben did not understand, the action was delayed. Kit Carson, however, was riding in advance of his followers, and, his pony being comparatively fresh, he was able to make swifter time than the horse he was following. All now were near the entrance to the pocket, and a shout arose when the black horse dashed through the narrow opening.




Chapter XXV -- The Captive Leader


Instantly Kit Carson and Reuben, together with the men who were still on the open plain, dashed toward the entrance. Reuben was able to see the tired horse when he dashed through the little valley and fled to the exit on the opposite side.

In a moment, however, the two men who were waiting there, shouting in their loudest tones and vigorously beating upon their tins, advanced upon the startled animal, which immediately turned back in his tracks and again started toward the opening by which he had entered. Again the terrified beast turned back when he found the passageway blocked by several of his pursuers.

The noble animal stopped and gazed partly in fear and partly in anger at the men, and then with repeated snorts of defiance began to circle the little enclosure. Several times he stopped, and to Reuben it seemed as if he had decided to turn and attempt to fight his way through.

Kit Carson and his friends, however, gave the pony no rest. Whenever he stopped some of the men bore down upon him with shouts mingled with an occasional discharge of a gun and loud beatings upon the tins. In this manner they compelled the horse to keep running and prevented him from obtaining any rest.

Around and around the enclosure the poor beast ran until it seemed to Reuben as if the weary animal must drop from sheer exhaustion. Not once was he permitted to stop for rest. The men were shouting, discharging their rifles, beating upon their tins, and continually doing their utmost to prevent the leader of the drove from passing them or pausing in his flight.

To Reuben the pitiful aspect of the noble animal soon became doubly strong. The expression in his eyes as well as his manner showed that he was nearly exhausted. His breathing was very laboured and his heaving flanks showed how difficult his flight had become.

For an hour the maddening chase continued. By that time the black horse had stumbled and almost fallen several times. Indeed, it seemed to Reuben as if the poor beast each time would be unable to regain his footing and continue his mad flight. Once more there welled up in Reuben's heart a feeling of pity for the animal which had made such a desperate struggle for freedom.

In the midst of all these things, however, Kit Carson was unmoved. The expression on his face did not change. He simply was determined to carry through to its completion the plan which he had formed for the capture of the leader of the ponies that had so strongly appealed to his admiration.

Suddenly the scout wheeled and shouted: "Now is the time! Look out for the openings! All I want is for you to keep him from breaking through."

At that moment Carson started swiftly forward on the animal he was riding. Trembling, weak, and streaked with froth and sweat, the black horse stared at the unexpected advance for a moment, and then with a desperate effort tried to renew his flight.

There was no display of anger now. The fierceness of the black beast was gone. His head was drooping and his weakness was apparent in every forward step that he took. No longer was there the flash of fire to be seen in his eyes. There was in them now an expression of agony mingled with fear.

Kit Carson, however, advancing slowly until he was within ten yards of the animal he was determined to secure, swung his lasso several times above his head and then cast it toward the black horse.

Silence had followed the action of the scout, and almost breathless in their excitement every one watched the curling, twisting leather strip as it slowly made its way toward its mark. A sigh of relief escaped Reuben's lips when the noose, almost as if it were conscious of what it was doing, dropped over the head of the black horse and settled about his neck.

The pony which Kit Carson was riding was familiar with his task. It was not the first time the scout had captured wild horses, although never before had he attempted to take one so beautiful and fleet and strong. The pony braced its feet and stood back in its tracks to throw its strength against the pull that would be made upon it.

The black horse, now conscious of the tightening noose, leaped forward in one final despairing effort to escape from his pursuers. How vain it all was. As the powerful animal dashed ahead, the noose tightened, the line became taut, and he was thrown, almost turning a somersault as he came to the ground.

Quickly the scout rushed forward, and a moment later, before the captive was able to rise, his forefeet were hobbled, and the beautiful wild pony, which only recently had been the proud leader of a drove, was helpless in the hands of his captors.

For a moment sounds of mingled rage and terror were emitted by the trembling animal as he lay helpless upon the ground. His eyes, however, had now taken on an expression of intense hatred, and suddenly by a supreme effort he arose to his feet and remained standing. His ears were flattened against his head, and for a moment even Kit Carson hesitated before he approached the angry and trembling beast.

Turning to his companions the scout said quietly: "I want every one of you now to go back to camp."

"But we don't want to leave you here with that black demon," suggested Jack.

"I'm going to stay here alone," said Kit Carson quietly. "You need not have any fears that I shall be hurt, and it will not be long before I shall come to the camp myself."

Reuben glanced appealingly at the scout, seeking permission to remain without voicing his wish. Kit Carson, however, smiled and shook his head. Reuben was to go back with the other trappers. Reluctantly the half-dozen men rode slowly out of the opening in the enclosure and started toward the camp.

"I don't like to leave him there," said Jack, slowly shaking his head as he spoke. "That horse is as dangerous as a grizzly and twice as powerful."

"That may be so," admitted one of the men, "but I don't care how strong it is Kit Carson has a way of taking all that out of it."

"I knew a man once who had his head bitten off by a horse," suggested one of the trappers.

"I reckon his head must have been about the size of a walnut," laughed the trapper.

"Never you mind," said the first speaker; "a horse has a powerful big mouth and its teeth are strong. Did you ever see two horses fight?"

"Yes."

"Well, there's no sight like it in the world. They make you think of two demons. A good many times they'll fight until one or the other is killed, and sometimes neither one comes out of the fight alive."

"Well, I would rather have them fight one another than to fight me," said the first trapper. "I don't envy Kit his job back yonder."

Reuben had been silent throughout the conversation, and his fears for his friend were greatly increased in consequence of it. He was becoming alarmed for the safety of the lithe little scout, but there was nothing to be done except to carry out his desires, and in silence he proceeded on his way to the camp.

When the men arrived they found their companions eager listeners to the story they had to tell of the capture of the black horse. Others of the men also were concerned now for the safety of the scout, but against the suggestion that they should go to his relief the strong protests made by the men who had accompanied Carson in the chase at last prevailed, and no one departed from the camp.

Meanwhile, although it was seldom that reference was made to the fear in the heart of every one, the anxiety among the trappers increased as the slow moments passed. When an hour had elapsed the suggestion was renewed by Reuben that the men should go to the aid of their leader. But the suggestion was again refused. Another hour passed, and still there were no signs of the coming of the missing trapper.

A half-hour later, however, Kit Carson was seen approaching the camp, riding his own pony and leading his captive. The black horse was following meekly, his dejected bearing clearly showing the sufferings he had undergone. The scout made no comment when he rode into the camp. He at once quietly dismounted and threw the bridle rein over the head of the pony he had been riding and then turned to his captive.

At first it seemed as if the spirit of the black horse was broken. In a moment, however, when Kit Carson tried to lead forward the nearly exhausted animal, the wild pony reared and with a scream of anger attempted to strike the scout with his forefeet. Carson, however, was too quick, and the attempt of his prisoner to injure him proved futile.

Again the scout pulled upon the halter, although as Reuben watched him he was puzzled to understand how the daring man had succeeded in placing a halter on the head of the powerful animal. The pony this time responded, and although he was apparently unaware of what he was doing, he followed his captor as he led him to a stake which had been securely driven into the ground on the border of the camp. There the captured horse was tied. Once more, however, Kit Carson barely escaped the onrush of the beast as he dashed upon him with wide-open jaws. It was impossible for any one in the camp now to hobble the animal, and for a time he was left to his vain efforts to escape. Desperately the poor beast pulled upon the thongs that held him, but without avail. After a struggle of a few minutes the attempt was abandoned, and for a time it seemed as if the black horse, his spirits drooping and his whole bearing dejected, had at last decided to yield to his fate.

Kit Carson declared that the horse should not be fed or watered throughout the night. When morning came, with some oats in his hat which he was holding in his outstretched hand, the scout again approached the captive. Hunger and thirst by this time had deprived the beast of still more of his fiery energy. He was weak now as well as suffering. Stretching forth his head, he ate a few oats, and then, apparently overcome by his recollection of his humiliation, with a scream of anger he arose upon his hind feet and again endeavoured to crush the scout.




Chapter XXVI -- The Return Of Rat


"Come on, shoot the brute!" shouted Jack, greatly excited as he saw the peril of the scout.

In response to his appeal several men ran for their rifles, but Kit Carson himself, quickly turning to his followers, said quietly: "None of that, boys. This fellow isn't to blame for what he's doing. Leave him to me."

In surprise the trappers drew back and watched the scout, as quickly avoiding the rush of the black horse he soon quieted the excited animal, which was more nervous than savage. Indeed, in the days that followed, the methods which Kit Carson employed to "break" the high-spirited animal were different from those which any of his friends had ever seen or employed. In most cases horses were broken by the most brutal of means. Cruelty was so common that it was looked upon as commonplace. The new method which the scout used was so different as to cause surprise among his followers. Indeed, many of them expressed their open belief that he would never succeed and his plan would only result in damage to the one who employed it.

Kit Carson, strong and quiet, a man who did not hesitate to use the very utmost of his strength and the greatest of his resources when he was fighting, in most ways was quiet and gentle as a woman. Following his plan persistently, not many days had elapsed before the black horse was following the scout almost as a dog follows his master. Indeed he seemed to develop a feeling of strong affection for his captor, and it was plain to all the campers that they never before had seen their leader become so fond of any animal.

In the days that passed, the horse, which was named Black Jack, became the pet of the entire camp. There was one strange trait, however, which the horse developed, and that was that he was unwilling for any of the trappers to mount him save Kit Carson and, on rare occasions, Reuben. Several times Reuben had been permitted to ride the swift-footed steed, but it was plain to the beholders as well as to the rider that there was no enthusiasm in carrying the boy. The excitement attending the capture of the wild horse passed in a brief time, although Black Jack still remained a great pet of the trappers.

There were busy days that followed. The season was proving to be unusually successful, and the number of skins taken by the men rapidly increased with every passing day. The daily round of visiting the traps, the labour of skinning the animals that had been caught, and the work of drying and curing the catch occupied most of their time.

Indeed it was soon decided that the furs must be cached after the plan which had been followed once before. This time it was Reuben who assisted in selecting the spot where the hole should be dug in the ground, and it was he who looked after the preparations of the place to receive the valuable skins which represented so much toil and time.

Still the labour of trapping was steadily continued. One day while Reuben was alone, engaged in the task to which he had been assigned, he was startled when he saw before him near one of the traps the stooping figure of a man. The stranger was bending over a trap, and for a moment the lad was angered by the sight before him. He was suspicious that the visitor was striving to steal the catch of the night. And there was no crime considered more heinous among the trappers, unless it was that of horse stealing.

Hastily Reuben looked to the priming of his rifle and then advancing, quickly shouted: "Who is there? Who are you? What do you want?"

To the amazement of the startled lad the huge form of Rat arose from the opposite bank of the stream and quickly turned to face the one who had hailed him.

"Huh!" exclaimed Rat. "It's only you, is it?" as he discovered who the party was that had hailed him.

"That's all," said Reuben dryly, "and I see you're just Rat. Tell me what you're doing here."

"I'm 'tending to my own business, and that's more than some people are doing."

"You don't look as if you were," retorted Reuben, still more angered by the manner of the man.

"What do I look as if I was doing?"

"You know as well as I do," said Reuben quickly, "and you know what sometimes happens to men for doing that very thing."

"You little cub!" roared Rat. "I've a great mind to treat you as --  -- "

"As you were treated by Kit Carson?" laughed Reuben.

For a moment the expression of anger on the face of the huge man caused Reuben to regret the hasty words he had spoken. He felt safe, however, as the brook was wide and deep, and he had little fear that Rat would venture into the cold waters of the mountain torrent. Water had ever been one of the pet aversions of the huge Rat, and he had never listened kindly to suggestions of his camp mates as to its use. For a moment the angry face of the man glared upon Reuben, and then as if by a supreme effort, Rat, striving to look more pleasant, said: "And what luck have you had this winter?"

"Good. How has yours been?"

"My luck is against me," replied Rat, shaking his head as he spoke. "Everything is against me."

"Including Rat," suggested Reuben.

"What do you mean?" thundered the trapper, his face once more expressive of his anger.

"Nothing, except that you stand in your own way. That's what everybody about the camp says. They would like to be friends with you, but you won't let them."

"Why won't I let them? I would like to be on good terms with everybody."

"With Kit Carson?" inquired Reuben.

"Yes, even with Kit Carson." As Rat spoke, Reuben was conscious for an instant of a deep scowl that appeared on the face of the trapper, but it disappeared so quickly that he was not even positive that it had been there at all. "What would Kit Carson say if I came back to camp?" inquired Rat at last.

"That would depend very much upon what you yourself said, I reckon. If I remember right, that's the way it was before, wasn't it? If you had kept quiet Kit Carson would have been quiet, too."

"I hear he has married a squaw," suggested Rat.

"You can hear all sorts of things."

"Did he?"

"Yes. He's not ashamed of it."

"Perhaps she'll be when he runs off and leaves her."

"I advise you not to suggest that thing to Kit Carson the next time you see him. You'll have more than a lame wrist to show for it if you do."

"He took me off my guard," protested Rat. "I wasn't ready for him."

"That wasn't any fault of yours. He caught you before you could get ready. You were doing your best to get the drop on him."

"That's a lie!" shouted Rat. "I wasn't doing anything of the kind! But then," he added a moment later, his voice becoming lower, though it was plain that he had regained his self-control only by a great effort, "but then I have no desire to quarrel with Kit Carson nor any one in the camp. I would like to be friends with all, if they'd let me."

"Do you mean you want to come back to camp?" inquired Reuben.

"Yes."

The lad whistled and made no response until Rat said: "Don't you think they would let me come?"

"If you will promise to be on your good behaviour, they'll be glad to have you come. They wouldn't have you there a minute, though, if you tried the trick you did before."

"I haven't any trick to try. I'm hungry and I'm tired. If they'll give me some supper and let me spend the night in camp, that's all I want. I'll leave to-morrow morning if they want me to. If they will let me, though, I'll stay and do my share, and be glad to do it."

"I can't say what they'll do. The only thing for you to do is to try it."

"Maybe you'll go ahead and find out for me?" suggested Rat, his voice becoming almost a whine in his eagerness.

"No, come along. Go back up the stream about a mile and you'll find a place where you can jump across. If you want to you can come over on this bank now."

"I don't want to," said Rat quickly, glancing at the rushing torrent, as if it was threatening him. "I'll walk back up the bank and wait for you. How long will you be?"

"I don't know," said Reuben. "I wasn't coming back this way anyway. I'm going to visit the traps and set them. I have brought bait with me and I'll fix every trap before I leave."

"Would you like to have me help you?" inquired Rat, striving to speak pleasantly.

Reuben hesitated a moment and then said: "Yes. You had better come across here, though, and not wait to go back up the stream."

In response to the suggestion the huge man, with many groans and protestations, finally entered the stream, and as the depth of the water increased he held high above his head the two pistols with which he was armed. The sight was ludicrous and Reuben laughed heartily. As the man came nearer the bank on which he was standing Reuben's heart almost misgave him for the invitation he had given. Nor was it long before Reuben had greater cause for regret that he had been willing for the huge Rat to join him.




Chapter XXVII -- The Theft


The dripping body of the huge trapper when he stepped at last upon the shore made Reuben once more aware of the immense size and strength of the man. As he recalled the contest between Kit Carson and the giant before him, and was reminded of the slight, almost delicate form of the scout, he was amazed at the courage of the latter in accepting the challenge of the braggart.

At present, however, there did not appear to be anything to fear from Rat, and it was manifest that his thoughts were mostly concerned with his own condition. The cold water perhaps had cooled any heated tendencies he may have had. At all events, he was subdued in his manner and even tried to laugh at the sight he declared he must present.

"I'll help you, lad," said Rat, at the same time stooping and assuming a part of the burden. "You're going back to camp now, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I'll go along with you."

Reuben glanced in fresh surprise at the man, for the camp of the trappers, and especially Kit Carson, he was positive Rat had no real desire to see. Indeed, he wondered at the temerity of the man in daring to return, knowing as he did the feeling against him when he had fled from the place.

"I suppose you've got the same trappers as ever, haven't you, Reuben?" inquired Rat.

"Yes," replied Reuben in a low voice.

"Kit Carson still at the head?"

"Yes."

"He's a great little Kit. He was too quick for me," said Rat, striving to laugh as he spoke.

"He always is," suggested Reuben.

"That don't mean that he always will be, does it?"

"I think it does."

"He certainly has a good friend in you, Reuben. He makes every one bow down to him."

"If they do, it's not because he makes them, but because they want to."

"It's all the same, it's all the same."

Silence followed, and steadily Reuben led the way back to the place where he had left his comrades. Occasionally he glanced keenly at his companion, but he was unable to discover any signs of fear or even of shame. Apparently Rat was returning to the trappers as a matter of course and expecting that he would be received in the same spirit with which he came. And yet in spite of his manner Reuben was keenly suspicious of the huge boaster. The very fact that he had suffered at the hands of the boyish scout doubtless had aroused a feeling of resentment which could not be quieted until Rat had obtained satisfaction.

To the surprise of Reuben, however, when they entered the camp Rat was greeted without any protest, though it could not be said that there was manifest any feeling of special pleasure at his return. Apparently accepting the condition as one which he had expected, Rat soon made himself at home in response to the quiet invitation of Kit Carson. It was plain, however, within a few days that the prejudices of the trappers were still keen. Indeed there was not one who was not suspicious of him, though there was none as yet who had shown any unfriendly attitude.

Why had the man come back to camp? What had he expected? If he had returned to take vengeance upon Kit Carson, why did he postpone his attack? These questions and others like them were frequently in the mind of Reuben, but when several days had elapsed and no answer had been found, he concluded that the boaster had been taught a much-needed lesson and that now he was cured of his overbearing ways.

On the fourth day after his arrival Rat suggested to Reuben that they should visit their traps together. Unwilling though he was, Reuben nevertheless quietly assented, and not long afterward the two men set forth on their rounds.

The season had been wonderfully successful. Never in their experience had so many skins been secured as the trappers had taken within the preceding few weeks. The noisy Rat was loud in his declaration that Kit Carson knew better than any one the streams where the beaver lived. Whether his statement was true or not, beaver, otter, mink, and other animals were caught in great numbers, and many of the skins, as has been said, had been cached.

It was when Reuben and his companion had halted in the middle of the day for luncheon that Rat quietly said to the lad: "Where have you made your caches this time?"

Reuben laughed as he replied: "There's one within ten feet of you now."

"What!" exclaimed Rat, glancing keenly about him as he spoke.

"That's right," replied Reuben, "there's one within ten feet of you. I don't know what Kit Carson would say, but I'm so sure you can't find it that I would almost be willing to say you can have half the skins there if you dig out the place."

"That's all very well," replied Rat; "of course I can't find it." At the same time he glanced all about him, and if Reuben had been more experienced he would have discovered that the trapper was protesting too much. Again and again he begged of Reuben to show him the place where the skins were concealed, declaring that he was unable to discover any trace that had been left. Reuben, however, refused to disclose the location of the cache, and when at last they proceeded on their rounds he was convinced that Rat had no suspicion as to its exact location.

"I'm wondering," suggested Rat as they moved down the stream, "if Kit Carson would have any objection to letting me bring some of my furs and putting them in the cache along with his."

"You'll have to ask him."

"I will just as soon as I go back to the camp," declared Rat.

True to his word, that very evening the huge boaster, approaching the scout, said: "Kit, have you any objection to letting me cache some of my furs along with yours?"

For a moment the scout glanced keenly at the face of the inquirer before he spoke: "How many furs have you got?" he inquired at last.

"Not very many just yet. I expect to have more, for I've never seen the catch as good as it is now."

"You come and talk to me when you get more and we'll see what can be done," said Kit Carson quietly at last.

Slight attention was paid to the conversation, and even Reuben had almost forgotten it, as well as his own talk the preceding day with Rat concerning the location of the cache near the stream on the bank of which they were trapping. These things were brought strongly back to his recollection, however, when on the following morning it was discovered that the black horse was gone and that two other horses also had disappeared. Nor was this all that the camp had lost, for Rat also was missing. When the men assembled for breakfast, the discovery of the loss of the black horse and the report also that two other animals were gone caused them to declare that Rat had not fled from the place without taking more than the horses. Just what he wanted of three horses was not plain to the trappers.

Suddenly, however, Reuben called Kit Carson to one side and said to him: "Did Rat ask you to let him cache some of his furs?"

"Yes," replied the scout, looking keenly into the face of his friend as he spoke.

"Well, he wanted me the other day, when we were trapping together, to show him where our cache was. I told him there was one within ten feet of the place where he was standing and that if he could find it he might have half the skins. You don't suppose that he's found the place and taken those horses to carry off some of the skins, do you?"

For a moment Kit Carson was silent. Although he was aware that Reuben was keenly mortified by the confession he had made, he did not speak any word of reproach. Not many minutes had elapsed, however, before Kit Carson, selecting two of the swiftest ponies in the camp, said to Reuben: "Do you want to go with me?"

"Yes. Where are you going?"

"I'm glad you put your answers in that way," replied Kit Carson with a smile. "I'm glad you're going, and you'll soon find out where I'm going. First of all, take me to the place where you told Rat there was one of our caches."

Both trappers carried their rifles and mounting the swiftest ponies, they speedily departed from the camp. Reuben easily led the way toward the place where he and Rat had stopped for their noontime meal and where also he had foolishly told the braggart that one of the caches was not far away.

Reuben was not surprised when an hour later, after they had arrived at the place they were seeking, he discovered that the hiding-place had been opened and that many furs had been removed. It was plain, too, from the marks left by the feet of the horses nearby, as to what disposition had been made of the stolen furs. The anger of Reuben was intense, but to his noisy protests no response was made by Kit Carson, whose quiet manner was still unchanged.

"There's nothing for us to do, lad," suggested the scout, "except to go after the rascal and get our skins."

Already convinced that this was the purpose of the scout in coming, Reuben made no response except to quicken the speed at which his horse was moving and do his utmost to follow the scout when they set forth on their journey.

They already had taken the precaution of providing supplies sufficient for two days, although Kit Carson was depending upon game to provide much of their food.

Occasionally the scout paused to examine the ground and try to discover the imprints left by the feet of Rat's horses. Frequently the trail was almost lost, but Kit Carson, after circling the spot and carefully examining the ground, every time succeeded in discovering the signs for which he was searching, and then with increased speed the pursuit was renewed.

Reuben was thinking of what would occur if the scout should overtake the burly boaster. The quiet determination expressed in Kit's face plainly indicated what was in his mind. And the thief would be overtaken soon, Reuben was convinced, because when Rat had fled, although he had taken Black Jack, swiftest of all the ponies in the camp, the speed at which he was fleeing could not be greater than the pace of the horses which were following him and carrying the stolen furs on their backs.




Chapter XXVIII -- The Return


In spite of the efforts of the scout, two days elapsed before any signs of the immediate presence of the thief were discovered. And even then he was not positive that the huge Rat was near at hand.

"I think he's gone," suggested Reuben.

"Did you have any question about that?" laughed Kit Carson quietly. "That he had 'gone' was the reason why we started after him."

"Yes, but I think he's gone where we can't find him."

Carson smiled as he shook his head, but made no response to the discouraged lad.

An Indian village was located in the valley not far ahead of them. The signs which had aroused the interest of Kit Carson had been the discovery of the bones and part of the hide of a horse which had been left on the sands by its border. "That's one of our horses," said the scout quietly to Reuben.

"Is it?" inquired the younger scout as he quickly jumped from his horse and began to investigate the remains of the unfortunate animal. "I could not say," he said at last when he arose and resumed his seat in the saddle.

"I am sure it is," said Kit Carson in a low voice, "and we shall find that the Indians either are having a feast on horseflesh, or that they have just finished one. The best plan, Reuben, will be for you to stay here while I go alone into the village."

Reuben glanced nervously about him, for his confidence in his own ability to protect himself in case he should be attacked was not strong. However, he made no reference to his own feelings and watched his companion as he slowly rode toward the wigwams, the tops of which could be seen in the distance.

Two hours passed before Kit Carson returned to his companion. At first the scout was not inclined to relate what had befallen him in his visit. In a brief time, however, he said: "I found the Indians all friendly."

"Did you?" inquired Reuben. "Were they having a feast?"

"Yes."

"Didn't they object to your interrupting them?"

"No. I found them all friendly, as I said. Indeed, the chief of the village is a cousin of my wife. What horse do you suppose they have been eating?"

"Not Black Jack?" demanded Reuben, startled by the suggested question.

Kit Carson nodded his head to indicate that the beautiful animal had indeed been the one which had provided the feast for the Indians.

"Why did they do that? How did it happen?"

"It seems that when Rat came into the village the black horse had broken a leg. It was just able to drag itself along."

"Was Rat there?"

"He was, but he isn't now."

"What has happened to him?"

Kit Carson smiled slightly as he looked keenly into the face of his angry friend, and then he said: "I advised him to leave."

"And he left?"

"He did."

"Did you do anything to him?"

"Nothing except to advise him to depart. I am glad to say that to all appearances he seemed to be willing to follow my advice. He decided, however, to leave our furs behind him."

"Where are they now?"

"They are in the village and I can get them any time I want them."

"What did Rat have to say for himself?"

"Nothing much. He tried at first to explain that it was all a mistake, that he didn't know the skins belonged to us, and when he found them he thought it was a great find and he would make away with them himself."

"What did he have to say about Black Jack?"

"He claimed that Black Jack was outside the camp and that he didn't intend to run away with him. He was going to bring him back just as soon as he disposed of the furs. I have just come back to tell you, Reuben, that I'm not going back to camp just now. Do you think you can find your way alone?"

"Yes. Why don't you want me to stay with you?"

Kit Carson shook his head as he said in a low voice: "It will be better, Reuben, for you to go back to camp. Tell the men that I shall be there some time to-morrow."

Reuben looked suspiciously into the face of the scout, but there was nothing in his expression to betray what his intentions were. Convinced that there was nothing more to be said, Reuben reluctantly spoke to his horse and started on his journey back to the camp. Occasionally he glanced behind him, but after a few minutes had elapsed he was unable to discover the scout anywhere on the plains. Doubtless he had returned to the village, though just what his purpose in doing so Reuben was unable to conjecture.

Steadily Reuben continued on his way, and the return, inasmuch as he was able to proceed directly and was not compelled to stop in order to study the signs in the sand as to the course which Rat had followed, did not require as much time as had been consumed in the journey in pursuit of the thief.

Near noon of the day following that on which he had left his companion Reuben entered the camp. In response to the eager questions of his friends he related what had befallen him and Kit Carson in their efforts to overtake Rat. There were exclamations of anger over the fate which had befallen Black Jack and many expressions of wonder as to why Kit had permitted the braggart to depart from the Indian village before severe punishment had been inflicted upon him. Nor did Kit Carson offer any explanation when he returned two days later.

The steady routine of the camp life continued during the weeks that followed, and when at last the entire party once more made its way back to Taos every one was well satisfied with the success which had attended their combined labours.

With Kit Carson now went the young Indian girl who was his wife. The long journey at last was completed and preparations were made for the quiet weeks that must ensue at the little Spanish settlement. The weeks ran into months, and a baby girl that had been born to Kit Carson and his wife had grown into a laughing, though quiet, dark-eyed little beauty. She was the pet of every one in the settlement, and the pride of Kit Carson in the little maid was apparent to all his friends. Indeed the unusual demonstration of affection which the scout displayed as he played with the little girl was the cause of much comment among his friends.

One day, however, there came a sadness upon all who knew the scout. His young Indian wife had been taken ill, and despite all the efforts of the people in the little settlement to help her, their work proved unavailing. In a brief time the dark-eyed wife of Kit Carson was dead. Not long after her death the scout came to Reuben and said: "I'm going to start for Pain Court. Do you want to go with me?"

For a moment Reuben was silent. He recalled the circumstances under which he had departed from the place years ago. His mother was dead and his father, either made unfeeling by the death of his wife or hardened by the conditions of his life, had become indifferent to Reuben. He had insisted that he would no longer be responsible for the care of the lad, and it was partly because of the hardships which in this manner were thrust upon him that Reuben had started with Jean Badeau across the long plains.

Not a word in all the months that had intervened had been heard from his father. Whether or not he was living now he had no means of knowing. And as for Jean, he had strangely disappeared, as we know, and whether or not the harmless insane man whom Reuben had seen at San Gabriel and in the Indian village, where Kit Carson had found his wife, really was the lost trapper he had no means of fully knowing.

These thoughts passed quickly through Reuben's mind, but he was accustomed to quick decisions, and in a moment he said: "Yes, I will go."

"I am going to take my baby with me," said the scout.

"What?"

"I am going to take the baby with me. I don't dare leave her here to be brought up by the squaws. I am going to take her back among my own people and have her looked after as the daughter of her father ought to be, for I am a man of means now," added Kit Carson quietly, smiling as he spoke. "A few more skins and I shall have enough to make me rich, or at least some time ago I would have thought I was rich if I had had any such amount of money."

"She'll die on the way," protested Reuben.

"Well, she will have to die some time. It's no worse to die on the plains than it is in a town. I think she would die here at Taos if I left her, and I'm going to take my chances and see if I cannot take her back with me."

"But she'll starve. You cannot get any milk for her."

Kit Carson smiled, but said no more, and Reuben was surprised when two days later, after arrangements had been completed for the departure, he discovered that an Indian brave and his wife whose baby had died two days before were to accompany them.

Of the long journey that followed Reuben retained many vivid recollections. There were nights when their camp was surrounded by the howling coyotes; there were times when they were unable to see far before them because of clouds of dust which passing herds of buffaloes had raised. Several times, too, they were visited by Indians from the various tribes. Twice there were delays of two or three days each because Kit Carson was fearful that his little girl was becoming weaker under the stress of the long journey.

At last the scout insisted on turning aside from the immigrant road for a visit to the old settlement on the borders of Missouri where he had been born. His visit, however, was not prolonged. He found that the old cabin in which his family had lived was now a deserted ruin. As he recalled the place it had been filled to overflowing with the large family which had made it its home. Now, not one member of his family was to be found in the region. Whither they all had gone or what had become of them he was unable to discover.

Disappointed by the results of his visit, the scout renewed his journey to Pain Court, and at last the travellers found themselves within the limits of the place they were seeking.

But what a change had come over all things there. The little trading-post had become a large town. Streets had been laid out which to the trappers seemed to be crowded with people passing to and fro. In amazement the strangers looked all about them as they entered, unable to recognize any familiar faces.

It was not long, however, before Reuben decided that he would leave his companions for a time and do his utmost to discover whether or not his father was still living.




Chapter XXIX -- The Great Scout And The Great Explorer


Several days elapsed before the young trapper obtained any definite clue concerning his father. At that time, however, he was informed by the woman with whom he was boarding that she also had been making inquiries for him, as she had become greatly interested in her young boarder. She had been informed by a woman who occasionally visited her place with vegetables for sale that she had heard of a man named Benton who was in the poorhouse in a nearby town.

Faint as the clue was, Reuben decided to follow it. When at last he was admitted into the room in which the man who bore the same name as he was found, he said quickly: "That's not the man. He isn't my father."

"Better look again," suggested the keeper of the place. "You say it has been a good many years since you saw him."

"Yes, it has been a long time," replied Reuben slowly, as again he looked keenly at the old and decrepit man before him. The man's hair was long, his clothing unkempt, but what appealed most strongly to Reuben was the fact that the man was totally blind.

At the sound of his voice there had been a strange and sudden movement on the part of the blind man. He turned his sightless face in the direction from which Reuben's voice had been heard and a change in his expression quickly came over his countenance. There was a change, too, in Reuben at the same moment, for in the face upon which he was looking there now were certain features that somehow dimly reminded him of the father he had known in the years long gone.

"Your voice sounds like the voice of a boy of mine," suggested the old man in trembling tones.

"What was his name?" inquired Reuben.

"Reuben Benton."

"And what is your name?"

"My name is William Benton."

"How long have you been here?" inquired the young trapper.

"I don't know. It seems like many years."

"Do you like it here?"

"Do I like it? I wish I was dead."

Reuben's face was glowing with a more tender expression than had been seen upon it in many a day. "We'll try to arrange it so that you won't have to stay here much longer," he said.

"What do you mean?" demanded his father so eagerly that Reuben's heart smote him again.

"I mean that I am your son and that I have come here to make arrangements to take you out of this place."

Abruptly, and to Reuben's intense surprise, his father suddenly buried his face in his hands and cried and sobbed as a little child might have done. It was long before Reuben could comfort him, but when at last the sightless old man was convinced that Reuben had in reality returned and that he was able to provide for his wants in his declining years, the countenance of William Benton was lighter than it had been for many days.

Nor was Reuben disappointed. In a brief time he was able to obtain the release of his father and also to purchase a little house in which they both might live. Reuben's share in the furs which had been secured, as we know, had brought him no small amount of money, and through the influence of Kit Carson he had been able to save most of that which he had received. Because of this he was now able to provide for his father, and there was no hesitation on the part of the young trapper in deciding to remain at Pain Court, or St. Louis, as the place now was commonly called.

With Kit Carson, however, the case was radically different. He had not found any trace of his own family, and when a few days had elapsed his stay in St. Louis was ended. The strange sights of the life in the city and the activities of the busy city people were all interesting, but as Kit explained to Reuben, he wanted to be where there weren't so many others, where there wasn't so much noise, where he could have all the air he wanted to breathe and all the sky there was to be seen. Accordingly on the first steamboat that departed westward on the Missouri River, Kit Carson was a passenger.

Among those who were also on board was a man to whom Kit Carson felt drawn almost instinctively when first he discovered him. It was not long before he learned that the name of the stranger was Lieutenant John C. Fremont, who at that time was conducting a band of men to explore and survey certain regions of the great West.

When at last young Lieutenant Fremont found himself talking to the famous scout he explained that the guide whom he had expected to meet him had not appeared and that it was now necessary for him to find another. Kit Carson, in his quiet manner and smiling as he spoke, explained that he himself had had considerable experience in the western country and that he would be willing to accompany the party as its guide. Somewhat suspicious at first, Lieutenant Fremont's fears soon were allayed, and Kit Carson became the guide of the expedition.

As they proceeded on their way more and more the daring young lieutenant became interested in the modest story which Kit Carson had to tell of his experiences in the great West; more and more convinced was Fremont that he had secured a man who was certain to be very valuable in the perilous expedition in which he was engaged. At last the party left the boat when it arrived at the mouth of the Kansas River, and at once the explorers set forth on their pathless journey.

To the men it seemed as if the necessities of life which they were taking with them had been reduced to the smallest possible number, but the scout looked on their equipment with amazement. It had never been his privilege to sleep under canvas tents or cross streams in rubber boots. We may be sure, however, that simple as were the tastes of Kit Carson, he found the conveniences which his new friends were carrying a source of comfort before many days had elapsed.

Steadily the party pushed forward on its journey westward. All day long the great stretches of level plains extended in every direction. The herds of buffalo were so many that only the choice bits of those that were shot were eaten. Indeed, some of the men saved for cooking only the marrow-bones and the tongues of the buffalo.

Then came the first sight which many of the explorers had ever had of the wonderful Rocky Mountains. And what a sight they were and are. Some of them stood with their summits hidden above the clouds and with great chasms cut into their sides. Some had heavy borders of trees as far up their sloping sides as the timberline, and others had rushing, noisy, clattering streams dashing down their sides from the fields of melting snow near the summits.

And now Kit Carson's experience became of steadily increasing value to the young lieutenant. More and more the friendship between the two men became close. Kit Carson, who knew all about the buffalo and the other animals of the plains, who was modest in his manner and yet wonderfully well informed concerning most of the points about which Fremont wished to learn, his skill as a hunter and his knowledge and friendship of the Indians, daily became of greater help to the explorers.

Indeed, it was not long after this time, when Kit Carson was carrying a message to Santa Fe, that the great scout showed his fearlessness even among the most hostile Indians. At that time all the tribes in the vicinity were on the warpath, and Kit Carson was compelled to go alone on his long ride to Santa Fe, because most of the white men were afraid of the painted savages. The scout, however, selecting a different route from that which he had followed before, confidently continued on his way. Suddenly a band of braves were seen not far before him. Slipping to one side of his horse and clinging by one arm and one leg to the animal, which was running at its swiftest paces, he passed directly in front of the band of warriors without exciting any suspicion that they beheld anything more than a stray pony, which was fleeing in terror at the sight of the red-skinned warriors.

When Kit Carson returned from his long journey, his friendship with the daring explorer had become very strong. Fremont had come to value not merely the immense fund of information which the scout possessed, but also the traits of character which had endeared him to almost all his acquaintances.

When the scout was returning, accompanied only by a young Mexican, they met a party of four Indians. Although Kit Carson was suspicious of the men, for he was aware of the discontent among the tribes, he nevertheless disguised his feelings, and when one of the Indians advanced toward him with outstretched hand Kit Carson approached him in the same manner. When the brave was about to grasp his hand as a token of friendship he suddenly changed his tactics and tried to seize and obtain the gun which the scout was carrying.

Instantly Kit Carson struck the treacherous redskin a blow between his eyes with his fist. The Indian fell to the ground, but he instantly leaped to his feet and ran back to his friends as swiftly as he was able. Immediately all four Indians turned and fled from the place. They were not accustomed to that method of fighting.

When at last Carson and his young companion arrived at the place they were seeking, it was to learn that Fremont already had gone on his westward journey.

Determined to overtake him, the scout quickly set forth from the fort. It was not difficult for him to rejoin the party which was moving in advance of him, and plans were quickly made by which he was once more to become the guide of the explorers. He explained, however, to Fremont that he wished to return to Fort Bent to secure mules which would be necessary to carry their burdens when they were journeying over the mountains.

It was not long before Kit Carson had secured the animals for which he had left his companions, and in a brief time he rejoined the men on their march. After they had failed to find a better route for the wagons through South Pass they decided to go to Salt Lake, of which they all had heard but which none had seen.

On that difficult journey across the plains it is impossible to describe all the sufferings through which the men passed and the hardships they were compelled to endure. Throughout them all, however, it was Kit Carson who proved to the lieutenant that he was equal to every emergency. When the men were near starvation it was his prowess as a hunter that secured meat for them. When their horses nearly dropped upon the sands through exhaustion and hunger again it was the scout who discovered the place where grass was to be found. When the leader one day fell into the depths of a rushing torrent it was Kit Carson who saved him from drowning. When they were threatened by the Indians, again the scout was the one upon whom all depended to obtain their friendship and secure permission to pass through the country without molestation.

Again Fremont decided to explore the region of the Oregon or the Columbia River. When their work was ended the explorer decided to go southward to California. This was a difficult journey and compelled the band to cross the lofty range of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Snows that were so deep that a man might be buried in them had to be crossed. Paths for the mules and horses had to be made. Sometimes it was necessary for the men to set fire to the fallen trees so that the snow nearby would be melted and they might obtain places where their blankets might be spread for the night.

The determination of the leaders was shared by their followers, and at last they arrived at Fort Sutter, where, with an abundance of food and other fresh supplies, they soon regained their strength and spirits.

While they were returning from this expedition Kit Carson, who had been the life and inspiration of all the men, chanced to meet a Mexican and his little boy, who apparently were in great sorrow. As Kit Carson spoke Spanish fluently he entered into conversation with the man and soon learned that the Indians had stolen his horses and carried away his friends. Without stopping to consult Lieutenant Fremont, Kit Carson succeeded in inducing one of the explorers to accompany him, and together the two men set forth in their endeavour to regain the lost horses for the Mexican.

There was swift riding that night for the two men. Nor did they stop until the sun peered above the eastern horizon, and then they stopped only because they had discovered not far before them the camp of the Indians which they were seeking. Instantly Kit Carson and his companion urged their tired horses forward, and yelling as loudly as their lungs permitted, the riders dashed into the camp.

At that time the Indians were busy in their preparations for their breakfast. Before they were fully aware of what was occurring the Indian chief fell before the sure aim of Kit Carson. Without retreating, although they were two against thirty or more, the two hardy men seized their pistols and continued the attack.

The astonished redmen turned and fled from the place. Doubtless if they had known how many were in the attacking party that would have been the last we ever should have heard of Kit Carson and his deeds. As it was, however, the redmen, without waiting to discover the numbers of their enemies, fled from the spot, leaving behind them the horses which they had stolen. These were secured by the scout, and with them he returned to the camp and gave back to the heart-broken Mexican the ponies which he had lost.




Chapter XXX -- Conclusion


Meanwhile Reuben Benton was highly prosperous in St. Louis. With the money which he had saved from the sale of his skins he had been able in a modest way to go into the business of buying furs when they were brought to the trading-post by the trappers. In this way he had been able to maintain a home of his own, in which his father remained a member as long as he lived.

Whenever Kit Carson returned to St. Louis, although there were occasions when he was highly honoured by people of the highest standing, he did not forget the man who had been with him as a boy on his trapping expeditions in the Far West. The friendship between the two deepened with the years, and among those who were loudest in their praises of the scout when he had become most famous was Reuben Benton of St. Louis.

There came a time in the life of Kit Carson, after he had left Lieutenant Fremont, when he thought he would be able to settle down and become a farmer. Not long before this time he had married a Spanish girl, whose beauty was famous all along the border. On the great ranch which he purchased he erected a house in which his wife was to make her home, and there he was busily engaged in building barns that would be adequate for the stock he expected to raise.

Abruptly, however, there came a message from Fremont urging Carson to rejoin him at once; and the scout was unable to decline. Perhaps he did not wish to. At all events, he sold his farm, provided for his wife during his absence, and then set forth with one companion to join Fremont's expedition.

The Indians had told many stories of the region known as the Great Basin, a desert so bleak and perilous that no human being might expect to cross it safely. This was the region now to be explored by Fremont and his followers. Fortunately they discovered that the reports had exaggerated the difficulties as well as the desert nature of the region.

All this, however, was not known until after the work of the explorers had been completed. So fearful were the men that the reports they had heard were well founded that they were extremely cautious in all their movements.

Kit Carson, with a few men as hardy as he, kept well in advance of the main party. Whenever they discovered a place where water was to be had and there was grass for the horses, there they built fires, the smoke of which served as an invitation to the other members of the party behind them to advance.

At last they made their way into northern California and there encountered their first serious difficulty with the Indians. The little band was attacked by one thousand of the savages, but fortunately the redmen were ignorant of the use of rifles, and as soon as the guns were discharged they fled in wild confusion.

About this time the object of the expedition speedily changed. There was war declared upon Mexico and immediately Fremont and his followers enrolled themselves as soldiers of their country. Other men joined them and soon there were sufficient soldiers to form a regiment. Lieutenant Fremont was extremely eager that the President should be informed concerning his plans and work. The only way by which word could be sent him was by messenger, and there was no messenger like Kit Carson. Accordingly in response to the fresh appeal of Fremont, Carson set forth as a messenger to carry the dispatches to the capital of the nation. His letters, however, were very brief, for Fremont relied upon Kit Carson's own ability to explain conditions as they existed on the Pacific Coast.

Before the scout had completed his journey he met a body of soldiers on their way to California. General Kearny was in command of them, and as soon as he was informed of the purpose of Kit Carson he at once urged him to permit some one else to carry the dispatches to the President while the scout himself should return with the men. Kit Carson, however, was a man who did not consider any task completed until he himself had personally done all that had been assigned to him. When, at last, General Kearny ordered him to do as he had suggested there was no other course but to obey, and accordingly the scout returned with the men. It was not the last time, however, that he was sent over the perilous way with messages for the men at Washington.

On his arrival he was amazed to find that the people of the capital already knew of his life in the West. To the modest scout this was a great surprise. He did not understand how any one could have heard of his work among the fur-bearing animals and the Indians of the West. Perhaps he was more surprised than any of his friends to find himself so much in demand. When one of the United States Senators said: "To me Kit Carson and truth mean the same," we may be sure the modest scout was almost overwhelmed by the words of praise.

When his last journey to Washington was ended the scout was glad to return to his family at Taos. There he had a house built of adobe, in which there was always a welcome for his friends. Even the Indians came and went with more freedom than they visited any of the homes of the white men. Affectionately the redmen called him "Father Kit," and the confidence of the good Indian was as strong as was the fear of the Indian who had done wrong. About forty miles distant from Taos Kit Carson had his ranch. There his family spent much of their time and there, too, there was always a welcome not only for his old friends, but for visitors as well.

Lieutenant Fremont had now become a colonel and his name was famous throughout the United States. He, too, visited the scout of whom he had been so fond, and in his letters, which are still in existence, he relates what a good time he had at the home of Kit Carson, the famous scout, trapper, guide, and messenger.

Kit Carson looked well to his farm, but his love of hunting was still strong. Indeed, it is said that his table was kept well supplied by the aid of his own rifle with game throughout most of the year.

If Kit Carson believed that his roving days were ended now, he was soon to learn of his mistake. Of all his expeditions, however, only two can be mentioned here. On one of these, with some other men, mostly Mexicans, he drove nearly seven thousand sheep from Taos to California. Across the desert, through the lofty mountain ranges, the strange procession led by Kit Carson slowly made its way. At last, when the drovers arrived at their destination, they were able to sell their sheep for such high prices that every man received an ample reward for his labours. It was at this time that Kit Carson insisted upon going down the Sacramento to San Francisco. It had been many years since he had seen the settlement, and meanwhile the gold fever had drawn men of all kinds to the little place until it had increased very rapidly in its population.

The scout, after his arrival, looked about him in amazement. Thirty-five thousand people were living in the place, which he had known only as a little hamlet. Even here his fame had preceded him and there were many of the reckless men who tried to induce the famous scout to join them in their wild dissipations. With the same quiet strength which he had shown in his early life, Kit Carson steadfastly refused the invitations, and when he departed, his record was as clean as when he had first come.

Another time Carson with a large band of the men who once had trapped with him returned to the scenes of their early experiences. Again the men were trapping the beaver, and their success amazed even themselves. Many of the trappers had become so possessed with the desire to find gold that they had neglected or forgotten the wealth to be won by trapping. As a consequence the success of Kit Carson's band was marvellous, and when they returned they felt more than repaid for their labours.

It was on this expedition that Kit Carson lassoed a huge grizzly bear. The lasso, however, was not sufficiently strong to tame the savage beast, and at last the men, for the sake of their own safety, killed the grizzly. The following day, which was the Fourth of July, there was a great feast in which bear-steak was one of the chief articles of food.

It was not long before the war between the States broke out. And again Kit Carson found that it was impossible for him to remain quietly in his home on the ranch near Taos. In response to the call of the men who knew and loved him he consented to serve as the colonel of a regiment which was raised in New Mexico.

In the campaign which followed there is a quaint statement that perhaps the most striking service rendered by the brave colonel was when his regiment one time was ordered to attack the Navajo Indians, who had thought the time was fitting for them to rebel against the white men. It is related that with a few of his chosen men Colonel Kit departed from his camp early one morning and attacked and scattered the warring Indians and then returned to the camp before the soldiers who had been left there under the command of the lieutenant-colonel were aware that there was any fighting to be done.

There are some who believe that the best work Kit Carson ever did was later, when he became an Indian agent. His knowledge of the Indians and his understanding of their character enabled him to deal with them as few white men could have done. There were times when alone he entered the councils of the tribes when they were planning war and by his quiet and earnest appeals he induced them to abandon their warlike plans. But even his efforts were unavailing at times and with certain of the more blood-thirsty Indians. His activity and knowledge, however, were felt most when there were uprisings that sometimes were terrible in their effects upon the scattered settlers.

Even to the last of his life he insisted upon occasional vacations. At such times he would return with some of his chosen friends to his old occupations and the places which had known him when he was only a boy scout.

It is reported that when at last Kit Carson became ill with the sickness that ended his life, the doctor who was attending his case, and who was one of his warmest friends, spent much time reading to the old scout the story of his life which had recently been published. There is no doubt that Carson keenly enjoyed the narrative, although in his modesty he declared that he did not see why any one should ever have considered it worth while to write in a book an account of his experiences and adventures.

It was May 23, 1868 when Kit Carson breathed his last. To-day, however, if you visit the region in which his scouting was done you will find many men who claim that they knew the famous scout, and if you are willing to listen they will tell you many marvellous tales of his bravery and his adventures. It is also quite likely that some of these stories are true.

<eob>

Ruth Fielding Down East

Or

The Hermit Of Beach Plum Point

By

Alice B. Emerson



Chapter I

The Wind Storm


Across the now placidly flowing Lumano where it widened into almost the proportions of a lake just below the picturesque Red Mill, a bank of tempestuous clouds was shouldering into view above the sky line of the rugged and wooded hills. These slate-colored clouds, edged with pallid light, foredoomed the continuance of the peaceful summer afternoon.

Not a breath of air stirred on the near side of the river. The huge old elms shading the Red Mill and the farmhouse connected with it belonging to Mr. Jabez Potter, the miller, were like painted trees, so still were they. The brooding heat of midday, however, had presaged the coming storm, and it had been prepared for at mill and farmhouse. The tempest was due soon.

The backyard of the farmhouse -- a beautiful lawn of short grass -- sloped down to the river. On the bank and over the stream itself was set a summer-house of fair proportions, covered with vines -- a cool and shady retreat on the very hottest day of midsummer.

A big robin redbreast had been calling his raucous weather warning from the top of one of the trees near the house; but, with her back to the river and the coming storm, the girl in the pavilion gave little heed to this good-intentioned weather prophet.

She did raise her eyes, however, at the querulous whistle of a striped creeper that was wriggling through the intertwined branches of the trumpet-vine in search of insects. Ruth Fielding was always interested in those busy, helpful little songsters.

"You cute little thing!" she murmured, at last catching sight of the flashing bird between the stems of the old vine. "I wish I could put you into my scenario."

On the table at which she was sitting was a packet of typewritten sheets which she had been annotating, and two fat note books. She laid down her gold-mounted fountain pen as she uttered these words, and then sighed and pushed her chair back from the table.

Then she stood up suddenly. A sound had startled her. She looked all about the summer-house -- a sharp, suspicious glance. Then she tiptoed to the door and peered out.

The creeper fluttered away. The robin continued to shout his warning. Had it really been a rustling in the vines she had heard? Was there somebody lurking about the summer-house?

She stepped out and looked on both sides. It was then she saw how threatening the aspect of the clouds on the other side of the river were. The sight drove from her thoughts for the moment the strange sound she had heard. She did not take pains to look beneath the summer-house on the water side.

Instead, another sound assailed her ears. This time one that she could not mistake for anything but just what it was -- the musical horn of Tom Cameron's automobile. Ruth turned swiftly to look up the road. A dark maroon car, long and low-hung like a racer, was coming along the road, leaving a funnel of dust behind it. There were two people in the car.

The girl beside the driver -- black-haired and petite -- fluttered her handkerchief in greeting when she saw Ruth standing by the summer-house. At once the latter ran across the yard, over the gentle rise, and down to the front gate of the Potter farmhouse. She ran splendidly with a free stride of untrammeled limbs, but she held one shoulder rather stiffly.

"Oh, Ruth!"

"Oh, Helen!"

The car was at the gate, and Tom brought it to a prompt stop. Helen, his twin sister, was out of it instantly and almost leaped into the bigger girl's arms.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" sobbed Helen. "You are alive after all that horrible experience coming home from Europe."

"And you are alive and safe, dear Helen," responded Ruth Fielding, quite as deeply moved.

It was the first time they had met since separating in Paris a month before. And in these times of war, with peace still an uncertainty, there were many perils to fear between the port of Brest and that of New York.

Tom, in uniform and with a ribbon and medal on his breast, grinned teasingly at the two girls.

"Come, come! Break away! Only twenty seconds allowed in a clinch. Don't Helen look fine, Ruth? How's the shoulder?"

"Just a bit stiff yet," replied the girl of the Red Mill, kissing her chum again.

At this moment the first sudden swoop of the tempest arrived. The tall elms writhed as though taken with St. Vitus's dance. The hens began to screech and run to cover. Thunder muttered in the distance.

"Oh, dear me!" gasped Ruth, paling unwontedly, for she was not by nature a nervous girl. "Come right into the house, Helen. You could not get to Cheslow or back home before this storm breaks. Put your car under the shed, Tom."

She dragged her friend into the yard and up the warped flag stones to the side door of the cottage. A little old woman who had been sitting on the porch in a low rocking chair arose with difficulty, leaning on a cane.

"Oh, my back, and oh, my bones!" murmured Aunt Alvirah Boggs, who was not long out of a sick bed herself and would never again be as "spry" as she once had been. "Do come in, dearies. It is a wind storm."

Ruth stopped to help the little old woman. She continued pale, but her thought for Aunt Alvirah's comfort caused her to put aside her own fear. The trio entered the house and closed the door.

In a moment there was a sharp patter against the house. The rain had begun in big drops. The rear door was opened, and Tom, laughing and shaking the water from his cap, dashed into the living room. He wore the insignia of a captain under his dust-coat and the distinguishing marks of a very famous division of the A. E. F.

"It's a buster!" he declared. "There's a paper sailing like a kite over the roof of the old mill --  -- "

Ruth sprang up with a shriek. She ran to the back door by which Tom had just entered and tore it open.

"Oh, do shut the door, deary!" begged Aunt Alvirah. "That wind is 'nough to lift the roof."

"What is the matter, Ruth?" demanded Helen.

But Tom ran out after her. He saw the girl leap from the porch and run madly down the path toward the summer-house. Back on the wind came a broken word or two of explanation:

"My papers! My scenario! The best thing I ever did, Tom!"

He had almost caught up to her when she reached the little pavilion. The wind from across the river was tearing through the summer-house at a sixty-mile-an-hour speed.

"Oh! It's gone!" Ruth cried, and had Tom not caught her she would have dropped to the ground.

There was not a scrap of paper left upon the table, nor anywhere in the place. Even the two fat notebooks had disappeared, and, too, the gold-mounted pen the girl of the Red Mill had been using. All, all seemed to have been swept out of the summer-house.



Chapter II

The Mystery Of It


For half a minute Tom Cameron did not know just what to do for Ruth. Then the water spilled out of the angry clouds overhead and bade fair to drench them.

He half carried Ruth into the summer-house and let her rest upon a bench, sitting beside her with his arm tenderly supporting her shoulders. Ruth had begun to sob tempestuously.

Ruth Fielding weeping! She might have cried many times in the past, but almost always in secret. Tom, who knew her so well, had seen her in dangerous and fear-compelling situations, and she had not wept.

"What is it?" he demanded. "What have you lost?"

"My scenario! All my work gone!"

"The new story? My goodness, Ruth, it couldn't have blown away!"

"But it has!" she wailed. "Not a scrap of it left. My notebooks -- my pen! Why!" and she suddenly controlled her sobs, for she was, after all, an eminently practical girl. "Could that fountain pen have been carried away by the windstorm, too?"

"There goes a barrel through the air," shouted Tom. "That's heavier than a fountain pen. Say, this is some wind!"

The sound of the dashing rain now almost drowned their voices. It sprayed them through the porous shelter of the vines and latticework so that they could not sit on the bench.

Ruth huddled upon the table with Tom Cameron standing between her and the drifting mist of the storm. She looked across the rain-drenched yard to the low-roofed house. She had first seen it with a home-hungry heart when a little girl and an orphan.

How many, many strange experiences she had had since that time, which seemed so long ago! Nor had she then dreamed, as "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill," as the first volume of this series is called, that she would lead the eventful life she had since that hour.

Under the niggard care of miserly old Jabez Potter, the miller, her great uncle, tempered by the loving kindness of Aunt Alvirah Boggs, the miller's housekeeper, Ruth's prospects had been poor indeed. But Providence moves in mysterious ways. Seemingly unexpected chances had broadened Ruth's outlook on life and given her advantages that few girls in her sphere secure.

First she was enabled to go to a famous boarding school, Briarwood Hall, with her dearest chum, Helen Cameron. There she began to make friends and widen her experience by travel. With Helen, Tom, and other young friends, Ruth had adventures, as the titles of the series of books run, at Snow Camp, at Lighthouse Point, at Silver Ranch, on Cliff Island, at Sunrise Farm, with the Gypsies, in Moving Pictures, and Down in Dixie.

With the eleventh volume of the series Ruth and her chums, Helen Cameron and Jennie Stone, begin their life at Ardmore College. As freshmen their experiences are related in "Ruth Fielding at College; Or, The Missing Examination Papers." This volume is followed by "Ruth Fielding in the Saddle; Or, College Girls in the Land of Gold," wherein Ruth's first big scenario is produced by the Alectrion Film Corporation.

As was the fact with so many of our college boys and girls, the World War interfered most abruptly and terribly with Ruth's peaceful current of life. America went into the war and Ruth into Red Cross work almost simultaneously.

In "Ruth Fielding in the Red Cross; Or, Doing Her Bit for Uncle Sam," the Girl of the Red Mill gained a very practical experience in the work of the great peace organization which does so much to smooth the ravages of war. Then, in "Ruth Fielding at the War Front; Or, The Hunt for the Lost Soldier," the Red Cross worker was thrown into the very heart of the tremendous struggle, and in northern France achieved a name for courage that her college mates greatly envied.

Wounded and nerve-racked because of her experiences, Ruth was sent home, only to meet, as related in the fifteenth volume of the series, "Ruth Fielding Homeward Bound; Or, A Red Cross Worker's Ocean Perils," an experience which seemed at first to be disastrous. In the end, however, the girl reached the Red Mill in a physical and mental state which made any undue excitement almost a tragedy for her.

The mysterious disappearance of the moving picture scenario, which had been on her heart and mind for months and which she had finally brought, she believed, to a successful termination, actually shocked Ruth Fielding. She could not control herself for the moment.

Against Tom Cameron's uniformed shoulder she sobbed frankly. His arm stole around her.

"Don't take on so, Ruthie," he urged. "Of course we'll find it all. Wait till this rain stops --  -- "

"It never blew away, Tom," she said.

"Why, of course it did!"

"No. The sheets of typewritten manuscript were fastened together with a big brass clip. Had they been lose and the wind taken them, we should have seen at least some of them flying about. And the notebooks!"

"And the pen?" murmured Tom, seeing the catastrophe now as she did. "Why, Ruthie! Could somebody have taken them all?"

"Somebody must!"

"But who?" demanded the young fellow. "You have no enemies."

"Not here, I hope," she sighed. "I left them all behind."

He chuckled, although he was by no means unappreciative of the seriousness of her loss. "Surely that German aviator who dropped the bomb on you hasn't followed you here."

"Don't talk foolishly, Tom!" exclaimed the girl, getting back some of her usual good sense. "Of course, I have no enemy. But a thief is every honest person's enemy."

"Granted. But where is the thief around the Red Mill?"

"I do not know."

"Can it be possible that your uncle or Ben saw the things here and rescued them just before the storm burst?"

"We will ask," she said, with a sigh. "But I can imagine no reason for either Uncle Jabez or Ben to come down here to the shore of the river. Oh, Tom! it is letting up."

"Good! I'll look around first of all. If there has been a skulker near --  -- "

"Now, don't be rash," she cried.

"We're not behind the German lines now, Fraulein Mina von Brenner," and he laughed as he went out of the summer-house.

He did not smile when he was searching under the house and beating the brush clumps near by. He realized that this loss was a very serious matter for Ruth.

She was now independent of Uncle Jabez, but her income was partly derived from her moving picture royalties. During her war activities she had been unable to do much work, and Tom knew that Ruth had spent of her own means a great deal in the Red Cross work.

Ruth had refused to tell her friends the first thing about this new story for the screen. She believed it to be the very best thing she had ever originated, and she said she wished to surprise them all.

He even knew that all her notes and "before-the-finish" writing was in the notebooks that had now gone with the completed manuscript. It looked more than mysterious. It was suspicious.

Tom looked all around the summer-house. Of course, after this hard downpour it was impossible to mark any footsteps. Nor, indeed, did the raider need to leave such a trail in getting to and departing from the little vine-covered pavilion. The sward was heavy all about it save on the river side.

The young man found not a trace. Nor did he see a piece of paper anywhere. He was confident that Ruth's papers and notebooks and pen had been removed by some human agency. And it could not have been a friend who had done this thing.



Chapter III

The Derelict


"Didn't you find anything, Tom?" Ruth Fielding asked, as Helen's twin re-entered the summer-house.

His long automobile coat glistened with wet and his face was wind-blown. Tom Cameron's face, too, looked much older than it had -- well, say a year before. He, like Ruth herself, had been through much in the war zone calculated to make him more sedate and serious than a college undergraduate is supposed to be.

"I did not see even a piece of paper blowing about," he told her.

"But before we came down from the house you said you saw a paper blow over the roof like a kite."

"That was an outspread newspaper. It was not a sheet of your manuscript."

"Then it all must have been stolen!" she cried.

"At least, human agency must have removed the things you left on this table," he said.

"Oh, Tom!"

"Now, now, Ruth! It's tough, I know --  -- "

But she recovered a measure of her composure almost immediately. Unnerved as she had first been by the disaster, she realized that to give way to her trouble would not do the least bit of good.

"An ordinary thief," Tom suggested after a moment, "would not consider your notes and the play of much value."

"I suppose not," she replied.

"If they are stolen it must be by somebody who understands -- or thinks he does -- the value of the work. Somebody who thinks he can sell a moving picture scenario."

"Oh, Tom!"

"A gold mounted fountain pen would attract any petty thief," he went on to say. "But surely the itching fingers of such a person would not be tempted by that scenario."

"Then, which breed of thief stole my scenario, Tom?" she demanded. "You are no detective. Your deductions suggest two thieves."

"Humph! So they do. Maybe they run in pairs. But I can't really imagine two light-fingered people around the Red Mill at once. Seen any tramps lately?"

"We seldom see the usual tramp around here," said Ruth, shaking her head. "We are too far off the railroad line. And the Cheslow constables keep them moving if they land there."

"Could anybody have done it for a joke?" asked Tom suddenly.

"If they have," Ruth said, wiping her eyes, "it is the least like a joke of anything that ever happened to me. Why, Tom! I couldn't lay out that scenario again, and think of all the details, and get it just so, in a year!"

"Oh, Ruth!"

"I mean it! And even my notes are gone. Oh, dear! I'd never have the heart to write that scenario again. I don't know that I shall ever write another, anyway. I'm discouraged," sobbed the girl suddenly.

"Oh, Ruth! don't give way like this," he urged, with rather a boyish fear of a girl's tears.

"I've given way already," she choked. "I just feel that I'll never be able to put that scenario into shape again. And I'd written Mr. Hammond so enthusiastically about it."

"Oh! Then he knows all about it!" said Tom. "That is more than any of us do. You wouldn't tell us a thing."

"And I didn't tell him. He doesn't know the subject, or the title, or anything about it. I tell you, Tom, I had such a good idea --  -- "

"And you've got the idea yet, haven't you? Cheer up! Of course you can do it over."

"Suppose," demanded Ruth quickly, "this thief that has got my manuscript should offer it to some producer? Why! if I tried to rewrite it and bring it out, I might be accused of plagiarizing my own work."

"Jimminy!"

"I wouldn't dare," said Ruth, shaking her head. "As long as I do not know what has become of the scenario and my notes, I will not dare use the idea at all. It is dreadful!"

The rain was now falling less torrentially. The tempest was passing. Soon there was even a rift in the clouds in the northwest where a patch of blue sky shone through "big enough to make a Scotchman a pair of breeches," as Aunt Alvirah would say.

"We'd better go up to the house," sighed Ruth.

"I'll go right around to the neighbors and see if anybody has noticed a stranger in the vicinity," Tom suggested.

"There's Ben! Do you suppose he has seen anybody?"

A lanky young man, his clothing gray with flour dust, came from the back door of the mill and hastened under the dripping trees to reach the porch of the farmhouse. He stood there, smiling broadly at them, as Ruth and Tom hurriedly crossed the yard.

"Good day, Mr. Tom," said Ben, the miller's helper. Then he saw Ruth's troubled countenance. "Wha -- what's the matter, Ruthie?"

"Ben, I've lost something."

"Bless us an' save us, no!"

"Yes, I have. Something very valuable. It's been stolen."

"You don't mean it!"

"But I do! Some manuscript out of the summer-house yonder."

"And her gold-mounted fountain pen," added Tom. "That would tempt somebody."

"My goodness!"

Ben could express his simple wonderment in a variety of phrases. But he seemed unable to go beyond these explosive expressions.

"Ben, wake up!" exclaimed Ruth. "Have you any idea who would have taken it?"

"That gold pen, Ruthie? Why -- why --  --  A thief!"

"Old man," said Tom with suppressed disgust, "you're a wonder. How did you guess it?"

"Hush, Tom," Ruth said. Then: "Now, Ben, just think. Who has been around here to-day? Any stranger, I mean."

"Why -- I dunno," said the mill hand, puckering his brows.

"Think!" she commanded again.

"Why -- why --  -- old Jep Parloe drove up for a grinding."

"He's not a stranger."

"Oh, yes he is, Ruthie. Me nor Mr. Potter ain't seen him before for nigh three months. Your uncle up and said to him, 'Why, you're a stranger, Mr. Parloe.'"

"I mean," said Ruth, with patience, "anybody whom you have never seen before -- or anybody whom you might suspect would steal."

"Well," drawled Ben stubbornly, "your uncle, Ruthie, says old Jep ain't any too honest."

"I know all about that," Ruth said. "But Parloe did not leave his team and go down to the summer-house, did he?"

"Oh, no!"

"Did you see anybody go down that way?"

"Don't believe I did -- savin' you yourself, Ruthie."

"I left a manuscript and my pen on the table there. I ran out to meet Tom and Helen when they came."

"I seen you," said Ben.

"Then it was just about that time that somebody sneaked into that summer-house and stole those things."

"I didn't see anybody snuck in there," declared Ben, with more confidence than good English.

"Say!" ejaculated Tom, impatiently, "haven't you seen any tramp, or straggler, or Gypsy -- or anybody like that?"

"Hi gorry!" suddenly said Ben, "I do remember. There was a man along here this morning -- a preacher, or something like that. Had a black frock coat on and wore his hair long and sort o' wavy. He was shabby enough to be a tramp, that's a fact. But he was a real knowledgeable feller -- he was that. Stood at the mill door and recited po'try for us."

"Poetry!" exclaimed Tom.

"To you and Uncle Jabez?" asked Ruth.

"Uh-huh. All about 'to be or not to be a bean -- that is the question.' And something about his having suffered from the slung shots and bow arrers of outrageous fortune -- whatever that might be. I guess he got it all out of the Scriptures. Your uncle said he was bugs; but I reckoned he was a preacher."

"Jimminy!" muttered Tom. "A derelict actor, I bet. Sounds like a Shakespearean ham."

"Goodness!" said Ruth. "Between the two of you boys I get a very strange idea of this person."

"Where did he go, Ben?" Tom asked.

"I didn't watch him. He only hung around a little while. I think he axed your uncle for some money, or mebbe something to eat. You see, he didn't know Mr. Potter."

"Not if he struck him for a hand-out," muttered the slangy Tom.

"Oh, Ben! don't you know whether he went toward Cheslow -- or where?" cried Ruth.

"Does it look probable to you," Tom asked, "that a derelict actor --  --  Oh, Jimminy! Of course! He would be just the person to see the value of that play script at a glance!"

"Oh, Tom!"

"Have you no idea where he went, Ben?" Tom again demanded of the puzzled mill hand.

"No, Mister Tom. I didn't watch him."

"I'll get out the car at once and hunt all about for him," Tom said quickly. "You go in to Helen and Aunt Alvirah, Ruth. You'll be sick if you let this get the best of you. I'll find that miserable thief of a ham actor -- if he's to be found." He added this last under his breath as he ran for the shed where he had sheltered his automobile.



Chapter IV

The Crying Need


Tom Cameron chased about the neighborhood for more than two hours in his fast car hunting the trail of the man who he had decided must be a wandering theatrical performer. Of course, this was a "long shot," Tom said; but the trampish individual of whom Ben had told was much more likely to be an actor than a preacher.

Tom, however, was able to find no trace of the fellow until he got to the outskirts of Cheslow, the nearest town. Here he found a man who had seen a long-haired fellow in a shabby frock coat and black hat riding toward the railroad station beside one of the farmers who lived beyond the Red Mill. This was following the tempest which had burst over the neighborhood at mid-afternoon.

Trailing this information farther, Tom learned that the shabby man had been seen about the railroad yards. Mr. Curtis, the railroad station master, had observed him. But suddenly the tramp had disappeared. Whether he had hopped Number 10, bound north, or Number 43, bound south, both of which trains had pulled out of Cheslow within the hour, nobody could be sure.

Tom returned to the Red Mill at dusk, forced to report utter failure.

"If that bum actor stole your play, Ruth, he's got clear way with it," Tom said bluntly. "I'm awfully sorry --  -- "

"Does that help?" demanded his sister snappishly, as though it were somewhat Tom's fault. "You go home, Tom. I'm going to stay with Ruthie to-night," and she followed her chum into the bedroom to which she had fled at Tom's announcement of failure.

"Jimminy!" murmured Tom to the old miller who was still at the supper table. "And we aren't even sure that that fellow did steal the scenario."

"Humph!" rejoined Uncle Jabez. "You'll find, if you live to be old enough, young feller, that women folks is kittle cattle. No knowing how they'll take anything. That pen cost five dollars, I allow; but them papers only had writing on 'em, and it does seem to me that what you have writ once you ought to be able to write again. That's the woman of it. She don't say a thing about that pen, Ruthie don't."

However, Tom Cameron saw farther into the mystery than Uncle Jabez appeared to. And after a day or two, with Ruth still "moping about like a moulting hen," as the miller expressed it, the young officer felt that he must do something to change the atmosphere of the Red Mill farmhouse.

"Our morale has gone stale, girls," he declared to his sister and Ruth. "Worrying never did any good yet."

"That's a true word, Sonny," said Aunt Alvirah, from her chair. "'Care killed the cat.' my old mother always said, and she had ten children to bring up and a drunken husband who was a trial. He warn't my father. He was her second, an' she took him, I guess, 'cause he was ornamental. He was a sign painter when he worked. But he mostly advertised King Alcohol by painting his nose red.

"We children sartain sure despised that man. But mother was faithful to her vows, and she made quite a decent member of the community of that man before she left off. And, le's see! We was talkin' about cats, warn't we?"

"You were, Aunty dear," said Ruth, laughing for the first time in several days.

"Hurrah!" said Tom, plunging head-first into his idea. "That's just what I wanted to hear."

"What?" demanded Helen.

"I have wanted to hear Ruth laugh. And we all need to laugh. Why, we are becoming a trio of old fogies!"

"Speak for yourself, Master Tom," pouted his sister.

"I do. And for you. And certainly Ruth is about as cheerful as a funeral mute. What we all need is some fun."

"Oh, Tom, I don't feel at all like 'funning,'" sighed Ruth.

"You be right, Sonny," interjected Aunt Alvirah, who sometimes forgot that Tom, as well as the girls, was grown up. She rose from her chair with her usual, "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones! You young folks should be dancing and frolicking --  -- "

"But the war, Auntie!" murmured Ruth.

"You'll neither make peace nor mar it by worriting. No, no, my pretty! And 'tis a bad thing when young folks grow old before their time."

"You're always saying that, Aunt Alvirah," Ruth complained. "But how can one be jolly if one does not feel jolly?"

"My goodness!" cried Tom, "you were notoriously the jolliest girl in that French hospital. Didn't the poilus call you the jolly American? And listen to Grandmother Grunt now!"

"I suppose it is so," sighed Ruth. "But I must have used up all my fund of cheerfulness for those poor blessés. It does seem as though the font of my jollity had quite dried up."

"I wish Heavy Stone were here," said Helen suddenly. "She'd make us laugh."

"She and her French colonel are spooning down there at Lighthouse Point," scoffed Ruth -- and not at all as Ruth Fielding was wont to speak.

"Say!" Tom interjected, "I bet Heavy is funny even when she is in love."

"That's a reputation!" murmured Ruth.

"They are not at Lighthouse Point. The Stones did not go there this summer, I understand," Helen observed.

"I am sorry for Jennie and Colonel Marchand if they are at the Stones' city house at this time of the year," the girl of the Red Mill said.

"Bully!" cried Tom, with sudden animation. "That's just what we will do!"

"What will we do, crazy?" demanded his twin.

"We'll get Jennie Stone and Henri Marchand -- he's a good sport, too, as I very well know -- and we'll all go for a motor trip. Jimminy Christmas! that will be just the thing, Sis. We'll go all over New England, if you like. We'll go Down East and introduce Colonel Marchand to some of our hard-headed and tight-fisted Yankees that have done their share towards injecting America into the war. We will --  -- "

"Oh!" cried Ruth, breaking in with some small enthusiasm, "let's go to Beach Plum Point."

"Where is that?" asked Helen.

"It is down in Maine. Beyond Portland. And Mr. Hammond and his company are there making my 'Seaside Idyl.'"

"Oh, bully!" cried Helen, repeating one of her brother's favorite phrases, and now quite as excited over the idea as he. "I do so love to act in movies. Is there a part in that 'Idyl' story for me?"

"I cannot promise that," Ruth said. "It would be up to the director. I wasn't taking much interest in this particular picture. I wrote the scenario, you know, before I went to France. I have been giving all my thought to --  -- 

"Oh, dear! If we could only find my lost story!"

"Come on!" interrupted Tom. "Let's not talk about that. Will you write to Jennie Stone?"

"I will. At once," his sister declared.

"Do. I'll take it to the post office and send it special delivery. Tell her to wire her answer, and let it be 'yes.' We'll take both cars. Father won't mind."

"Oh, but!" cried Helen. "How about a chaperon?"

"Oh, shucks! I wish you'd marry some nice fellow, Sis, so that we'd always have a chaperon on tap and handy."

She made a little face at him. "I am going to be old-maid aunt to your many children, Tommy-boy. I am sure you will have a full quiver. We will have to look for a chaperon."

"Aunt Kate!" exclaimed Ruth. "Heavy's Aunt Kate. She is just what Helen declares she wants to be -- an old-maid aunt."

"And a lovely lady," cried Helen.

"Sure. Ask her. Beg her," agreed Tom. "Tell her it is the crying need. We have positively got to have some fun."

"Well, I suppose we may as well," Ruth sighed, in agreement.

"Yes. We have always pampered the boy," declared Helen, her eyes twinkling. "I know just what I'll wear, Ruthie."

"Oh, we've clothes enough," admitted the girl of the Red Mill rather listlessly.

"Shucks!" said Tom again. "Never mind the fashions. Get that letter written, Sis."

So it was agreed. Helen wrote, the letter was sent. With Jennie Stone's usual impulsiveness she accepted for herself and "mon Henri" and Aunt Kate, promising to be at Cheslow within three days, and all within the limits of a ten-word telegram!



Chapter V

Off At Last


"The ancients," stated Jennie Stone solemnly, "burned incense upon any and all occasions -- red letter days, labor days, celebrating Columbus Day and the morning after, I presume. But we moderns burn gasoline. And, phew! I believe I should prefer the stale smoke of incense in the unventilated pyramids of Egypt to this odor of gas. O-o-o-o, Tommy, do let us get started!"

"You've started already -- in your usual way," he laughed.

This was at Cheslow Station on the arrival of the afternoon up train that had brought Miss Stone, her Aunt Kate, and the smiling Colonel Henri Marchand to join the automobile touring party which Jennie soon dubbed "the later Pilgrims."

"And that big machine looks much as the Mayflower must have looked steering across Cape Cod Bay on that special occasion we read of in sacred and profane history, hung about with four-poster beds and whatnots. In our neighborhood," the plump girl added, "there is enough decrepit furniture declared to have been brought over on the Mayflower to have made a cargo for the Leviathan."

"Oh, ma chere! you do but stretch the point, eh?" demanded the handsome Henri Marchand, amazed.

"I assure you --  -- "

"Don't, Heavy," advised Helen. "You will only go farther and do worse. In my mind there has always been a suspicion that the Mayflower was sent over here by some shipped knocked-down furniture factory. Miles Standish and Priscilla Mullins and John Alden must have hung on by their eyebrows."

"Their eyebrows -- ma foi!" gasped Marchand.

"Say, old man," said Tom, laughing, "if you listen to these crazy college girls you will have a fine idea of our historical monuments, and so forth. Take everything with a grain of salt -- do."

"Oui, Monsieur! But I must have a little pepper, too. I am 'strong,' as you Americans say, for plentiful seasoning."

"Isn't he cute?" demanded Jenny Stone. "He takes to American slang like a bird to the air."

"Poetry barred!" declared Helen.

"Say," Tom remarked aside to the colonel, "you've got all the pep necessary, sure enough, in Jennie."

"She is one dear!" sighed the Frenchman.

"And she just said you were a bird. You'll have a regular zoo about you yet. Come on. Let's see if we can get this baggage aboard the good ship. It does look a good deal of an ark, doesn't it?"

Although Ruth and Aunt Kate had not joined in this repartee, the girl of the Red Mill, as well as their lovely chaperon, enjoyed the fun immensely. Ruth had revived in spirits on meeting her friends. Jennie had flown to her arms at the first greeting, and hugged the girl of the Red Mill with due regard to the mending shoulder.

"My dear! My dear!" she had cried. "I dream of you lying all so pale and bloody under that window-sill stone. And what I hear of your and Tom's experiences coming over --  -- "

"But worse has happened to me since I arrived home," Ruth said woefully.

"No? Impossible!"

"Yes. I have had an irreparable loss," sighed Ruth. "I'll tell you about it later."

But for the most part the greetings of the two parties was made up as Tom said of "Ohs and Ahs."

"Take it from me," the naughty Tom declared to Marchand, "two girls separated for over-night can find more to tell each other about the next morning than we could think of if we should meet at the Resurrection!"

The two Cameron cars stood in the station yard, and as the other waiting cars, taxicabs and "flivvers" departed, "the sacred odor of gasoline," which Jennie had remarked upon, was soon dissipated.

The big touring car was expertly packed with baggage, and had a big hamper on either running-board as well. There was room remaining, however, for the ladies if they would sit there. But as Tom was to drive the big car he insisted that Ruth sit with him in the front seat for company. As for his racing car, he had turned that over to Marchand. It, too, was well laden; but at the start Jennie squeezed in beside her colonel, and the maroon speeder was at once whisperingly dubbed by the others "the honeymoon car."

"Poor children!" said Aunt Kate in private to the two other girls. "They cannot marry until the war is over. That my brother is firm upon, although he thinks well of Colonel Henri. And who could help liking him? He is a most lovable boy."

"'Boy!'" repeated Ruth. "And he is one of the most famous spies France has produced in this war! And a great actor!"

"But we believe he is not acting when he tells us he loves Jennie," Aunt Kate said.

"Surely not!" cried Helen.

"He is the soul of honor," Ruth declared. "I trust him as I do -- well, Tom. I never had a brother."

"I've always shared Tom with you," pouted Helen.

"So you have, dear," admitted Ruth. "But a girl who has had no really-truly brother really has missed something. Perhaps good, perhaps bad. But, at least, if you have brothers you understand men better."

"Listen to the wisdom of the owl!" scoffed Helen. "Why, Tommy is only a girl turned inside out. A girl keeps all her best and softest attributes to the fore, while a boy thinks it is more manly to show a prickly surface -- like the burr of a chestnut."

"Listen to them!" exclaimed Aunt Kate, with laughter. "All the wise sayings of the ancient world must be crammed under those pretty caps you wear, along with your hair."

"That is what we get at college," said Helen seriously. "Dear old Ardmore! Ruth! won't you be glad to get back to the grind again?"

"I -- don't -- know," said her chum slowly. "We have seen so much greater things than college. It's going to be rather tame, isn't it?"

But this conversation was all before they were distributed into their seats and had started. Colonel Marchand was an excellent driver, and he soon understood clearly the mechanism of the smaller car. Tom gave him the directions for the first few miles and they pulled out of the yard with Mr. Curtis, the station master, and his lame daughter, who now acted as telegraph operator, waving the party good-bye.

They would not go by the way of the Red Mill, for that would take them out of the way they had chosen. The inn they had in mind to stop at on this first night was a long four hours' ride.

"Eastward, Ho!" shouted Tom. "This is to be a voyage of discovery, but don't discover any punctures or blow-outs this evening."

Then he glanced at Ruth's rather serious face beside him and muttered to himself:

"And we want to discover principally the smile that Ruth Fielding seems to have permanently lost!"



Chapter VI

"The Nevergetovers"


After crossing the Cheslow Hills and the Lumano by the Long Bridge about twenty miles below the Red Mill, the touring party debouched upon one of the very best State roads. They left much of the dust from which they had first suffered behind them, and Tom could now lead the way with the big car without smothering the occupants of the honeymoon car in the rear.

The highway wound along a pretty ridge for some miles, with farms dotting the landscape and lush meadows or fruit-growing farms dipping to the edge of the distant river.

"Ah," sighed Henri Marchand. "Like la belle France before the war. Such peace and quietude we knew, too. Fortunate you are, my friends, that le Boche has not trampled these fields into bloody mire."

This comment he made when they halted the cars at a certain overlook to view the landscape. But they could not stop often. Their first objective inn was still a long way ahead.

They did not, however, reach the inn, which was a resort well known to motorists. Five miles away Tom noticed that the car was acting strangely.

"What is it, Tom?" demanded Ruth quickly.

"Steering gear, I am afraid. Something is loose."

It did not take him long to make an examination, and in the meantime the second car came alongside.

"It might hold out until we get to the hotel ahead; but I think we had better stop before that time if we can," was Tom's comment. "I do not want the thing to break and send us flying over a stone wall or up a tree."

"But you can fix it, Tom?" questioned Ruth.

"Sure! But it will take half an hour or more."

After that they ran along slowly and presently came in sight of a place called the Drovers' Tavern.

"Not a very inviting place, but I guess it will do," was Ruth's announcement after they had looked the inn over.

The girls and Aunt Kate alighted at the steps while the young men wheeled the cars around to the sheds.

The housekeeper, who immediately announced herself as Susan Timmins, was fussily determined to see that all was as it should be in the ladies' chambers.

"I can't trust this gal I got to do the upstairs work," she declared, saying it through her nose and with emphasis. "Just as sure as kin be, if ye go for to help a poor relation you air always sorry for it."

She led the way up the main flight of stairs as she talked.

"This here gal will give me the nevergitovers, I know! She's my own sister's child that married a good-for-nothing and is jest like her father."

"Bella! You Bella! Turn on the light in these rooms. Is the pitchers filled? And the beds turned down? If I find a speck of dust on this furniture I'll nigh 'bout have the nevergitovers! That gal will drive me to my grave, she will. Bella!"

Bella appeared -- a rather good looking child of fourteen or so, slim as a lath and with hungry eyes. She was dark -- almost Gypsy-like. She stared at Ruth, Helen and Jennie with all the amazement of the usual yokel. But it was their dress, not themselves, Ruth saw, engaged Bella's interest.

"When you ladies want any help, you call for Bella," announced Miss Susan Timmins. "And if she don't come running, you let me know, and I'll give her her nevergitovers, now I tell ye!"

"No wonder this hotel is called 'Drovers' Tavern,'" said Jennie Stone. "That woman certainly is a driver -- a slave driver."

Ruth, meanwhile, was trying to make a friend of Bella.

"What is your name, my dear?" she asked the lathlike girl.

"You heard it," was the ungracious reply.

"Oh! Yes. 'Bella.' But your other name?"

"Arabella Montague Fitzmaurice Pike. My father is Montague Fitzmaurice."

She said it proudly, with a lift of her tousled head and a straightening of her thin shoulders.

"Oh!" fairly gasped Ruth Fielding. "It -- it sounds quite impressive, I must say. I guess you think a good deal of your father?"

"Aunt Suse don't," said the girl ungraciously. "My mother's dead. And pa is resting this season. So I hafter stay here with Aunt Suse. I hate it!"

"Your father is -- er -- what is his business?" Ruth asked.

"He's one of the profession."

"A doctor?"

"Lands, no! He's a heavy."

"A what?"

"A heavy lead -- and a good one. But these moving pictures knock out all the really good people. There are no chances now for him to play Shakespearean roles --  -- "

"Your father is an actor!" cried Ruth.

"Of course. Montague Fitzmaurice. Surely you have heard the name?" said the lathlike girl, tossing her head.

"Why -- why --  -- of course!" declared Ruth warmly. It was true. She had heard the name. Bella had just pronounced it!

"Then you know what kind of an actor my pa is," said the proud child. "He did not have a very good season last winter. He rehearsed with four companies and was only out three weeks altogether. And one of the managers did not pay at all."

"That is too bad."

"Yes. It's tough," admitted Bella. "But I liked it."

"You liked it when he was so unsuccessful?" repeated Ruth.

"Pa wasn't unsuccessful. He never is. He can play any part," declared the girl proudly. "But the plays were punk. He says there are no good plays written nowadays. That is why so many companies fail."

"But you said you liked it?"

"In New York," explained Bella. "While he was rehearsing pa could get credit at Mother Grubson's boarding house on West Forty-fourth Street. I helped her around the house. She said I was worth my keep. But Aunt Suse says I don't earn my salt here."

"I am sure you do your best, Bella," Ruth observed.

"No, I don't. Nor you wouldn't if you worked for Aunt Suse. She says I'll give her her nevergitovers -- an' I hope I do!" with which final observation she ran to unlace Aunt Kate's shoes.

"Poor little thing," said Ruth to Helen. "She is worse off than an orphan. Her Aunt Susan is worse than Uncle Jabez ever was to me. And she has no Aunt Alvirah to help her to bear it. We ought to do something for her."

"There! You've begun. Every waif and stray on our journey must be aided, I suppose," pouted Helen, half exasperated.

But Tom was glad to see that Ruth had found a new interest. Bella waited on the supper table, was snapped at by Miss Timmins, and driven from pillar to post by that crotchety individual.

"Jimminy Christmas!" remarked Tom, "that Timmins woman must be a reincarnation of one of the ancient Egyptians who was overseer in the brickyard where Moses learned his trade. If they were all like her, no wonder the Israelites went on a strike and marched out of Egypt."

They were all very careful, however, not to let Miss Susan Timmins hear their comments. She had the true dictatorial spirit of the old-fashioned New England school teacher. The guests of Drovers' Tavern were treated by her much as she might have treated a class in the little red schoolhouse up the road had she presided there.

She drove the guests to their chambers by the method of turning off the electric light in the general sitting room at a quarter past ten. Each room was furnished with a bayberry candle, and she announced that the electricity all over the house would be switched off at eleven o'clock.

"That is late enough for any decent body to be up," she announced in her decisive manner. "That's when I go to bed myself. I couldn't do so in peace if I knew folks was burning them electric lights to all hours. 'Tain't safe in a thunder storm.

"Why, when we first got 'em, Jed Parraday from Wachuset come to town to do his buyin' and stayed all night with us. He'd never seed a 'lectric bulb before, and he didn't know how to blow it out. And he couldn't sleep in a room with a light.

"So, what does the tarnal old fool do but unhook the cord so't the bulb could be carried as far as the winder. And he hung it outside, shut the winder down on it, drawed the shade and went to bed in the dark.

"Elnathan Spear, the constable, seen the light a-shining outside the winder in the middle of the night and he thought 'twas burglars. He dreams of burglars, Elnathan does. But he ain't never caught none yet.

"On that occasion, howsomever, he was sure he'd got a whole gang of 'em, and he waked up the whole hotel trying to find out what was going on. I charged Parraday ha'f a dollar for burning extry 'lectricity, and he got so mad he ain't stopped at the hotel since.

"He'd give one the nevergitovers, that man would!" she concluded.



Chapter VII

Movie Stunts


Jennie Stone slept in Ruth's bed that night because, having been parted since they were both in France, they had a great deal to say to each other -- thus proving true one of Tom Cameron's statements regarding women.

Jennie was just as sympathetic -- and as sleepy -- as she could be and she "oh, dear, me'd" and yawned alternately all through the tale of the lost scenario and notebooks, appreciating fully how Ruth felt about it, but unable to smother the expression of her desire for sleep.

"Maybe we ought not to have come on this automobile trip," said Jennie. "If the thief just did it to be mean and is somebody who lives around the Red Mill, perhaps you might have discovered something by mingling with the neighbors."

"Oh! Tom did all that," sighed Ruth. "And without avail. He searched the neighborhood thoroughly, although he is confident that a tramp carried it off. And that seems reasonable. I am almost sure, Heavy, that my scenario will appear under the trademark of some other producing manager than Mr. Hammond."

"Oh! How mean!"

"Well, a thief is almost the meanest person there is in the world, don't you think so? Except a backbiter. And anybody mean enough to steal my scenario must be mean enough to try to make use of it."

"Oh, dear! Ow-oo-ooo! Scuse me, Ruth. Yes, I guess you are right. But can't you stop the production of the picture?"

"How can I do that?"

"I don't --  -- ow-oo! --  -- know. Scuse me, dear."

"Most pictures are made in secret, anyway. The public knows nothing about them until the producer is ready to make their release."

"I -- ow-oo! -- I see," yawned Jennie.

"Even the picture play magazines do not announce them until the first runs. Then, sometimes, there is a synopsis of the story published. But it will be too late, then. Especially when I have no notes of my work, nor any witnesses. I told no living soul about the scenario -- what it was about, or --  -- "

"Sh-sh-sh --  -- "

"Why, Heavy!" murmured the scandalized Ruth.

"Sh-sh-sh -- whoo!" breathed the plump girl, with complete abandon.

"My goodness!" exclaimed Ruth, tempted to shake her, "if you snore like that when you are married, Henri will have to sleep at the other end of the house."

But this was completely lost on the tired Jennie Stone, who continued to breathe heavily until Ruth herself fell asleep. It seemed as though the latter had only closed her eyes when the sun shining into her face awoke the girl of the Red Mill. The shades of the east window had been left up, and it was sunrise.

Plenty of farm noises outside the Drovers' Tavern, as well as a stir in the kitchen, assured Ruth that there were early risers here. Jennie, rolled in more than her share of the bedclothes, continued to breathe as heavily as she had the night before.

But suddenly Ruth was aware that there was somebody besides herself awake in the room. She sat up abruptly in bed and reached to seize Jennie's plump shoulder. Ruth had to confess she was much excited, if not frightened.

Then, before she touched the still sleeping Jennie Stone, Ruth saw the intruder. The door from the anteroom was ajar. A steaming agateware can of water stood on the floor just inside this door. Before the bureau which boasted a rather large mirror for a country hotel bedroom, pivoted the thin figure of Arabella Montague Fitzmaurice Pike!

From the neatly arranged outer clothing of the two girls supposedly asleep in the big four-poster, Bella had selected a skirt of Ruth's and a shirt-waist of Jennie's, arraying herself in both of these borrowed garments. She was now putting the finishing touch to her costume by setting Ruth's cap on top of her black, fly-away mop of hair.

Turning about and about before the glass, Bella was so much engaged in admiring herself that she forgot the hot water she was supposed to carry to the various rooms. Nor did she see Ruth sitting up in bed looking at her in dawning amusement. Nor did she, as she pirouetted there, hear her Nemesis outside in the hall.

The door suddenly creaked farther open. The grim face of Miss Susan Timmins appeared at the aperture.

"Oh!" gasped Ruth Fielding aloud.

Bella turned to glance in startled surprise at the girl in bed. And at that moment Miss Timmins bore down upon the child like a shrike on a chippy-bird.

"Ow-ouch!" shrieked Bella.

"Oh, don't!" begged Ruth.

"What is it? Goodness! Fire!" cried Jennie Stone, who, when awakened suddenly, always remembered the dormitory fire at Briarwood Hall.

"You little pest! I'll larrup ye good! I'll give ye your nevergitovers!" sputtered the hotel housekeeper.

But the affrighted Bella wriggled away from her aunt's bony grasp. She dodged Miss Timmins about the marble-topped table, retreated behind the hair-cloth sofa, and finally made a headlong dash for the door, while Jennie continued to shriek for the fire department.

Ruth leaped out of bed. In her silk pajamas and slippers, and without any wrap, she hurried to reach, and try to separate, the struggling couple near the door.

Miss Timmins delivered several hearty slaps upon Bella's face and ears. The child shrieked. She got away again and plunged into the can of hot water.

Over this went, flooding the rag-carpet for yards around.

"Fire! Fire!" Jennie continued to shriek.

Helen dashed in from the next room, dressed quite as lightly as Ruth, and just in time to see the can spilled.

"Oh! Water! Water!"

"Drat that young one!" barked Miss Timmins, ignoring the flood and everything else save her niece -- even the conventions.

She dashed after Bella. The latter had disappeared into the hall through the anteroom.

"Oh, the poor child!" cried sympathetic Ruth, and followed in the wake of the angry housekeeper.

"Fire! Fire!" moaned Jennie Stone.

"Cat's foot!" snapped Helen Cameron. "It's water -- and it is flooding the whole room."

She ran to set the can upright -- after the water was all out of it. Without thinking of her costume, Ruth Fielding ran to avert Bella's punishment if she could. She knew the aunt was beside herself with rage, and Ruth feared that the woman would, indeed, give Bella her "nevergetovers."

The corridor of the hotel was long, running from front to rear of the main building. The window at the rear end of it overlooked the roof of the back kitchen. This window was open, and when Ruth reached the corridor Bella was going head-first through the open window, like a circus clown diving through a hoop.

She had discarded Jennie's shirt-waist between the bedroom and the window. But Ruth's skirt still flapped about the child's thin shanks.

Miss Timmins, breathing threatenings and slaughter, raced down the hall in pursuit. Ruth followed, begging for quarter for the terrified child.

But the housekeeper went through the open window after Bella, although in a more conventional manner, paying no heed to Ruth's plea. The frightened girl, however, escaped her aunt's clutch by slipping off the borrowed skirt and descending the trumpet-vine trellis by the kitchen door.

"Do let her go, Miss Timmins!" begged Ruth, as the panting woman, carrying Ruth's skirt, returned to the window where the girl of the Red Mill stood. "She is scared to death. She was doing no harm."

"I'll thank you to mind your own business, Miss," snapped Miss Timmins hotly. "I declare! A girl growed like you running 'round in men's overalls -- or, what be them things you got on?"

At this criticism Ruth Fielding fled, taking the skirt and Jennie's shirt-waist with her. But Aunt Kate was aroused now and the four women of the automobile party swiftly slipped into their negligees and appeared in the hall again, to meet Tom and Colonel Marchand who came from their room only partly dressed.

The critical Miss Timmins had darted downstairs, evidently in pursuit of her unfortunate niece. The guests crowded to the back window.

"Where did she go?" demanded Tom, who had heard some explanation of the early morning excitement. "Is she running away?"

"What a child!" gasped Aunt Kate.

"My waist!" moaned Jennie.

"Look at Ruth's skirt!" exclaimed Helen.

"I do not care for the skirt," the girl of the Red Mill declared. "It is Bella."

"Her aunt will about give her those 'nevergetovers' she spoke of," chuckled Tom.

"Ma foi! look you there," exclaimed Colonel Marchand, pointing through the window that overlooked the rear premises of the hotel.

At top speed Miss Timmins was crossing the yard toward the big hay barn. Bella had taken refuge in that structure, and the housekeeper's evident intention was to harry her out. The woman grasped a clothes-stick with which she proposed to castigate her niece.

"The cruel thing!" exclaimed Helen, the waters of her sympathy rising for Bella Pike now.

"There's the poor kid!" said Tom.

Bella appeared at an open door far up in the peak of the haymow. The hay was packed solidly under the roof; but there was an air space left at either end.

"She has put herself into the so-tight corner -- no?" suggested the young Frenchman.

"You've said it!" agreed Tom. "Why! it's regular movie stunts. She's come up the ladders to the top of the mow. If auntie follows her, I don't see that the kid can do anything but jump!"

"Tom! Never!" cried Ruth.

"He is fooling," said Jennie.

"Tell me how she can dodge that woman, then," demanded Tom.

"Ah!" murmured Henri Marchand. "She have arrive'."

Miss Timmins appeared at the door behind Bella. The spectators heard the girl's shriek. The housekeeper struck at her with the clothes stick. And then --  -- 

"Talk about movie stunts!" shouted Tom Cameron, for the frightened Bella leaped like a cat upon the haymow door and swung outward with nothing more stable than air between her and the ground, more than thirty feet below!



Chapter VIII

The Auction Block


Helen Cameron and Jennie Stone shrieked in unison when Miss Susan Timmins' niece cast herself out of the haymow upon the plank door and swung as far as the door would go upon its creaking hinges. Ruth seized Tom's wrist in a nervous grip, but did not utter a word. Aunt Kate turned away and covered her eyes with her hands that she might not see the reckless child fall -- if she did fall.

"Name of a name!" murmured Henri Marchand. "Au secours! Come, Tom, mon ami -- to the rescue!"

He turned and ran lightly along the hall and down the stairs. But Tom went through the window, almost as precipitately as had Bella Pike herself, and so over the roof of the kitchen ell and down the trumpet-vine trellis.

Tom was in the yard and running to the barn before Marchand got out of the kitchen. Several other people, early as the hour was, appeared running toward the rear premises of Drovers' Tavern.

"See that crazy young one!" some woman shrieked. "I know she'll kill herself yet."

"Stop that!" commanded Tom, looking up and shaking a threatening hand at Miss Timmins.

For in her rage the woman was trying to strike her niece with the stick, as Bella clung to the door.

"Mind your own business, young man!" snapped the virago. "And go back and put the rest of your clothes on. You ain't decent."

Tom was scarcely embarrassed by this verbal attack. The case was too serious for that. Miss Timmins struck at the girl again, and only missed the screaming Bella by an inch or so.

Helen and Jennie screamed in unison, and Ruth herself had difficulty in keeping her lips closed. The cruel rage of the hotel housekeeper made her quite unfit to manage such a child as Bella, and Ruth determined to interfere in Bella's behalf at the proper time.

"I wish she would pitch out of that door herself!" cried Helen recklessly.

Tom had run into the barn and was climbing the ladders as rapidly as possible to the highest loft. Scolding and striking at her victim, Miss Susan Timmins continued to act like the mad woman she was. And Bella, made desperate at last by fear, reached for the curling edges of the shingles on the eaves above her head.

"Don't do that, child!" shrieked Jennie Stone.

But Bella scrambled up off the swinging door and pulled herself by her thin arms on to the roof of the barn. There she was completely out of her aunt's reach.

"Oh, the plucky little sprite!" cried Helen, in delight.

"But -- but she can't get down again," murmured Aunt Kate. "There is no scuttle in that roof."

"Tom will find a way," declared Ruth Fielding with confidence.

"And my Henri," put in Jennie. "That horrid old creature!"

"She should be punished for this," agreed Ruth. "I wonder where the child's father is."

"Didn't you find out last night?" Helen asked.

"Only that he is 'resting'."

"Some poor, miserable loafer, is he?" demanded Aunt Kate, with acrimony.

"No. It seems that he is an actor," Ruth explained. "He is out of work."

"But he can't think anything of his daughter to see her treated like this," concluded Aunt Kate.

"She is very proud of him. His professional name is Montague Fitzmaurice."

"Some name!" murmured Jennie.

"Their family name is Pike," said Ruth, still seriously. "I do not think the man can know how this aunt treats little Bella. There's Tom!"

The young captain appeared behind the enraged housekeeper at the open door of the loft. One glance told him what Bella had done. He placed a firm hand on Miss Timmins' shoulder.

"If you had made that girl fall you would go to jail," Tom said sternly. "You may go, yet. I will try to put you there. And in any case you shall not have the management of the child any longer. Go back to the house!"

For once the housekeeper was awed. Especially when Henri Marchand, too, appeared in the loft.

"Madame will return to the house. We shall see what can be done for the child. Gare!"

Perhaps the woman was a little frightened at last by what she had done -- or what she might have done. At least, she descended the ladders to the ground floor without argument.

The two young men planned swiftly how to rescue the sobbing child. But when Tom first spoke to Bella, proposing to help her down, she looked over the edge of the roof at him and shook her head.

"No! I ain't coming down," she announced emphatically. "Aunt Suse will near about skin me alive."

"She shall not touch you," Tom promised.

"She'll give me my nevergitovers, just as she says. You can't stay here and watch her."

"But we'll find a way to keep her from beating you when we are gone," Tom promised. "Don't you fear her at all."

"I don't care where you put me, Aunt Suse will find me out. She'll send Elnathan Spear after me."

"I don't know who Spear is --  -- "

"He's the constable," sobbed Bella.

"Well, he sha'n't spear you," declared Tom. "Come on, kid. Don't be scared, and we'll get you down all right."

He found the clothes-stick Miss Timmins had abandoned and used it for a brace. With a rope tied to the handle of the plank door and drawn taut, it was held half open. Tom then climbed out upon and straddled the door and raised his arms to receive the girl when she lowered herself over the eaves.

She was light enough -- little more than skin and bone, Tom declared -- and the latter lowered her without much effort into Henri's arms.

When the three girls and Aunt Kate at the tavern window saw this safely accomplished they hurried back to their rooms to dress.

"Something must be done for that poor child," Ruth Fielding said with decision.

"Are you going to adopt her?" Helen asked.

"And send her to Briarwood?" put in Jennie.

"That might be the very best thing that could happen to her," Ruth rejoined soberly. "She has lived at times in a theatrical boarding house and has likewise traveled with her father when he was with a more or less prosperous company.

"These experiences have made her, after a fashion, grown-up in her ways and words. But in most things she is just as ignorant as she can be. Her future is not the most important thing just now. It is her present."

Helen heard the last word from the other room where she was dressing, and she cried:

"That's it, Ruthie. Give her a present and tell her to run away from her aunt. She's a spiteful old thing!"

"You do not mean that!" exclaimed her chum. "You are only lazy and hate responsibility of any kind. We must do something practical for Bella Pike."

"How easily she says 'we'," Helen scoffed.

"I mean it. I could not sleep to-night if I knew this child was in her aunt's control."

A knock on the door interrupted the discussion. Ruth, who was quite dressed now, responded. A lout of a boy, who evidently worked about the stables, stood grinning at the door.

"Miz Timmins says you folks kin all get out. She won't have you served no breakfast. She don't want none of you here."

"My goodness!" wailed Jennie. "Dispossessed -- and without breakfast!"

"Where is the proprietor of this hotel, boy?" Ruth asked.

"You mean Mr. Drovers? He ain't here. Gone to Boston. But that wouldn't make no dif'rence. Suse Timmins is boss."

"Oh, me! Oh, my!" groaned Jennie, to whom the prospect was tragic. Jennie's appetite was never-failing.

The boy slouched away just as Tom and Henri Marchand appeared with Bella between them.

"You poor, dear child!" cried Ruth, running along the hall to meet them.

Bella struggled to escape from the boys. But Tom and Colonel Marchand held her by either hand.

"Easy, young one!" advised Captain Cameron.

"I never meant to do no harm, Miss!" cried Bella. "I -- I just wanted to see how I'd look in them clothes. I never do have anything decent to wear."

"Why, my dear, don't mind about that," said Ruth, taking the lathlike girl in her arms. "If you had asked us we would have let you try on the things, I am sure."

"Aunt Suse would near 'bout give me my nevergitovers -- and she will yet!"

"No she won't," Ruth reassured her. "Don't be afraid of your aunt any longer."

"That is what I tell her," Tom said warmly.

"Say! You won't put me in no home, will you?" asked Bella, with sudden anxiety.

"A 'home'?" repeated Ruth, puzzled.

"She means a charitable institution, poor dear," said Aunt Kate.

"That's it, Missus," Bella said. "I knew a girl that was out of one of them homes. She worked for Mrs. Grubson. She said all the girls wore brown denim uniforms and had their hair slicked back and wasn't allowed even to whisper at table or after they got to bed at night."

"Nothing like that shall happen to you," Ruth declared.

"Where is your father, Bella?" Tom asked.

"I don't know. Last I saw of him he came through here with a medicine show. I didn't tell Aunt Suse, but I ran away at night and went to Broxton to see him. But he said business was poor. He got paid so much a bottle commission on the sales of Chief Henry Red-dog's Bitters. He didn't think the show would keep going much longer."

"Oh!"

"You know, they didn't know he was Montague Fitzmaurice, the great Shakespearean actor. Pa often takes such jobs. He ain't lazy like Aunt Suse says. Why, once he took a job as a ballyhoo at a show on the Bowery in Coney Island. But his voice ain't never been what it was since."

"Do you expect him to return here for you?" Ruth asked, while the other listeners exchanged glances and with difficulty kept their faces straight.

"Oh, yes, Miss. Just as soon as he is in funds. Or he'll send for me. He always does. He knows I hate it here."

"Does he know how your aunt treats you?" Aunt Kate interrupted.

"N -- not exactly," stammered Bella. "I haven't told him all. I don't want to bother him. It -- it ain't always so bad."

"I tell you it's got to stop!" Tom said, with warmth.

"Of course she shall not remain in this woman's care any longer," Aunt Kate agreed.

"But we must not take Bella away from this locality," Ruth observed. "When her father comes back for her she must be here -- somewhere."

"Oh, lady!" exclaimed Bella. "Send me to New York to Mrs. Grubson's. I bet she'd keep me till pa opens somewhere in a good show."

But Ruth shook her head. She had her doubts about the wisdom of the child's being in such a place as Mrs. Grubson's boarding house, no matter how kindly disposed that woman might be.

"Bella should stay near here," Ruth said firmly, "as long as we cannot communicate with Mr. Pike at once."

"Let's write a notice for one of the theatrical papers," suggested Helen eagerly. "You know -- 'Montague Fitzmaurice please answer.' All the actors do it."

"But pa don't always have the money to buy the papers," said Bella, taking the suggestion quite seriously.

"At least, if Bella is in this neighborhood he will know where to find her," went on Ruth. "Is there nobody you know here, child, whom you would like to stay with till your father returns?"

Bella's face instantly brightened. Her black eyes flashed.

"Oh, I'd like to stay at the minister's," she said.

"At the minister's?" repeated Ruth. "Why, if he would take you that would be fine. Who is he?"

"The Reverend Driggs," said Bella.

"Do you suppose the clergyman would take the child?" murmured Aunt Kate.

"Why do you want to go to live with the minister?" asked Tom with curiosity.

"'Cause he reads the Bible so beautifully," declared Bella. "Why! it sounds just like pa reading a play. The Reverend Driggs is an educated man like pa. But he's got an awful raft of young ones."

"A poor minister," said Aunt Kate briskly. "I am afraid that would not suit."

"If the Driggs family is already a large one," began Ruth doubtfully, when Bella declared:

"Miz Driggs had two pairs of twins, and one ever so many times. There's a raft of 'em."

Helen and Jennie burst out laughing at this statement and the others were amused. But to Ruth Fielding this was a serious matter. The placing of Bella Pike in a pleasant home until her father could be communicated with, or until he appeared on the scene ready and able to care for the child, was even more serious than the matter of going without breakfast, although Jennie Stone said "No!" to this.

"We'd better set up an auction block before the door of the hotel and auction her off to the highest bidder, hadn't we?" suggested Helen, who had been rummaging in her bag. "Here, Bella! If you want a shirt-waist to take the place of that calico blouse you have on, here is one. One of mine. And I guarantee it will fit you better than Heavy's did. She wears an extra size."

"I don't either," flashed the plump girl, as the boys retreated from the room. "I may not be a perfect thirty-six --  -- "

"Is there any doubt of it?" cried Helen, the tease.

"Well!"

"Never mind," Ruth said. "Jennie is going to be thinner."

"And it seems she will begin to diet this very morning," Aunt Kate put in.

"Ow-wow!" moaned Jennie at this reminder that they had been refused breakfast.

Captain Tom, however, had handled too many serious situations in France to be browbeaten by a termagant like Miss Susan Timmins. He went down to the kitchen, ordered a good breakfast for all of his party, and threatened to have recourse to the law if the meal was not well and properly served.

"For you keep a public tavern," he told the sputtering Miss Timmins, "and you cannot refuse to serve travelers who are willing and able to pay. We are on a pleasure trip, and I assure you, Madam, it will be a pleasure to get you into court for any cause."

On coming back to the front of the house he found two of the neighbors just entering. One proved to be the local doctor's wife and the other was a kindly looking farmer.

"I knowed that girl warn't being treated right, right along," said the man. "And I told Mirandy that I was going to put a stop to it."

"It is a disgrace," said the doctor's wife, "that we should have allowed it to go on so long. I will take the child myself --  -- "

"And so'll Mirandy," declared the farmer.

"It is an auction," whispered Helen, overhearing this from the top of the stairs.

The party of guests came down with their bags now, bringing Bella in their midst -- and in the new shirt-waist.

"Let her choose which of these kind people she will stay with," Tom advised. "And," he added, in a low voice to Ruth, "we will pay for her support until we can find her father."

"Like fun you will, young feller!" snorted the farmer, overhearing Tom.

"I could not hear of such a thing," said the doctor's wife.

"I'd like to know what you people think you're doing?" demanded Miss Timmins, popping out at them suddenly.

"Now, Suse Timmins, we're a-goin' to do what we neighbors ought to have done long ago. We're goin' to take this gal --  -- "

"You start anything like that -- taking that young one away from her lawful guardeen -- an' I'll get Elnathan Spear after you in a hurry, now I tell ye. I'll give you your nevergitovers!"

"If Nate Spear comes to my house, I'll ask him to pay me for that corn he bought off'n me as long ago as last fall," chuckled the farmer. "Just because you're own cousin to Nate don't put all the law an' the gospel on your side, Suse Timmins. I'll take good care of this girl."

"And so will I, if Bella wants to live with me," said the doctor's wife.

"Mirandy will be glad to have her."

"And she'd be company for me," rejoined the other neighbor. "I haven't any children."

"Bella must choose for herself," said Ruth kindly.

"I guess I'll go with Mr. Perkins," said the actor's daughter. "Miz Holmes is real nice; but Doctor Holmes gives awful tastin' medicine. I might be sick there and have to take some of it. So I'll go to Miz Perkins. She has a doctor from Maybridge and he gives candy-covered pellets. I ate some once. Besides, Miz Perkins is lame and can't get around so spry, and I can do more for her."

"Now listen to that!" exclaimed the farmer. "Ain't she a noticing child?"

"Well, Mrs. Perkins will be good to her, no doubt," agreed the doctor's wife.

"I'd like to know what you fresh city folks butted into this thing for!" demanded Miss Timmins. "If there's any law in the land --  -- "

"You'll get it!" promised Tom Cameron.

"Go get anything you own that you want to take with you, Bella," Ruth advised the shrinking child.

With another fearful glance at her aunt, Bella ran upstairs.

Miss Timmins might have started after her, but Tom planted himself before that door. The lout of a boy began bringing in the breakfast for the automobile party. Ruth talked privately with the doctor's wife and Mr. Perkins, and forced some money on the woman to be expended for a very necessary outfit of clothing for Bella.

Miss Timmins finally flounced back into the kitchen where they heard her venting her anger and chagrin on the kitchen help. Bella returned bearing an ancient extension bag crammed full of odds and ends. She kissed Ruth and shook hands with the rest of the company before departing with Mr. Perkins.

The doctor's wife promised to write to Ruth as soon as anything was heard of Mr. Pike, and the automobile party turned their attention to ham and eggs, stewed potatoes, and griddle cakes.

"Only," said Jennie, sepulchrally, "I hope the viands are not poisoned. That Miss Timmins would certainly like to give us all our 'nevergetovers'."



Chapter IX

A Dismaying Discovery


"'The Later Pilgrims' are well out of that trouble," announced Helen, when the cars were underway, the honeymoon car ahead and the other members of the party packed into the bigger automobile.

"And I hope," she added, "that Ruth will find no more waifs and strays."

"Don't be knocking Ruthie all the time," said Tom, glancing back over his shoulder. "She's all right."

"And you keep your eyes straight ahead, young man," advised Aunt Kate, "or you will have this heavy car in the ditch."

"Watch out for Henri and Heavy, too," advised Helen. "They do not quite know what they are about and you may run them down. There! See his horizon-blue sleeve steal about her? He's got only one hand left to steer with. Talk about a perfect thirty-six! It's lucky Henri's arm is phenomenally long, or he could never surround that baby!"

"I declare, Helen," laughed Ruth. "I believe you are covetous."

"Well, Henri is an awfully nice fellow -- for a Frenchman."

"And you are the damsel who declared you proposed to remain an old maid forever and ever and the year after."

"I can be an old maid and still like the boys, can't I? All the more, in fact. I sha'n't have to be true to just one man, which, I believe, would be tedious."

"You should live in that part of New York called Greenwich Village and wear a Russian blouse and your hair bobbed. Those are the kind of bon mots those people throw off in conversation. Light and airy persiflage, it is called," said Tom from the front seat.

"What do you know about such people, Tommy?" demanded his sister.

"There were some co-eds of that breed I met at Cambridge. They were exponents of the 'new freedom,' whatever that is. Bolshevism, I guess. Freedom from both law and morals."

"Those are not the kind of girls who are helping in France," said Ruth soberly.

"You said it!" agreed Tom. "That sort are so busy riding hobbies over here that they have no interest in what is going on in Europe unless it may be in Russia. Well, thank heaven, there are comparatively few nuts compared with us sane folks."

Such thoughts as these, however, did not occupy their minds for long. Just as Tom had declared, they were out for fun, and the fun could be found almost anywhere by these blithe young folk.

Ruth's face actually changed as they journeyed on. She was both "pink and pretty," Helen declared, before they camped at the wayside for luncheon.

The hampers on the big car were crammed with all the necessities of food and service for several meals. There were, too, twin alcohol lamps, a coffee boiler and a teapot.

Altogether they were making a very satisfactory meal and were having a jolly time at the edge of a piece of wood when a big, black wood-ant dropped down Jennie Stone's back.

At first they did not know what the matter was with her. Her mouth was full, the food in that state of mastication that she could not immediately swallow it.

"Ow! Ow! Ow!" choked the plump girl, trying to get both hands at once down the neck of her shirt-waist.

"What is the matter, Heavy?" gasped Helen.

"Jennie, dear!" murmured Ruth. "Don't!"

"Ma chere!" gasped Henri Marchand. "Is she ill?"

"Jennie, behave yourself!" cried her aunt.

"I saw a toad swallow a hornet once," Tom declared. "She acts just the same way."

"As the hornet?" demanded his sister, beginning to giggle.

"As the toad," answered Tom, gravely.

But Henri had got to his feet and now reached the wriggling girl. "Let me try to help!" he cried.

"If you even begin wiggling that way, Colonel Marchand," declared Helen, "you will be in danger of arrest. There is a law against that dance."

"Ow! Ow! Ow!" burst out Jennie once more, actually in danger of choking.

"What is it?" Ruth demanded, likewise reaching the writhing girl.

"Oh, he bit me!" finally exploded Jennie.

Ruth guessed what must be the trouble then, and she forced Jennie's hands out of the neck of her waist and ran her hand down the plump girl's back. Between them they killed the ant, for Ruth finally recovered a part of the unfortunate creature.

"But just think," consoled Helen, "how much more awful it would have been if you had swallowed him, Heavy, instead of his wriggling down your spinal column."

"Oh, don't! I can feel him wriggling now," sighed Jennie.

"That can be nothing more than his ghost," said Tom soberly, "for Ruth retrieved at least half of the ant's bodily presence."

"You'll give us all the fidgets if you keep on wriggling, Jennie," declared Aunt Kate.

"Well, I don't want to sit on the grass in a woodsy place again while we are on this journey," sighed Jennie. "Ugh! I always did hate creepy things."

"Including spiders, snakes, beetles and babies, I suppose?" laughed Helen. "Come on now. Let us clear up the wreck. Where do we camp to-night, Tommy?"

"No more camping, I pray!" squealed Jennie. "I am no Gypsy."

"The hotel at Hampton is recommended as the real thing. They have a horse show every year at Hampton, you know. It is in the midst of a summer colony of wealthy people. It is the real thing," Tom repeated.

They made a pleasant and long run that afternoon and arrived at the Hampton hotel in good season to dress for dinner. Jennie and her aunt met some people they knew, and naturally Jennie's fiancé and her friends were warmly welcomed by the gay little colony.

Men at the pleasure resorts were very scarce that year, and here were two perfectly good dancers. So it was very late when the automobile party got away from the dance at the Casino.

They were late the next morning in starting on the road to Boston. Besides, there was thunder early, and Helen, having heard it rumbling, quoted:

"'Thunder in the morning, Sailors take warning!'"

and rolled over for another nap.

Ruth, however, at last had to get up. She was no "lie-abed" in any case, and in her present nervous state she had to be up and doing.

"But it's going to ra-a-ain!" whined Jennie Stone when Ruth went into her room.

"You're neither sugar nor salt," said Ruth.

"Henri says I'm as sweet as sugar," yawned Jennie.

"He is not responsible for what he says about you," said her aunt briskly. "When I think of what that really nice young man is taking on his shoulders when he marries you --  -- "

"But, Auntie!" cried Jennie, "he's not going to try to carry me pickaback, you know."

"Just the same, it is wrong for us to encourage him to become responsible for you, Jennie," said her aunt. "He really should be warned."

"Oh!" gasped the plump girl. "Let anybody dare try to get between me and my Henri --  -- "

"Nobody can -- no fear -- when you are sitting with him in the front seat of that roadster of Tom's," said Ruth. "You fill every atom of space, Heavy."

She went to the window and looked out again. Heavy rolled out of bed -- a good deal like a barrel, her aunt said tartly.

"What is it doing outside?" yawned the plump girl.

"Well, it's not raining. And it is a long run to Boston. We should be on our way now. The road through the hills is winding. There will be no time to stop for a Gypsy picnic."

"Thank goodness for that!" grumbled Jennie, sitting on the floor, schoolgirl fashion, to draw on her stockings. "I'll eat enough at breakfast hereafter to keep me alive until we reach a hotel, if you folks insist on inviting wood ants and other savage creatures of the forest to our luncheon table."

When the party finally gathered for breakfast in the hotel dining room on this morning, it was disgracefully late. Tom had been over both cars and pronounced them fit. He had ordered the tanks filled with gasoline and had tipped one of the garage men liberally to see that this was properly done.

Afterward Captain Tom declared he would never trust a garage workman again.

"The only way to get a thing done well is to do it yourself -- and a tip never bought any special service yet," declared the angry Tom. "It is merely a form of highway robbery."

But this was afterward. The party started off from Hampton in high fettle and with a childlike trust in the honesty of a garage attendant.

There were banks of clouds shrouding the horizon both to the west and north -- the two directions from which thunder showers usually rise in this part of New England in which they were traveling. And yet the shower held off.

It was some time past noon before the thunder began to mutter again. The automobile party was then in the hilly country. Heretofore farms had been plentiful, although hamlets were few and far between.

"If it rains," said Ruth cheerfully, "of course we can take refuge in some farmhouse."

"Ho, for adventure among the savage natives!" cried Helen.

"I hope we shall meet nobody quite as savage as Miss Susan Timmins," was Aunt Kate's comment.

They ran into a deep cut between two wooded hills and there was not a house in sight. Indeed, they had not passed a farmstead on the road for the last five miles. Over the top of the wooded crest to the north curled a slate colored storm cloud, its upper edge trembling with livid lightnings. The veriest tyro of a weather prophet could see that a storm was about to break. But nobody had foretold the sudden stopping of the honeymoon car in the lead!

"What is the matter with you?" cried Helen, standing up in the tonneau of the big car, when Tom pulled up suddenly to keep from running the maroon roadster down. "Don't you see it is going to rain? We want to get somewhere."

"I guess we have got somewhere," responded Jennie Stone. "As far as we are concerned, this seems to be our stopping place. The old car won't go."

Tom jumped out and hurried forward to join Henri in an examination of the car's mechanism.

"What happened, Colonel?" he asked the Frenchman, worriedly.

"I have no idea, mon ami," responded Marchand. "This is a puzzle, eh?"

"First of all, let's put up the tops. That rain is already beating the woods on the summit of the hill."

The two young men hurried to do this, first sheltering Jennie and then together dragging the heavy top over the big car, covering the baggage and passengers. Helen and Ruth could fasten the curtains, and soon the women of the party were snug enough. The drivers, however, had to get into rain garments and begin the work of hunting the trouble with the roadster.

The thunder grew louder and louder. Flashes of lightning streaked across the sky overhead. The electric explosions were soon so frequent and furious that the girls cowered together in real terror. Jennie had slipped out of the small car and crowded in with her chums and Aunt Kate.

"I don't care!" she wailed, "Henri and Tom are bound to take that car all to pieces to find what has happened."

But they did not have to go as far as that. In fact, before the rain really began to fall in earnest, Tom made the tragic discovery. There was scarcely a drop of gasoline in the tank of the small machine. Tom hurried back to the big car. He glanced at the dial of the gasoline tank. There was not enough of the fluid to take them a mile! And the emergency tank was turned on!

It was at this point that he stated his opinion of the trustworthiness of garage workmen.



Chapter X

A Wild Afternoon


This was a serious situation. Five miles behind the automobile party was the nearest dwelling on this road, and Tom was sure that the nearest gasoline sign was all of five miles further back!

Ahead lay more or less mystery. As the rain began to drum upon the roofs of the two cars, harder and harder and faster and faster, Tom got out the road map and tried to figure out their location. Ridgeton was ahead somewhere -- not nearer than six miles, he was sure. And the map showed no gas sign this side of Ridgeton.

Of course there might be some wayside dwelling only a short distance ahead at which enough gasoline could be secured to drive the smaller car to Ridgeton for a proper supply for both machines. But if all the gasoline was drained from the tank of the big car into that of the roadster, the latter would be scarcely able to travel another mile. And without being sure that such a supply of gas could be found within that distance, why separate the two cars?

This was the sensible way Tom put it to Henri; and it was finally decided that Tom should start out on foot with an empty can and hunt for gasoline, while Colonel Marchand remained with the girls and Aunt Kate.

When the two young men ran back through the pouring rain to the big car and announced this decision, they had to shout to make the girls hear. The turmoil of the rain and thunder was terrific.

"I really wish you'd wait, Tom, till the tempest is over," Ruth anxiously said. "Suppose something happened to you on the road?"

"Suppose something happened to us here in the auto?" shrieked Helen.

"But Henri Marchand will be with you," said her brother, preparing to depart. "And if I delay we may not reach Boston to-night."

"Oh!" gasped Jennie. "Do please find some gas, Tom. I'd be scared to death to stay out here in these woods."

"One of the autos may bite her," scoffed Helen, ready to scorn her own fears when her friend was even more fearful. "These cars are the wildest thing in these woods, I warrant."

"Of course you must do what you think is best, Tom," said Ruth, gravely. "I hope you will not have to go far."

"No matter how long I am gone, Ruth, don't be alarmed," he told her. "You know, nothing serious ever happens to me."

"Oh, no!" cried his sister. "Of course not! Only you get carried away on a Zeppelin, or are captured by the Germans and Ruth has to go to your rescue. We know all about how immune you are from trouble, young man."

"Thanks be! there are no Boches here in peaceful New England," exclaimed Jennie, after Tom had started off with the gasoline can. "Oh!"

A sharp clap of thunder seemingly just overhead followed the flash that had made the plump girl shriek. The explosion reverberated between the hills in slowly passing cadence.

Jennie finally removed her fingers from her ears with a groan. Aunt Kate had covered her eyes. With Helen they cowered together in the tonneau. Ruth had been sitting beside Tom in the front seat when the cars were stalled, and now Henri Marchand was her companion.

"I heard something then, Colonel," Ruth said in a low tone, when the salvo of thunder was passed.

"You are fortunate, Mademoiselle," he returned. "Me, I am deafened complete'."

"I heard a cry."

"Not from Captain Cameron?"

"It was not his voice. Listen!" said the girl of the Red Mill, in some excitement.

Despite the driving rain she put her head out beyond the curtain and listened. Her face was sheltered from the beating rain. It would have taken her breath had she faced it. Again the lightning flashed and the thunder crashed on its trail.

Ruth did not draw in her head. She wore her raincoat and a rubber cap, and on her feet heavy shoes. The storm did not frighten her. She might be anxious for Tom's safety, but the ordinary chances of such a disturbance of the elements as this never bothered Ruth Fielding at all.

As the rolling of thunder died away in the distance again, the splashing sound of the rain seemed to grow lighter, too; or Ruth's hearing became attuned to the sounds about her.

There it was again! A human cry! Or was it? It came from up the hillside to the north of the road on which the automobiles were stalled.

Was there somebody up there in the wet woods -- some human creature lost in the storm?

For a third time Ruth heard the wailing, long-drawn cry. Henri had his hands full soothing Jennie. Helen and Aunt Kate were clinging together in the depths of the tonneau. Possibly their eyes were covered against the glare of the lightning.

Ruth slipped out under the curtain on the leeward side. The rain swept down the hillside in solid platoons that marched one after another from northwest to southeast. Dashing against the southern hillside, these marching columns dissolved in torrents that Ruth could hear roaring down from the tree-tops and rushing in miniature floods through the forest.

The road was all awash. The cars stood almost hub-deep in a yellow, foaming flood. The roadside ditches were not deep here, and the sudden freshet was badly guttering the highway.

Sheltered at first by the top of the big car, Ruth strained her ears again to catch that cry which had come down the wind from the thickly wooded hillside.

There it was! A high, piercing scream, as though the one who uttered it was in great fear or agony. Nor did the cry seem to be far away.

Ruth went around to the other side of the automobile. The rain was letting up -- or seemed to be. She crossed to the higher ground and pushed through the fringe of bushes that bordered the road.

Already her feet and ankles were saturated, for she had waded through water more than a foot in depth. Here on the steep hillside the flowing water followed the beds of small rivulets which carried it away on either side of her.

The thick branches of the trees made an almost impervious umbrella above her head. She could see up the hill through the drifting mist for a long distance. The aisles between the rows of trees seemed filled with a sort of pallid light.

Across the line of her vision and through one of these aisles passed a figure -- whether that of an animal or the stooping body of a human being Ruth Fielding could not at first be sure.

She had no fear of there being any savage creature in this wood. At least there could be nothing here that would attack her in broad daylight. In a lull in the echoing thunder she cried aloud:

"Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! Where are you?"

She was sure her voice drove some distance up the hillside against the wind. She saw the flitting figure again, and with a desire to make sure of its identity, Ruth started in pursuit.

Had Tom been present the girl of the Red Mill would have called his attention to the mystery and left it to him to decide whether to investigate or not. But Ruth was quite an independent person when she was alone; and under the circumstances, with Henri Marchand so busy comforting Jennie, Ruth did not consider for a moment calling the Frenchman to advise with her.

As for Helen and Aunt Kate, they were quite overcome by their fears. Ruth was not really afraid of thunder and lightning, as many people are. She had long since learned that "thunder does not bite, and the bolt of lightning that hits you, you will never see!"

Heavy as the going was, and interfering with her progress through her wet garments did, Ruth ran up the hill underneath the dripping trees. She saw the flitting, shadowy figure once more. Again she called as loudly as she could shout:

"Wait! Wait! I won't hurt you."

Whoever or whatever it was, the figure did not stay. It flitted on about two hundred yards ahead of the pursuing girl.

At times it disappeared altogether; but Ruth kept on up the hill and her quarry always reappeared. She was quite positive this was the creature that had shrieked, for the mournful cry was not repeated after she caught sight of the figure.

"It is somebody who has been frightened by the storm," she thought. "Or it is a lost child. This is a wild hillside, and one might easily be lost up here."

Then she called again. She thought the strange figure turned and hesitated. Then, of a sudden, it darted into a clump of brush. When Ruth came panting to the spot she could see no trace of the creature, or the path which it had followed.

But directly before Ruth was an opening in the hillside -- the mouth of a deep ravine which had not been visible from the road below.

Down this ravine ran a noisy torrent which had cut itself a wider and deeper bed since the cloudburst on the heights. Small trees, brush, and rocks had been uprooted by the force of the stream, but its current was now receding. One might walk along the edge of the brook into this hillside fastness.

Determined to solve the mystery of the strange creature's disappearance, and quite convinced that it was a lost child or woman, Ruth Fielding ventured through the brush clump and passed along the ragged bank of the tumbling brook.

Suddenly, in the muddy ground at her feet, the girl spied a shoe. It was a black oxford of good quality, and it had been, of course, wrenched from the foot of the person she pursued. This girl, or woman, must be running from Ruth in fear.

Ruth picked up the shoe. It was for a small foot, but might belong to either a girl of fourteen or so or to a small woman. She could see the print of the other shoe -- yes! and there was the impress of the stockinged foot in the mud.

"Whoever she may be," thought Ruth Fielding, "she is so frightened that she abandoned this shoe. Poor thing! What can be the matter with her?"

Ruth shouted again, and yet again. She went on up the side of the turbulent brook, staring all about for the hiding place of her quarry.

The rain ceased entirely and abruptly. But the whole forest was a-drip. Far up through the trees she saw a sudden lightening of the sky. The clouds were breaking.

But the smoke of the torrential downpour still rose from the saturated earth. When Ruth jarred a bush in passing a perfect deluge fell from the trembling leaves. The girl began to feel that she had come far enough in what appeared to be a wild-goose chase.

Then suddenly, quite amazingly, she was halted. She plunged around a sharp turn in the ravine, trying to step on the dryer places, and found herself confronted by a man standing under the shelter of a wide-armed spruce.

"Oh!" gasped Ruth, starting back.

He was a heavy-set, bewhiskered man with gleaming eyes and rather a grim look. Worst of all, he carried a gun with the lock sheltered under his arm-pit from the rain.

At Ruth's appearance he seemed startled, too, and he advanced the muzzle of the gun and took a stride forward at the same moment.

"Hello!" he growled. "Be you crazy, too? What in all git out be you traipsing through these woods for in the rain?"



Chapter XI

Mr. Peterby Paul And "Whosis"


Ruth Fielding was more than a little startled, for the appearance of this bearded and gruff-spoken man was much against him.

She had become familiar, however, during the past months with all sorts and conditions of men -- many of them much more dangerous looking than this stranger.

Her experiences at the battlefront in France had taught her many things. Among them, that very often the roughest men are the most tender with and considerate of women. Ruth knew that the girls and women working in the Red Cross and the "Y" and the Salvation Army might venture among the roughest poilus, Tommies and our own Yanks without fearing insult or injury.

After that first startled "Oh!" Ruth Fielding gave no sign of fearing the bearded man with the gun under his arm. She stood her ground as he approached her.

"How many air there of ye, Sissy?" he wanted to know. "And air ye all loose from some bat factory? That other one's crazy as all git out."

"Oh, did you see her?"

"If ye mean that Whosis that's wanderin' around yellin' like a cat-o'-mountain --  -- "

"Oh, dear! It was she that was screaming so!"

"I should say it was. I tried to cotch her --  -- "

"And that scared her more, I suppose."

"Huh! Be I so scareful to look at?" the stranger demanded. "Or, mebbe you ain't loony, lady?"

"I should hope not," rejoined Ruth, beginning to laugh.

"Then how in tarnation," demanded the bearded man, "do you explain your wanderin' about these woods in this storm?"

"Why," said Ruth, "I was trying to catch that poor creature, too."

"That Whosis?" he exclaimed.

"Whatever and whoever she is. See! Here's one of her shoes."

"Do tell! She's lost it, ain't she? Don't you reckon she's loony?"

"It may be that she is out of her mind. But she couldn't hurt you -- a big, strong man like you."

"That's as may be. I misdoubted me she was some kind of a Whosis," said the woodsman. "I seen her a couple of times and heard her holler ev'ry time the lightning was real sharp."

"The poor creature has been frightened half to death by the tempest," said Ruth.

"Mebbe. But where did she come from? And where did you come from, if I may ask? This yere ain't a neighborhood that many city folks finds their way into, let me tell ye."

Ruth told him her name and related the mishap that had happened to the two cars at the bottom of the hill.

"Wal, I want to know!" he responded. "Out o' gasoline, heh? Wal, that can be mended."

"Tom Cameron has gone on foot for some."

"Which way did he go, Ma'am?"

"East," she said, pointing.

"Towards Ridgeton? Wal, he'll have a fine walk."

"But we have not seen any gasoline sign for ever so far back on the road."

"That's right. Ain't no reg'lar place. But I guess I might be able to scare up enough gas to help you folks out. Ye see, we got a saw mill right up this gully and we got a gasoline engine to run her. I'm a-watchin' the place till the gang come in to work next month. That there Whosis got me out in the rain --  -- "

"Oh! Where do you suppose the poor thing has gone?" interrupted Ruth. "We should do something for her."

"Wal, if she don't belong to you folks --  -- "

"She doesn't. But she should not be allowed to wander about in this awful way. Is she a woman grown, or a child?"

"I couldn't tell ye. I ain't been close enough to her. By the way, my name is Peterby Paul, and I'm well and fav'rably knowed about this mounting. I did have my thoughts about you, same as that Whosis, I must say. But you 'pear to be all right. Wait, and I'll bring ye down a couple of cans of gasoline, and you can go on and pick up the feller that's started to walk to Ridgeton."

"But that poor creature I followed up here, Mr. Paul? We must find her."

"You say she ain't nothin' to you folks?"

"But she is alone, and frightened."

"Wal, I expect so. She did give me a start for fair. I don't know where she could have come from 'nless she belongs over toward Ridgeton at old Miz Abby Drake's. She's got some city folks stopping with her -- "

"There she is!" cried Ruth, under her breath.

A hobbling figure appeared for a moment on the side of the ravine. The rain had ceased now, but it still dripped plentifully from the trees.

"I'm going after her!" exclaimed Ruth.

"All right, Ma'am," said Mr. Peterby Paul. "I guess she ain't no Whosis, after all."

Ruth could run much faster than the strange person who had so startled both the woodsman and herself. And running lightly, the girl of the Red Mill was almost at her quarry's elbow before her presence was suspected by the latter.

The woman turned her face toward Ruth and screeched in evident alarm. She looked wild enough to be called a "Whosis," whatever kind of supernatural apparition that might be. Her silk dress was in rags; her hair floated down her back in a tangled mane; altogether she was a sorry sight, indeed.

She was a woman of middle age, dark, slight of build, and of a most pitiful appearance.

"Don't be frightened! Don't be afraid of me," begged Ruth. "Where are your friends? I will take you to them."

"It is the voice of God," said the woman solemnly. "I am wicked. He will punish me. Do you know how wicked I am?" she added in a tense whisper.

"I have no idea," Ruth replied calmly. "But I think that when we are nervous and distraught as you are, we magnify our sins as well as our troubles."

Really, Ruth Fielding felt that she might take this philosophy to herself. She had been of late magnifying her troubles, without doubt.

"I have been a great sinner," said the woman. "Do you know, I used to steal my little sister's bread and jam. And now she is dead. I can never make it up to her."

Plainly this was a serious matter to the excited mind of the poor woman.

"Come on down the hill with me. I have got an automobile there and we can ride to Mrs. Drake's in it. Isn't that where you are stopping?"

"Yes, yes. Abby Drake," said the lost woman weakly. "We -- we all started out for huckleberries. And I never thought before how wicked I was to my little sister. But the storm burst -- such a terrible storm!" and the poor creature cowered close to Ruth as the thunder muttered again in the distance.

"It is the voice of God --  -- "

"Come along!" urged Ruth. "Lots of people have made the same mistake. So Aunt Alvirah says. They mistake some other noise for the voice of God!"

The woman was now so weak that the strong girl could easily lead her. Mr. Peterby Paul looked at the forlorn figure askance, however.

"You can't blame me for thinkin' she was a Whosis," he said to Ruth. "Poor critter! It's lucky you came after her. She give me such a start I might o' run sort o' wild myself."

"Perhaps if you had tried to catch her it would only have made her worse," Ruth replied, gently patting the excited woman's hand.

"The voice of God!" muttered the victim of her own nervousness.

"And she traipsing through these woods in a silk dress!" exclaimed Mr. Paul. "I tell 'em all, city folks ain't got right good sense."

"Maybe you are right, Mr. Paul," sighed Ruth. "We are all a little queer, I guess. I will take her down to the car."

"And I'll be right along with a couple of cans of gasoline, Ma'am," rejoined Peterby Paul. "Ain't no use you and your friends bein' stranded no longer."

"If you will be so kind," Ruth said.

He turned back up the ravine and Ruth urged the lost woman down the hill. The poor creature was scarcely able to walk, even after she had put on her lost shoe. Her fears which had driven her into this quite irresponsible state, were the result of ungoverned nervousness. Ruth thought seriously of this fact as she aided her charge down the hillside.

She must steady her own nerves, or the result might be quite as serious. She had allowed the loss of her scenario to shake her usual calm. She knew she had not been acting like herself during this automobile journey and that she had given her friends cause for alarm.

Then and there Ruth determined to talk no more about her loss or her fears regarding the missing scenario. If it was gone, it was gone. That was all there was to it. She would no longer worry her friends and disturb her own mental poise by ruminating upon her misfortune.

When she and the lost woman got out of the ravine, Ruth could hear the girls calling her. And there was Colonel Marchand's horizon-blue uniform in sight as he toiled up the ascent, looking for her.

"Don't be frightened, dear," Ruth said to the startled woman. "These are my friends."

Then she called to Helen that she was coming. Colonel Marchand hurried forward with an amazed question.

"Never mind! Don't bother her," Ruth said. "The poor creature has been through enough -- out in all this storm, alone. We must get her to where she is stopping as soon as possible. See the condition her clothes are in!"

"But, Mademoiselle Ruth!" gasped the Frenchman. "We are stalled until Captain Tom comes back with the gasoline -- is it not?"

"We are going to have gas in a very few minutes," returned Ruth gaily. "I did more than find this poor woman up on the hill. Wait!"

Helen and Jennie sprang at Ruth like a pair of terriers after a cat, demanding information and explanation all in a breath. But when they realized the state of mind of the strange woman, they calmed down.

They wrapped her in a dry raincoat and put her in the back of the big car. She remained quietly there with Jennie's Aunt Kate while Ruth related her adventure with Mr. Peterby Paul and the "Whosis."

"Goodness!" gasped Helen, "I guess he named her rightly. There must be something altogether wrong with the poor creature to make her wander about these wet woods, screeching like a loon."

"I'd screech, too," said Jennie Stone, "if I'd torn a perfectly good silk dress to tatters as she has."

"Think of going huckleberrying in a frock like that," murmured Ruth. "I guess you are both right. And Mr. Peterby Paul did have good reason for calling her a 'Whosis'."



Chapter XII

Alongshore


Mr. Peterby Paul appeared after a short time striding down the wooded hillside balancing a five-gallon gasoline can in either hand.

"I reckon you can get to Ridgeton on this here," he said jovially. "Guess I'd better set up a sign down here so's other of you autermobile folks kin take heart if ye git stuck."

"You are just as welcome as the flowers in spring, tra-la!" cried Helen, fairly dancing with delight.

"You are an angel visitor, Mr. Paul," said the plump girl.

"I been called a lot o' things besides an angel," the bearded woodsman said, his eyes twinkling. "My wife, 'fore she died, had an almighty tart tongue."

"And now?" queried Helen wickedly.

"Wal, wherever the poor critter's gone, I reckon she's l'arned to bridle her tongue," said Mr. Peterby Paul cheerfully. "Howsomever, as the feller said, that's another day's job. Mr. Frenchy, let's pour this gasoline into them tanks."

Ruth insisted upon paying for the gasoline, and paying well. Then Peterby Paul gave them careful directions as to the situation of Abby Drake's house, at which it seemed the lost woman must belong.

"Abby always has her house full of city folks in the summer," the woodsman said. "She is pretty near a Whosis herself, Abby Drake is."

With which rather unfavorable intimation regarding the despised "city folks," Mr. Peterby Paul saw them start on over the now badly rutted road.

Helen drove the smaller car with Ruth sitting beside her. Henri Marchand took the wheel of the touring car, and the run to Boston was resumed.

"But we must not over-run Tom," said Ruth to her chum. "No knowing what by-path he might have tried in search of the elusive gasoline."

"I'll keep the horn blowing," Helen said, suiting action to her speech and sounding a musical blast through the wooded country that lay all about. "He ought to know his own auto-horn."

The tone of the horn was peculiar. Ruth could always distinguish it from any other as Tom speeded along the Cheslow road toward the Red Mill. But then, she was perhaps subconsciously listening for its mellow note.

She tacitly agreed with Helen, however, that it might be a good thing to toot the horn frequently. And the signal brought to the roadside an anxious group of women at a sprawling farmhouse not a mile beyond the spot where the two cars had been stalled.

"That is the Drake place. It must be!" Ruth exclaimed, putting out a hand to warn Colonel Marchand that they were about to halt.

A fleshy woman with a very ruddy face under her sunbonnet came eagerly out into the road, leading the group of evidently much worried women.

"Have you folks seen anything of --  -- "

"Abby!" shrieked the woman Ruth had found, and she struggled to get out of the car.

"Well, I declare, Mary Marsden!" gasped the sunbonneted woman, who was plainly Abby Drake. "If you ain't a sight!"

"I -- I'm so scared!" quavered the unforunate victim of her own nerves, as Ruth ran back to help her out of the touring car. "God is going to punish me, Abby."

"I certainly hope He will," declared her friend, in rather a hard-hearted way. "I told you, you ought to be punished for wearing that dress up there into the berry pasture, and --  --  Land's sakes alive! Look at her dress!"

Afterward, when Ruth had been thanked by Mrs. Drake and the other women, and the cars were rolling along the highway again, the girl of the Red Mill said to Helen Cameron:

"I guess Tom is more than half right. Altogether, the most serious topic of conversation for all kinds and conditions of female humans is the matter of dress -- in one way or another."

"How dare you slur your own sex so?" demanded Helen.

"Well, look at this case," her chum observed. "This Mary Marsden had been lost in the storm and killed for all they knew, yet Abby Drake's first thought was for the woman's dress."

"Well, it was a pity about the dress," Helen remarked, proving that she agreed with Abby Drake and the bulk of womankind -- as her twin brother oft and again acclaimed.

Ruth laughed. "And now if we could see poor dear Tommy --  -- "

The car rounded a sharp turn in the highway. The Drake house was perhaps a mile behind. Ahead was a long stretch of rain-drenched road, and Helen instantly cried:

"There he is!"

The figure of Tom Cameron with the empty gasoline can in his hand could scarcely be mistaken, although he was at least a mile in advance. Helen began to punch the horn madly.

"He'll know that," Ruth cried. "Yes, he looks back! Won't he be astonished?"

Tom certainly was amazed. He proceeded to sit down on the can and wait for the cars to overtake him.

"What are you traveling on?" he shouted, when Helen stopped with the engine running just in front of him. "Fairy gasoline?"

"Why, Tommy, you're not so smart!" laughed his sister. "It takes Ruth to find gas stations. We were stalled right in front of one, and you did not know it. Hop in here and take my place and I'll run back to the other car. Ruth will tell you all about it."

"Perhaps we had better let Colonel Marchand and Jennie have this honeymoon car," Ruth said doubtfully.

"Humph!" her chum observed, "I begin to believe it will be just as much a honeymoon car with you and Tom in it as with that other couple. 'Bless you, my children!'"

She ran back to the big car with this saucy statement. Tom grinned, slipped behind the wheel, and started the roadster slowly.

"It must be," he observed in his inimitable drawl, "that Sis has noticed that I'm fond of you, Ruthie."

"Quite remarkable," she rejoined cheerfully. "But the war isn't over yet, Tommy-boy. And if our lives are spared we've got to finish our educations and all that. Why, Tommy, you are scarcely out of short pants, and I've only begun to put my hair up."

"Jimminy!" he grumbled, "you do take all the starch out of a fellow. Now tell me how you got gas. What happened?"

Everybody has been to Boston, or expects to go there some time, so it is quite immaterial what happened to the party while at the Hub. They only remained two days, anyway, then they started off alongshore through the pleasant old towns that dot the coast as far as Cape Ann.

They saw the ancient fishing ports of Marblehead, Salem, Gloucester and Rockport, and then came back into the interior and did not see salt water again until they reached Newburyport at the mouth of the Merrimac.

The weather remained delightfully cool and sunshiny after that heavy tempest they had suffered in the hills, and they reached Portsmouth and remained at a hotel for three days when it rained again. The young folks chafed at this delay, but Aunt Kate declared that a hotel room was restful after jouncing over all sorts of roads for so long.

"They never will build a car easy enough for auntie," Jennie Stone declared. "I tell pa he must buy some sort of airship for us --  -- "

"Never!" cried Aunt Kate in quick denial. "Whenever I go up in the air it will be because wings have sprouted on my shoulder blades. And I should not call an aeroplane easy riding, in any case."

"At least," grumbled Tom, "you can spin along without any trouble with country constables, and that's a blessing."

For on several occasions they had had arguments with members of the police force, in one case helping to support a justice and a constable by paying a fine.

They did not travel on Sunday, however, when the constables reap most of their harvest, so they really had little to complain of in that direction. Nor did they travel fast in any case.

After the rainy days at Portsmouth, the automobile party ran on with only minor incidents and no adventures until they reached Portland. There Ruth telegraphed to Mr. Hammond that they were coming, as in her letter, written before they left Cheslow, she had promised him she would.

Herringport, the nearest town to the moving picture camp at Beach Plum Point, was at the head of a beautiful harbor, dotted with islands, and with water as blue as that of the Bay of Naples. When the two cars rolled into this old seaport the party was welcomed in person by Mr. Hammond, the president and producing manager of the Alectrion Film Corporation.

"I have engaged rooms for you at the hotel here, if you want them," he told Ruth, after being introduced to Aunt Kate and Colonel Marchand, the only members of the party whom he had not previously met.

"But I can give you all comfortable bunks with some degree of luxury at the camp. At least, we think it luxurious after our gold mining experience in the West. You will get better cooking at the Point, too."

"But a camp!" sighed Aunt Kate. "We have roughed it so much coming down here, Mr. Hammond."

"There won't be any black ants at this camp," said her niece cheerfully.

"Only sand fleas," suggested the wicked Tom.

"You can't scare me with fleas," said Jennie. "They only hop; they don't wriggle and creep."

"My star in the 'Seaside Idyl,' Miss Loder, demanded hotel accommodations at first. But she soon changed her mind," Mr. Hammond said. "She is now glad to be on the lot with the rest of the company."

"It sounds like a circus," Aunt Kate murmured doubtfully.

"It is more than that, my dear Madam," replied the manager, laughing. "But these young people --  -- "

"If Aunt Kate won't mind," said Ruth, "let us try it, while she remains at the Herringport Inn."

"I'll run her back and forth every day for the 'eats'," Tom promptly proposed.

"My duty as a chaperon --  -- " began the good woman, when her niece broke in with:

"In numbers there is perfect safety, Auntie. There are a whole lot of girls down there at the Point."

"And we have chaperons of our own, I assure you," interposed Mr. Hammond, treating Aunt Kate's objection seriously. "Miss Loder has a cousin who always travels with her. Our own Mother Paisley, who plays character parts, has daughters of her own and is a lovely lady. You need not fear, Madam, that the conventions will be broken."

"We won't even crack 'em, Aunt Kate," declared Helen rouguishly. "I will watch Jen like a cat would a mouse."

"Humph!" observed the plump girl, scornfully. "This mouse, in that case, is likely to swallow the cat!"



Chapter XIII

The Hermit


"Now, tell me, Miss Ruth," said Mr. Hammond, having taken the girl of the Red Mill into his own car for the short run to Beach Plum Point, "what is this trouble about your new scenario? You have excited my curiosity during all these months about the wonderful script, and now you say it is not ready for me."

"Oh, Mr. Hammond!" exclaimed Ruth, "I fear it will never be ready for you."

"Nonsense! Don't lose heart. You have merely come to one of those thank-you-ma'ams in story writing that all authors suffer. Wait. It will come to you."

"No, no!" sighed Ruth. "It is nothing like that. I had finished the scenario. I had it all just about as I wanted it, and then --  -- "

"Then what?" he asked in wonder at her emotion.

"It -- it was stolen!"

"Stolen?"

"Yes. And all my notes -- everything! I -- I can't talk about it. And I never could write it again," sobbed Ruth. "It is the best thing I ever did, Mr. Hammond."

"If it is better than 'The Heart of a Schoolgirl', or 'The Forty-Niners', or 'The Boys of the Draft', then it must be some scenario, Miss Ruth. The last two are still going strong, you know. And I have hopes of the 'Seaside Idyl' catching the public fancy just when we are all getting rather weary of war dramas.

"If you can only rewrite this new story --  -- "

"But Mr. Hammond! I am sure it has been stolen by somebody who will make use of it. Some other producer may put it on the screen, and then my version would fall flat -- if no worse."

"Humph! And you have been so secret about it!"

"I took your advice, Mr. Hammond. I have told nobody about it -- not a thing!"

"And somebody unknown stole it?"

"We think it was a vagrant actor. A tramp. Just the sort of person, though, who would know how to make use of the script."

"Humph! All actors were considered 'vagrants' under the old English law -- in Shakespeare's younger days, for instance," remarked Mr. Hammond.

"You see how unwise it would be for me to try to rewrite the story -- even if I could -- and try to screen it."

"I presume you are right. Yes. But I hoped you would bring a story with you that we could be working on at odd times. I have a good all-around company here on the lot."

"I had most of your principals in mind when I wrote my scenario," sighed Ruth. "But I could not put my mind to that same subject now. I am discouraged, Mr. Hammond."

"I would not feel that way if I were you, Miss Ruth," he advised, trying, as everybody else did, to cheer her. "You will get another good idea, and like all other born writers, you will just have to give expression to it. Meantime, of course, if I get hold of a promising scenario, I shall try to produce it."

"I hope you will find a good one, Mr. Hammond."

He smiled rather ruefully. "Of course, there is scarcely anybody on the lot who hasn't a picture play in his or her pocket. I was possibly unwise last week to offer five hundred dollars spot cash for a play I could make use of, for now I suppose there will be fifty to read. Everybody, from Jacks, the property man, to the old hermit, believes he can write a scenario."

"Who is the hermit?" asked Ruth, with some curiosity.

"I don't know. Nobody seems to know who he is about Herringport. He was living in an old fish-house down on the Point when we came here last week with the full strength of the company. And I have made use of the old fellow in your 'Seaside Idyl'.

"He seems to be a queer duck. But he has some idea of the art of acting, it seems. Director Jim Hooley is delighted with him. But they tell me the old fellow is scribbling all night in his hut. The scenario bug has certainly bit that old codger. He's out for my five hundred dollars," and the producing manager laughed again.

"I hope you get a good script," said Ruth earnestly. "But don't ask me to read any of them, Mr. Hammond. It does seem as though I never wanted to look at a scenario again!"

"Then you are going to miss some amusement in this case," he chuckled.

"Why so?"

"I tell you frankly I do not expect much from even those professional actors. It was my experience even before I went into the motion picture business that plays submitted by actors were always full of all the old stuff -- all the old theatrical tricks and the like. Actors are the most insular people in existence, I believe. They know how plays should be written to fulfill the tenets of the profession; but invention is 'something else again'."

The young people who had motored so far were welcomed by many of Mr. Hammond's company who had acted in "The Forty-Niners" and had met Ruth and her friends in the West, as related in "Ruth Fielding in the Saddle."

The shacks that had been built especially for the company's use were comfortable, even if they did smell of new pine boards. The men of the company lived in khaki tents. There were several old fish-houses that were likewise being utilized by the members of the company.

Beach Plum Point was the easterly barrier of sand and rock that defended the beautiful harbor from the Atlantic breakers. It was a wind-blown place, and the moan of the surf on the outer reef was continually in the ears of the campers on the Point.

The tang of salt in the air could always be tasted on the lips when one was out of doors. And the younger folks were out on the sands most of the time when they were not working, sleeping, or eating.

"We are going to have some fun here," promised Tom Cameron to Ruth, after their party had got established with its baggage. "See that hard strip of beach? That's no clamflat. I am going to race my car on that sand. Palm Beach has nothing on this. Jackman, the property man (you remember Jacks, don't you, Ruth?), says the blackfish and bass are biting off the Point. You girls can act in movies if you like, but I am going fishing."

"Don't talk movies to me," sighed the girl. "I almost wish we had not come, Tom."

"Nonsense! You shall go fishing with me. Put on your oldest duds and -- well, maybe you will have to strip off your shoes and stockings. It is both wet and slippery on the rocks."

"Pooh! I'll put on my bathing suit and a sweater. I never was afraid of water yet," Ruth declared.

This was the morning after their arrival. Tom had been up to the port and brought down Aunt Kate for the day. Aunt Kate sat under an umbrella near where the company was working on location, and she scribbled all day in a notebook. Jennie whispered that she, too, was bitten by the scenario bug!

"I feel it coming over me," announced Helen. "I've got what I think is a dandy idea."

"Oh, there's too much to do," Jennie Stone said. "I couldn't find time to dabble in literature."

"My, oh, my!" gasped Helen, with scorn. "How busy we are! You and Henri spend all your time making eyes at each other."

"But just think, Nell!" cried the plump girl. "He's got to go back to France and fight --  -- "

"And so has my Tom."

"But Tom is only your brother."

"And Henri is nothing at all to you," rejoined Helen cruelly. "A fiancé is only an expectation. You may change your mind about Henri."

"Never!" cried Jennie, with horror.

"Well, he keeps you busy, I grant. And there go Tom and Ruth mooning off together with fish lines. Lots of fishing they will do! They are almost as bad as you and Henri. Why!" ejaculated Helen in some heat, "I am just driven to writing scenarios to keep from dying of loneliness."

"I notice that 'juvenile lead,' Mr. Simmons, is keeping you quite busy," remarked Jennie slyly, as she turned away.

It was a fact that Ruth and Tom enjoyed each others' company. But Helen need not have been even a wee bit jealous. To tell the truth, she did not like to "get all mussed up," as she expressed it, by going fishing. To Ruth the adventure was a glad relief from worriment. Much as she tried, she could not throw off all thought of her lost scenario.

She welcomed every incident that promised amusement and mental relaxation. Some of the troupe of actors -- the men, mostly -- were bathing off the Point.

"And see that man in the old skiff!" cried Ruth. "'The Lone Fisherman'."

The individual in question sat upon a common kitchen chair in the skiff with a big, patched umbrella to keep the sun off, and was fishing with a pole that he had evidently cut in the woods along the shore.

"That is that hermit fellow," said Tom. "He's a queer duck. And the boys bother him a good deal."

He was angrily driving some of the swimmers away from his fishing location at that moment. It was plain the members of the moving picture company used the hermit as a butt for their jokes.

While one fellow was taking up the hermit's attention in front, another bather rose silently behind him and reached into the bottom of the skiff. What this second fellow did Tom and Ruth could not see.

"The old chap can't swim a stroke," explained one of the laughing bathers to the visitors. "He's as afraid of water as a cat. Now you watch."

But Tom and Ruth saw nothing to watch. They went on to the tip of the Point and Tom prepared the fishing tackle and baited the hooks. Just as Ruth made her first cast there sounded a scream from the direction of the lone fisherman.

"What is it?" she gasped, dropping her pole.

The bathers had deserted the old man in the skiff, and were now at some distance. He was anchored in probably twenty feet of water.

To the amazement of Ruth and her companion, the skiff had sunk until its gunwales were scarcely visible. The hermit had wrenched away his umbrella and was now balanced upon the chair on his feet, in danger of sinking. His fear of this catastrophe was being expressed in unstinted terms.



Chapter XIV

A Quotation


"Do help him, Tom!" cried Ruth Fielding, and she started for the spot where the man and the skiff were sinking.

Tom cast aside his sweater, kicked his sneakers off, and plunged into the tide. Ruth was quite as lightly dressed as Tom; but she saw that he could do all that was necessary.

That was, to bring the frightened man ashore. This "hermit" as they called him, was certainly very much afraid of the water.

He splashed a good deal, and Tom had to speak sharply to keep him from getting a strangle-hold about his own neck.

"Jimminy! but that was a mean trick," panted Tom, when he got ashore with the fisherman. "Somebody pulled the plug out of the bottom of the skiff and first he knew, he was going down."

"It is a shame," agreed Ruth, looking at the victim of the joke curiously.

He was a thin-featured, austere looking man, scrupulously shaven, but with rather long hair that had quite evidently been dyed. Now that it was plastered to his crown by the salt water (for he had been completely immersed more than once in his struggle with Tom Cameron) his hair was shown to be quite thin and of a greenish tinge at the roots.

The shock of being dipped in the sea so unexpectedly was plainly no small one for the hermit. He stood quite unsteadily on the strand, panting and sputtering.

"Young dogs! No respect for age and ability in this generation. I might have been drowned."

"Well, it's all over now," said Tom comfortingly. "Where do you live?"

"Over yonder, young man," replied the hermit, pointing to the ocean side of the point.

"We will take you home. You lie down for a while and you will feel better," Ruth said soothingly. "We will come back here afterward and get your skiff ashore."

"Thank you, Miss," said the man courteously.

"I'll make those fellows who played the trick on you get the boat ashore," promised Tom, running for his shoes and sweater.

The hermit proved to be a very uncommunicative person. Ruth tried to get him to talk about himself as they crossed the rocky spit, but all that he said of a personal nature was that his name was "John."

His shack was certainly a lonely looking hovel. It faced the tumbling Atlantic and it seemed rather an odd thing to Ruth that a man who was so afraid of the sea should have selected such a spot for his home.

The hermit did not invite them to enter his abode. He promised Ruth that he would make a hot drink for himself and remove his wet garments and lie down. But he only seemed moderately grateful for their assistance, and shut the door of the shack promptly in their faces when he got inside.

"Just as friendly as a sore-headed dog," remarked Tom, as they went back to the bay side of the Point.

"Perhaps the others have played so many tricks on him that he is suspicious of even our assistance," Ruth said.

Thus speaking, she stooped to pick up a bit of paper in the path. It had been half covered by the sand and might have lain there a long time, or only a day.

Just why this bit of brown wrapping paper had caught her attention, it would be hard to say. Ruth might have passed it a dozen times without noticing it.

But now she must needs turn the paper over and over in her hands as she watched Tom, with the help of the rather abashed practical jokers, haul the water-logged skiff ashore.

She had forgotten the fishing poles they had abandoned on the rocks, and sat down upon a boulder. Suddenly she discovered that there was writing on the bit of paper she had picked up. It was then that her attention really became fixed upon her find.

The characters had been written with an indelible pencil. The dampness had only blurred the writing instead of erasing it. Her attention thus engaged, she idly scrutinized more than the blurred lines. Her attitude as she sat there on the boulder slowly stiffened; her gaze focused upon the paper.

"Why! what is it?" she murmured at last.

The blurred lines became clearer to her vision. It was the wording of the phrase rather than the handwriting that enthralled her. This that follows was all that was written on the paper:

"Flash: -- 

"As in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be --  -- "

To the ordinary observer, with no knowledge of what went before or followed this quotation, the phrase must seem idle. But the word "flash" is used by scenario writers and motion picture makers, indicating an explanatory phrase thrown on the screen.

And this quoted phrase struck poignantly to Ruth Fielding's mind. For it was one she had used in that last scenario -- the one that had so strangely disappeared from the summer-house back at the Red Mill!

Amazed -- almost stunned -- by this discovery, she sat on the boulder scarcely seeing what Tom and the others were doing toward salvaging the old hermit's skiff and other property.

Thoughts regarding the quotation shuttled back and forth in the girl's mind in a most bewildering way. The practical side of her character pointed out that there really could be no significance in this discovery. It could not possibly have anything to do with her stolen script.

Yet the odd phrase, used in just this way, had been one of the few "flashes" indicated in her scenario. Was it likely that anybody else, writing a picture, would use just that phrase?

She balanced the improbability of this find meaning anything at all to her against the coincidence of another author using the quotation in writing a scenario. She did not know what to think. Which supposition was the more improbable?

The thought was preposterous that the paper should mean anything to her. Ruth was about to throw it away; and then, failing to convince herself that the quotation was but idly written, she tucked the piece of paper into the belt of her bathing suit.

When Tom was ready to go back to their fishing station, Ruth went with him and said nothing about the find she had made.

They had fair luck, all told, and the chef at the camp produced their catch in a dish of boiled tautog with egg sauce at dinner that evening. The company ate together at a long table, like a logging camp crew, only with many more of the refinements of life than the usual logging crew enjoys. It was, however, on a picnic plane of existence, and there was much hilarity.

These actor folk were very pleasant people. Even the star, Miss Loder, was quite unspoiled by her success.

"You know," she confessed to Ruth (everybody confided in Ruth), "I never would have been anything more than a stock actress in some jerkwater town, as we say in the West, if the movies hadn't become so popular. I have what they call the 'appealing face' and I can squeeze out real tears at the proper juncture. Those are two very necessary attributes for a girl who wishes to gain film success."

"But you can really act," Ruth said honestly. "I watched you to-day."

"I should be able to act. I come of a family who have been actors for generations. Acting is like breathing to me. But, of course, it is another art to 'register' emotion in the face, and very different from displaying one's feelings by action and audible expression. You know, one of our most popular present-day stage actresses got her start by an ability to scream off-stage. Nothing like that in the movies."

"You should hear Jennie Stone with a black ant down her back," put in Helen, with serious face. "I am sure Heavy could go the actress you speak of one better, and become even more popular."

"I am not to be blamed if I squeal at crawly things," sniffed the plump girl, hearing this. "See how brave I am in most other respects."

But that night Jennie exhibited what Tom called her "scarefulness" in most unmistakable fashion, and never again could she claim to be brave. She gave her chums in addition such a fright that they were not soon over talking about it.

The three college girls had cots in a small shack that Mr. Hammond had given up to their use. It was one of the shacks nearest the shore of the harbor. Several boat-docks near by ran out into the deep water.

It was past midnight when Jennie was for some reason aroused. Usually she slept straight through the night, and had to be awakened by violent means in time for breakfast.

She was not startled, but awoke naturally, and found herself broad awake. She sat up in her cot, almost convinced that it must be daylight. But it was the moon shining through a haze of clouds that lighted the interior of the shack. The other two girls were breathing deeply. The noises she heard did not at first alarm Jennie.

There was the whisper of the tide as it rolled the tiny pebbles and shells up the strand and, receding, swept them down again. It chuckled, too, among the small piers of the near-by docks.

Then the listening girl heard footsteps -- or what she took to be that sound. They approached the shack, then receded. She began to be curious, then felt a tremor of alarm. Who could be wandering about the camp at this grim hour of the night?

She was unwise enough to allow her imagination to wake up, too. She stole from her bed and peered out of the screened window that faced the water. Almost at once a moving object met her frightened gaze.

It was a figure all in white which seemed to float down the lane between the tents and out upon the nearest boat-dock.

Afterward Jennie declared she could have suffered one of these spirit-looking manifestations in silence. She crammed the strings of her frilled nightcap between her teeth as a stopper!

This spectral figure was going away from the shack, anyway. It appeared to be bearing something in its arms. But then came a second ghost, likewise burdened. Gasping, Jennie waited, clinging to the window-sill for support.

A third spectre appeared, rising like Banquo's spirit at Macbeth's feast. This was too much for the plump girl's self-control. She opened her mouth, and her half-strangled shriek, the partially masticated cap-strings all but choking her, aroused Ruth and Helen to palpitating fright.

"Oh! What is it?" demanded Helen, bounding out of bed.

"Ghosts! Oh! Waw!" gurgled Jennie, and sank back into her friend's arms.

Helen was literally as well as mentally overcome. Jennie's weight carried her to the straw matting with a bump that shook the shack and brought Ruth, too, out of bed.



Chapter XV

An Amazing Situation


"'Ghost'?" cried Ruth Fielding. "Let me see it! Remember the campus ghost back at old Briarwood, Helen? I haven't seen a ghost since that time."

"Ugh! Get this big elephant off of me!" grunted her chum, impolitely as well as angrily. "She's no ghost, I do assure you. She's of the earth, earthy, and no mistake! Ouch! Get off, Heavy!"

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" groaned the plump girl. "I -- I saw them. Three of them!"

"Sounds like a three-ring circus," snapped Helen.

But Ruth was peering through the window. She saw nothing, and complained thereof:

"Jen has had a nightmare. I don't see a thing."

"Nightmare, your granny!" sputtered the plump girl, finally rolling off her half crushed friend. "I saw it -- them -- those!"

"Your grammar is so mixed I wouldn't believe you on oath," declared Helen, getting to her own bare feet and paddling back to her cot for slippers and a negligee.

"O-o-oh, it is chilly," agreed Ruth, grabbing a wrap, too.

"Do tell us about it, Jennie," she begged. "Did you see your ghost through the window here?"

"It isn't my ghost!" denied the plump girl. "I'm alive, ain't I?"

"But you're not conscious," grumbled Helen.

"I can see!" wailed Jennie. "I haven't lost my eyesight."

"Stop!" Ruth urged. "Let us get at the foundation of this trouble. You say you saw --  -- "

"I saw what I saw!"

"Oh, see-saw!" cried Helen. "We're all loony, now."

Ruth was about to ask another question, but she was again looking through the window. She suddenly bit off a cry of her own. She had to confess that the sight she saw was startling.

"Is -- is that the ghost, Jennie?" she breathed, seizing the plump girl by her arm and dragging her forward.

Jennie gave one frightened look through the window and immediately clapped her palms over her eyes.

"Ow!" she wailed in muffled tones. "They're coming back."

They were, indeed! Three white figures in Indian file came stalking up the long dock. They approached the camp in a spectral procession and had she been awakened to see them first of all, Ruth might have been startled herself.

Helen peered over her chum's shoulder and in teeth-chattering monotone breathed in Ruth's ear the query:

"What is it?"

"It -- it's Heavy's ghost."

"Not mine! Not mine!" denied the plump girl.

"Oh!" gasped Helen, spying the stalking white figures.

It was the moonlight made them appear so ghostly. Ruth knew that, of course, at once. And then --  -- 

"Who ever saw ghosts carrying garbage cans before?" ejaculated the girl of the Red Mill. "Mercy me, Heavy! do stop your wailing. It is the chef and his two assistants who have got up to dump the garbage on the out-going tide. What a perfect scare-cat you are!"

"You don't mean it, Ruth?" whimpered the plump girl. "Is that all they were?"

Helen began to giggle. And it covered her own fright. Ruth was rather annoyed.

"If you had remained in bed and minded your own business," she said to Jennie, "you would not have seen ghosts, or got us up to see them. Now go back to sleep and behave yourself."

"Yes, ma'am," murmured the abashed Jennie Stone. "How silly of me! I was never afraid of a cook before -- no, indeed."

Helen continued to giggle spasmodically; but she fell asleep soon. As for Jennie, she began to breathe heavily almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. But Ruth must needs lie awake for hours, and naturally the teeth of her mind began to knaw at the problem of that bit of paper she had found in the sand.

The more she thought of it the less easy it was to discard the idea that the writing on the paper was a quotation from her own scenario script. It seemed utterly improbable that two people should use that same expression as a "flash" in a scenario.

Yet, if this paper was a connecting link between her stolen manuscript and the thief, who was the thief?

It would seem, of course, if this supposition were granted, that some member of the company of film actors Mr. Hammond had there at Beach Plum Point had stolen the scenario. At least, the stolen scenario must be in the possession of some member of the company.

Who could it be? Naturally Ruth considered this unknown must be one of the company who wished Mr. Hammond to accept and produce a scenario.

Ruth finally fell into a troubled sleep with the determination in her mind to take more interest in the proposed scenario-writing contest than she had at first intended.

She could not imagine how anybody could take her work and change it so that she would not recognize it! The plot of the story was too well wrought and the working out of it too direct.

She did not think that she had it perfect. Only that she had perfected the idea as well as she was able. But changing it would not hide from her the recognition of her own brain-child.

So after breakfast she went to Mr. Hammond to make inquiry about the scenario contest.

"Ha, ha! So you are coming to yourself, Miss Ruth!" he chuckled. "I told you you would feel different. I only wish you would get a real smart idea for a picture."

"Nothing like that!" she told him, shaking her head. "I could not think of writing a new scenario. You don't know what it means to me -- the loss of that picture I had struggled so long with and thought so much about. I --  -- 

"But let us not talk of it," she hastened to add. "I am curious regarding the stories that have been offered to you."

"You need not fear competition," he replied. "Just as I told you, all these perfectly good acting people base their scenarios on dramas they have played or seen played. They haven't got the idea of writing for the screen at all, although they work before the camera."

"And that is no wonder!" exclaimed Ruth. "The way the directors take scenes, the actors never get much of an idea of the continuity of the story they are making. But these stories?"

"So far, I haven't found a possible scenario. And I have looked at more than a score."

"You don't mean it!"

"I most certainly do," he assured her. "Want to look at them?"

"Why -- yes," confessed Ruth. "I am curious, as I tell you."

"Go to it!" exclaimed Mr. Hammond, opening a drawer of his desk and pointing to the pile of manuscripts within. "Consider yourself at home here. I am going over to the port with Director Hooley and most of the members of the company. We have found just the location for the shooting of that scene in your 'Seaside Idyl' where the ladies' aid society holds its 'gossip session' in the grove -- remember?"

"Oh, yes," Ruth replied, not much interested, as she took the first scenario out of the drawer.

"And Hooley's found some splendid types, too, around the village. They really have a sewing circle connected with the Herringport Union Church, and I have agreed to help the ladies pay for having the church edifice painted if they will let us film a session of the society with our principal character actors mixed in with the local group. The sun is good to-day."

He went away, and a little later Ruth heard the automobiles start for Herringport. She had the forenoon to herself, for the rest of her party had gone out in a motor boat fishing -- a party from which she had excused herself.

Eagerly she began to examine the scenarios submitted to Mr. Hammond. The possibility that she might find one of them near enough like her own lost story to suggest that it had been plagiarized, made Ruth's heart beat faster.

She could not forget the quotation on the scrap of brown paper. Somebody on this Point -- and it seemed that the "somebody" must be one of the moving picture company -- had written that quotation from her scenario. She felt that this could not be denied.



Chapter XVI

Ruth Solves One Problem


Had Ruth Fielding been confronted with the question: "Did she expect to find a clue to the identity of the person who had stolen her scenario before she left the Red Mill?" she could have made no confident answer. She did not know what she would find when she sat down at Mr. Hammond's desk for the purpose of looking over the submitted stories.

Doubt and suspicion, however, enthralled her mind. She was both curious and anxious.

Ruth had no particular desire to read the manuscripts. In any case she did not presume Mr. Hammond desired her advice about selecting a script for filming.

She skimmed through the first story. It had not a thing in it that would suggest in the faintest way any familiarity of the author with her own lost scenario.

For two hours she fastened her attention upon one after another of the scenarios, often by main will-power, because of the utter lack of interest in the stories the writers had tried to put over.

Without being at all egotistical, Ruth Fielding felt confident that had any one of these scenario writers come into possession of her lost script, and been dishonest enough to use it, he would have turned out a much better story.

But not a trace of her original idea and its development was to be found in these manuscripts. Her suspicion had been needlessly roused.

Ruth could not deny that the scrap of paper found in the sand was quite as mysterious as ever. The quotation on it seemed to be taken directly from her own scenario. But there was absolutely nothing in this pile of manuscripts to justify her suspicions.

She was just as dissatisfied after scanning all the submitted scenarios as Mr. Hammond seemed to be with the day's work when the company came back from Herringport in the late afternoon.

"I suppose it is a sanguine disposition that keeps me at this game, Miss Ruth," he sighed. "I always expect much more than I can possibly get out of a situation; and when I fail I go on hoping just the same."

"I am sure that is a commendable disposition to possess," she laughed. "What has gone so wrong?"

"It is the old story of leading the horse to water, and the inability of making him drink. This is a balky horse, and no mistake!"

"Do tell me what you mean, Mr. Hammond?"

"Why, I told you we had got what the ladies call 'perfectly lovely' types for that scene to-day. You ought to see them, Miss Ruth! You would be charmed. Just what the dear public expects a back-country sewing circle should look like."

"Oh!"

"And they all promised to be on hand at the location -- and they were. I have had my experiences with amateurs before. I had begged the ladies to dress just as they would were they going to an actual meeting of their sewing society --  -- "

"And they all dressed up?" laughed Ruth, clasping her hands.

"Well, that I expected to contend with. And most of them even in their best bib and tucker were not out of the picture. Not at all! That was not the main difficulty and the one that has spoiled our day's work."

"Indeed?"

"I am afraid Jim Hooley will have to fake the whole scene after all," continued the manager. "Those women came all dressed up 'to have their pictures took,' it is true. But the worst of it is, they could not be natural. It was impossible. They showed in every move and every glance that they were sitting with a bunch of actors and were not at all sure that what they were doing was altogether the right thing.

"We worked over them as though it were a 'mob scene' and there were five hundred in it instead of twenty. But twenty wooden dummies would have filmed no more unnaturally. You know, in your story, they are supposed to be discussing the bit of gossip about your heroine's elopement with the schoolteacher. I could not work up a mite of enthusiasm in their minds about such a topic."

Ruth laughed. But she saw that the matter was really serious for Mr. Hammond and the director. She became sympathetic.

"I fancy that if they had had a real scandal to discuss," she observed, "their faces would have registered more poignant interest."

"'Poignant interest'!" scoffed the manager in disgust. "If these Herringport tabbies had the toothache they would register only polite anguish -- in public. They are the most insular and self-contained and self-suppressed women I ever saw. These Down-Easters! They could walk over fiery ploughshares and only wanly smile --  -- "

Ruth went off into a gale of laughter at this. Mr. Hammond was a Westerner by birth, and he found the Yankee character as hard to understand as did Henri Marchand.

"Have you quite given up hope, Mr. Hammond?" Ruth asked.

"Well, we'll try again to-morrow. Oh, they promised to come again! They are cutting out rompers, or flannel undervests, I suppose, for the South Sea Island children; or something like that. They are interested in that job, no doubt.

"I wanted them to 'let go all holts,' as these fishermen say, and be eager and excited. They are about as eager as they would be doing their washing, or cleaning house -- if as much!" and Mr. Hammond's disappointment became too deep for further audible expression.

Ruth suddenly awoke to the fact that one of her best scenes in the "Seaside Idyl" was likely to be spoiled. She talked with Mr. Hooley about it, and when the day's run was developed and run off in one of the shacks which was used for a try-out room, Ruth saw that the manager had not put the matter too strongly. The sewing circle scene lacked all that snap and go needed to make it a realistic piece of action.

Of course, there were enough character actors in the company to use in the scene; but naturally an actor caricatures such parts as were called for in this scene. The professional would be likely to make the characters seem grotesque. That was not the aim of the story.

"I thought you were not going to take any interest in this 'Seaside Idyl,' at all," suggested Helen, when Ruth was talking about the failure of the scene after supper that night.

"I can't help it. My reputation as a scenario writer is at stake, just as much as is Mr. Hooley's reputation as director," Ruth said, smiling. "I really didn't mean to have a thing to do with the old picture. But I can see that somebody has got to put a breath of naturalness into those ladies' aid society women, or this part of the picture will be a fizzle."

"And our Ruth," drawled Jennie, "is going to prescribe one of her famous cure-alls, is she?"

"I believe I can make them look less like a lot of dummies while they are cutting out rompers for cannibal island pickaninnies," laughed Ruth. "Tom, I am going to the port with you the first thing in the morning."

"By all means," said Captain Cameron. "I am yours to command."

Her newly aroused interest in the scenario at present being filmed, was a good thing for Ruth Fielding. Having found nothing at all in the submitted stories that suggested her own lost story, the girl of the Red Mill tried to put aside again the thing that so troubled her mind. And this new interest helped.

In the morning before breakfast she and Tom ran over to the port in the maroon roadster. While they were having breakfast at the inn, Ruth asked the waitress, who was a native of this part of the country, about the Union Church and some of the more intimate life-details of the members of its congregation.

It is not hard to uncover neighborhood gossip of a kind not altogether unkindly in any similar community. The Union Church had a new minister, and he was young. He was now away on his vacation, and more than one local beauty and her match-making mamma would have palpitation of the heart before he returned for fear that the young clergyman would have his heart interests entangled by some designing "foreigner."

Tom had no idea as to what Ruth Fielding was getting at through this questioning of the beaming Hebe who waited on them at breakfast. And he was quite as much in the dark as to his friend's motive when Ruth announced their first visit to be to the office of the Herringport Harpoon, the local news sheet.



Chapter XVII

John, The Hermit's, Contribution


A man with bushy hair, a pencil stuck over his ear, and wearing an ink-stained apron, met them in the office of the Harpoon. This was Ezra Payne, editor and publisher of the weekly news-sheet, and this was his busiest day. The Harpoon, Ruth had learned, usually went into the mails on this day.

"Tut, tut! I see. Is this a joke?" Mr. Payne pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow in uncertainty.

"A whole edition, Miss? Wall, I dunno. I do have hard work selling all the edition some weeks. But I have reg'lar subscribers --  -- "

"This will not interfere with your usual edition of the Harpoon," she hastened to assure him.

"How's that, Miss?"

"I want to buy an edition of one copy."

"One copy!"

"Yes, sir. I want something special printed in one paper. Then you can take it out and print your regular edition."

"Tut, tut! I see. Is this a joke?" Mr. Payne asked, his eyes beginning to twinkle.

"It is the biggest joke you ever heard of," declared Ruth.

"And who's the joke on?"

"Wait and see what I write," Ruth said, sitting down at the battered old desk where he labored over his editorials and proofsheets.

Opening a copy of the last week's Harpoon that lay there, she was able to see the whole face of the paper.

"I've got the inside run off," said Mr. Payne, still doubtfully. "So you can't run anything on the second and third pages."

"Oh, I want the most prominent place for my item," laughed Ruth. "Front page, top column --  --  Here it is!"

He bent over her. Tom stared in wonder, too, as Ruth pointed to an item under a certain heading at the top of the middle column of the front page of the sheet.

"That is just where I want my item to appear," she said briskly to the editor. "You run that -- that department there every week?"

"Oh, yes, Miss. The people expect it. You know how folks are. They look for those items first of all in a country paper."

"Yes. It is so. One of the New York dailies is still printed with that human foible in mind. It caters to this very curiosity that your Harpoon caters to."

"Yes, Miss. You're right. Most folks have the same curiosity, city or country. Shakespeare spoke of the 'seven ages of man'; but there are only three of particular interest -- to womankind, anyway; and they are all here."

"There you go! Slurring the women," she laughed. "Or do you speak compliments?"

"I guess the women have it right," chuckled Mr. Payne. "Now, what is it you want me to print in one paper for you?"

Ruth drew a scratch pad to her and scribbled rapidly for a couple of minutes. Then she passed the page to the newspaper proprietor.

Mr. Payne read it, stared at her, pursed his lips, and then read it again. Suddenly he burst into a cackle of laughter, slapping his thigh in high delight.

"By gravy!" he chortled, "that's a good one on the dominie. By gravy! wait till I tell --  -- "

"Don't you tell anybody, Mr. Payne," interrupted Ruth, smiling, but firmly. "I am buying your secrecy as well as your edition of one copy."

"I get you! I get you!" declared the old fellow. "This is to be on the q.t.?"

"Positively."

"You sit right here. The front page is all made up on the stone, Marriages, Births, Death Notices, and all. I'll set the paragraph and slip it in at the top o' the column. My boy is out, but this young man can help me lift the page into the press. She's all warmed up, and I was going to start printing when Edgar comes back from breakfast."

He grabbed the piece of copy and went off into the printing room, chuckling. Half an hour later the first paper came from the press, and Ruth and Tom bent over it. The item the girl had written was plainly printed in the position she had chosen on the front page of the Harpoon.

"Now, you are to keep still about this," Ruth said, threatening Mr. Payne with a raised finger.

"I don't know a thing about it," he promised, pocketing the bill she took from her purse, and in high good humor over the joke.

Tom helped him take the front page from the press again. The printer unlocked the chase, and removed and distributed the three lines he had set up at Ruth's direction.

The crowd from Beach Plum Point came over in the cars about noontime. Aunt Kate had remained at the inn on this morning, and she and Ruth walked to the "location," which was a beautiful old shaded front yard at the far end of the village.

Helen and Jennie had come with the real actors, and were to appear in the picture. The story related incidents at a Sunday-school picnic, and most of the comedy had already been filmed on the lot.

The scene around the long sewing table under the trees, when the ladies' aid was at work with needle and tongue, should be the principal incident of this reel devoted to the picnic.

The heroine, to the amazement of the village gossips, has run away with the schoolmaster and married him in the next county. A certain character in the picture runs in with this bombshell of news and explodes it in the midst of the group about the sewing table.

The day before this point had failed to make much impression upon the amateur members of the company engaged in this typical scene. The Herringport ladies were not at all interested in such a thing happening to the town's schoolmaster, for to tell the truth the local schoolmaster was an old married man with a house full of children and nothing at all romantic about him.

Ruth took Mr. Hooley aside and showed him the copy of the Harpoon she had had printed, and whispered to him her idea of the change in the action of the scenario. He seized upon the scheme -- and the paper -- with gusto.

"You are a jewel, Miss Fielding!" he declared. "If this doesn't make those old tabbies come to life and act naturally, nothing ever will!"

Ruth left the matter in the director's hands and retired from the location. She had no intention herself of appearing in the picture. She found Mr. Hammond sitting in his automobile in a state of good-humor.

"You seem quite sure that the work will go better to-day, Mr. Hammond," Ruth observed, with curiosity as to the reason for his apparent enjoyment.

"Whether it does or not, Miss Ruth," he responded. "There is something that I fancy is going to be more than a little amusing."

He tapped a package wrapped in a soiled newspaper which lay on the seat beside him. "Thank goodness, I can still enjoy a joke."

"What is the joke? Let me enjoy it, too," she said.

"With the greatest of pleasure. I'll let you read it, if you like -- as you did those other scenarios."

"What! Is it a movie story?" she asked.

"So I am assured. It is the contribution of John, the hermit. He brought it to me just before we started over here this morning. Poor old codger! Just look here, Miss Ruth."

Mr. Hammond turned back the loose covering of the package on the automobile seat. Ruth saw a packet of papers, seemingly of roughly trimmed sheets of wrapping paper and of several sizes. At the top of the upper sheet was the title of the hermit's scenario. It was called "Plain Mary." She glanced down the page, noting that it was written in a large, upright, hand and with an indelible pencil.

Ruth Fielding had not the least idea that she was to take any particular interest in this picture-story. She smiled more because Mr. Hammond seemed so amused than for any other reason. Secretly she thought that most of these moving picture people were rather unkind to the strange old man who lived alone on the seaward side of the Beach Plum Point.

"Want to read it over?" Mr. Hammond asked her. "I would consider it a favor, for I've got to go back and try to catch up with my correspondence. I expect this is worse than those you skimmed through yesterday."

Ruth did not hear him. Suddenly she had seen something that had not at first interested her. She read the first few lines of the opening, and saw nothing in them of importance. It was the writing itself that struck her.

"Why!" she suddenly gasped.

She was reminded of something that she had seen before. This writing --  -- 

"Let me go back to the camp with you, Mr. Hammond," she said, slipping into the seat and taking the packet of written sheets into her lap. "I -- I will look through this scenario, if you like. There is something down there on the Point that I want."

"Sure. Be glad to have your company," he said, letting in his clutch after pushing the starter. "We're off."

Ruth did not speak again just then. With widening eyes she began to devour the first pages of the hermit's manuscript.



Chapter XVIII

Uncertainties


The automobile purred along the shell road, past the white-sided, green-blinded houses of the retired ship captains and the other well-to-do people of Herringport. The car ran so smoothly that Ruth might have read all the way.

But after the first page or two -- those containing the opening scenes of "Plain Mary" -- she dared not read farther.

Not yet. It was not that there was a familiar phrase in the upright chirography of the old hermit. The story merely suggested a familiar situation to Ruth's mind. Thus far it was only a suggestion.

There was something else she felt she must prove or disprove first of all. She sat beside Mr. Hammond quite speechless until they came to the camp on the harbor shore of Beach Plum Point.

He went off cheerfully to his letter writing, and Ruth entered the shack she occupied with Helen and Jennie. She opened her locked writing-case. Under the first flap she inserted her fingers and drew forth the wrinkled scrap of paper she had picked up on the sands.

A glance at the blurred writing assured her that it was the same as that of the hermit's scenario.

"Flash:

"As in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be --  -- "

Shakingly Ruth sat down before the cheap little maple table. She spread open the newspaper wrapper and stared again at the title page of "Plain Mary."

That title was nothing at all like the one she had given her lost scenario. But a title, after all, meant very little.

The several scenes suggested in the beginning of the hermit's story did not conflict with the plot she had evolved, although they were not her own. She had read nothing so far that would make this story different from her own. The names of the characters were changed and the locations for the first scene were different from those in her script. Nevertheless the action and development of the story might prove to be exactly like hers.

She shrank from going deeper into the hermit's script. She feared to find her suspicions true; yet she must know.

Finally she began to read. Page after page of the large and sprawling writing she turned over, face down upon the table. Ruth grew so absorbed in the story that she did not note the passing of time. She was truly aware of but one thing. And that seized upon her mind to wring from it both bitterness and anger.

"Want to go back to the port, Miss Ruth?" asked Mr. Hammond. "I want to mail my letters."

His question startled her. She sprang up, a spot of crimson in either cheek. Had he looked at her, the manager would certainly have noted her strange look.

"I'll come in a minute," she called to him in a half-stifled voice.

She laved her eyes and cheeks in cool water, removing such marks of her emotion as she could. Then she bundled up the hermit's scenario and joined Mr. Hammond in the car.

"Did you look at this?" she asked the producer as he started the motor.

"Bless you, no! What is it? As crazy as the old codger himself?"

"Do you really think that man is crazy?" she asked sharply.

"Why, I don't really know. Just queer perhaps. It doesn't seem as though a sane man would live all stark alone over on that sea-beaten point."

"He is an actor," declared Ruth. "Your director says so."

"At least, he does not claim to be, and they usually do, you know," chuckled Mr. Hammond. "But about this thing --  -- "

"You read it! Then I will tell you something," said the girl soberly, and she refused to explain further.

"You amaze me," said the puzzled manager. "If that old codger has succeeded in turning out anything worth while, I certainly shall believe that 'wonders never cease.'"

"He has got you all fooled. He is a good actor," declared Ruth bitterly. Then, as Mr. Hammond turned a puzzled frown upon her, she added, "Tell me what you think of the script, Mr. Hammond, before you speak to -- er -- John, or whatever his name may be."

"I certainly am curious now," he declared.

They got back to the place where the director had arranged to "shoot" the sewing circle scene just as everything was all set for it. Mother Paisley dominated the half circle of women about the long table under the trees. Ruth marveled at the types Mr. Hooley had found in the village. And she marveled further that any group of human beings could appear so wooden.

"Oh, Ruth!" murmured Helen, who was not in this scene, but was an interested spectator, "they will surely spoil the picture again. Poor Mr. Hooley! He takes such pains."

It was like playing a child's game for most of the members of the Herringport Union congregation. They were selfconscious, and felt that they were in a silly situation. Those who were not too serious of demeanor were giggling like schoolgirls.

Yet everything was ready for the cameras. Mr. Hooley's keen eye ran over all the group. He waved a hand to the camera men.

"Ready camera -- action -- go!"

The women remained speechless. They merely looked at each other in a helpless way. It was evident they had forgotten all the instructions the director had given them.

But suddenly into the focus of the cameras ran a barefooted urchin waving a newspaper. This was the Alectrion Company's smartest "kid" actor and a favorite wherever his tousled head, freckled face, and wide grin appeared on the screen. He plunged right at Mother Paisley and thrust the paper into her hand, while he pointed at a certain place on the front page.

"Read that, Ma Bassett!" cried the news vender.

Mrs. Paisley gave expression first to wonder, then utter amazement, as she read the item Ruth had had inserted in this particular "edition" of the Harpoon. She was a fine old actress and her facial registering of emotion was a marvel. Mr. Hooley had seldom to advise her.

Now his voice was heard above the clack of the cameras:

"Pass it to the lady at your left. That's it! Cling to the paper. Get your heads together -- three of you now!"

The amateur players looked at each other and began to grin. The scene promised to be as big a "fizzle" as the one shot the previous day.

But the woman next to Mrs. Paisley, after looking carelessly at the paper, of a sudden came to life. She seized the Harpoon with both hands, fairly snatching it out of the actress' hands. She was too startled to be polite.

"What under the canopy is this here?" she sputtered.

She was a small, wiry, vigorous woman, and she had an expressive, if a vinegary, face. She rose from her seat and forgot all about her "play-acting."

"What d'you think it says here?" she demanded of her sister-members of the ladies' aid.

"Sh!"

"Ella Painter, you're a-bustin' up the show!" admonished a motherly old person at the end of the table.

But Mrs. Painter did not notice these hushed remarks. She read the item in the paper aloud -- and so extravagantly did she mouth the astonishing words that Ruth feared they might be read on her lips when shown on the screen.

"Listen!" Mrs. Painter cried. "Right at the top of the marriage notices! 'Garside -- Smythe. At Perleyvale, Maine, on August twenty-second, the Reverend Elton Garside, of Herringport, and Miss Amy Smythe, of Perleyvale.' What do you know about that?"

The gasp of amazement that went up from the women of the Herringport Union Church was almost a chorus of anguish. The paper was snatched from hand to hand. Nobody could accuse the amateurs now of being "wooden."

Not until Mrs. Paisley in the character of Ma Bassett, at the signal from Mr. Hooley, fell back in her chair, exclaiming: "My mercy me! Luella Sprague and the teacher! Who'd have thought it?" did the company in general suspect that something had been "put over on them."

"All right! All right!" shouted Jim Hooley in high delight, stopping his camera men. "That's fine! It's great! Miss Fielding, your scheme worked like a charm."

The members of the sewing circle began to ask questions.

"Do you mean to say this is in the play?" demanded Mrs. Ella Painter, waving the newspaper and inclined to be indignant.

"Yes, Mrs. Painter. That marriage notice is just a joke," the director told her. "It certainly gave you ladies a start and --  --  Well, wait till you see this scene on the screen!"

"But ain't it so?" cried another. "Why, Mr. Garside --  --  Why! it's in the Harpoon."

"But you won't find it in another Harpoon," laughed the director, recovering possession of the newspaper. "It's only a joke. But I positively had to give you ladies a real shock or we'd never have got this scene right."

"Well, of all the impudence!" began Mrs. Painter.

However, she joined in the laughter a minute later. At best, the women had won from Mr. Hammond enough money to pay for the painting of their church edifice, and they were willing to sacrifice their dignity for that.



Chapter XIX

Counterclaims


"I declare, Ruth! that was a ridiculous thing to do," exclaimed Helen, when they were on their way back to the Point. "But it certainly brought the sewing circle women all up standing."

"I've been wondering all day what Ruth was up to," said Tom, who was steering the big car. "I was in on it without understanding her game."

"Well, it was just what the directer needed," chuckled Jennie. "Oh, it takes our Ruth to do things."

"I wonder?" sighed the girl of the Red Mill, in no responsive mood.

She had something very unpleasant before her that she felt she must do, and nothing could raise her spirits. She did not speak to anybody about the hermit's scenario. She waited for Mr. Hammond to express his opinion of it.

At the camp she found a letter for her from the doctor's wife who had promised to keep her informed regarding Arabella Montague Fitzmaurice Pike. That young person was doing well and getting fat at the Perkins' farm. But Mrs. Holmes was quite sure that she had not heard from her father.

"You've got another half-orphan on your hands, Ruth," said Helen. She made it a point always to object to Ruth's charities. "I don't believe that man will ever show up again. If he went away with a medicine show --  -- "

"No, no," said Ruth firmly. "No child would ever respect and love her father as Bella does if he was not good to her. He will turn up."

Just then Tom called from outside the door of the girls' shack.

"What say to a moonlight dip off the Point?" he asked. "The tide is not very low. And I missed my splash this morning."

"We're with you, Tommy," responded his sister. "Wait till we get into bathing suits."

Even Ruth was enthusiastic -- to a degree -- over this. In twenty minutes they were running up the beach with Tom and Henri toward the end of the Point.

"Let's go over and get the surf," suggested Jennie. "I do love surf bathing. All you have to do is to bob up and down in one place."

"Heavy is lazy even in her sport," scoffed Helen. "But I'm game for the rough stuff."

They crossed the neck of land near the hermit's hut. There was a hard beach almost in front of the hut, and up this the breakers rolled and foamed delightfully. The so-called hermit, hearing their voices, came out and sat on a rock to watch them. But he did not offer to speak until Ruth went over to him.

"Mr. Hammond let me read your script, John," she said coldly.

"Indeed?" he rejoined without emotion.

"Where did you get the idea for that scenario?"

He tapped his head with a long forefinger. "Right inside of that skull. I do my own thinking," he said.

"You did not have any help about it? You originated the idea of 'Plain Mary?'"

He nodded. "You ain't the only person who can write a picture," he observed. "And I think that this one they are filming for you is silly."

Ruth stared down at him, but said nothing more. She was ready to go back to camp as soon as the others would, and she remained very silent. Mr. Hammond had been asking for her, Miss Loder said. When Ruth had got into something more presentable than a wet bathing suit, she went to his office.

"What do you know about this?" he demanded in plain amazement. "This story the old man gave me to read is a wonder! It is one of the best ideas I ever saw for the screen. Of course, it needs fixing up a bit, but it's great! What did you think of it, Miss Ruth?"

"I am glad you like it, Mr. Hammond," she said, steadying her voice with difficulty.

"I do like it, I assure you."

"It is my story, Mr. Hammond!" she exclaimed. "It is the very scenario that was stolen from me at home. He's just changed the names of the characters and given it a different title, and spoiled some of the scenes. But a large part of it is copied word for word from my manuscript!"

"Miss Fielding!" gasped the president of the Alectrion Film Corporation.

"I am telling you the truth," Ruth cried, rather wildly, it must be confessed, and then she broke down and wept.

"My goodness! It can't be possible! You -- you've let your mind dwell upon your loss so much --  -- "

"Do you think I am crazy?" she demanded, flaring up at him, her anger drying her tears.

"Certainly not," he returned gently; yet he looked at her oddly. "But mistakes have been made --  -- "

"Mistakes, indeed! It is no mistake when I recognize my own work."

"But -- but how could this old man have stolen your work -- and away back there at the Red Mill? I believe he has lived here on the Point for years. At least, every summer."

"Then somebody else stole it and he got the script from them. I tell you it is mine!" cried Ruth.

"Miss Fielding! Let us be calm --  -- "

"You would not be calm if you discovered somebody trying to make use of something you had originated, and calling it theirs -- no you wouldn't, Mr. Hammond!"

"But it seems impossible," he said weakly.

"That old man is an actor -- an old-school actor. You can see that easily enough," she declared. "There was such a person about the Red Mill the day my script was lost. Oh, it's plain enough."

"Not so plain, Miss Ruth," said Mr. Hammond firmly. "And you must not make wild accusations. That will do no good -- and may do harm in the end. It does not seem probable to me that this old hermit could have actually stolen your story. A longshore character like him --  -- "

"He's not!" cried Ruth. "Don't you see that he is playing a part? He is no fisherman. No longshore character, as you call him, would be as afraid of the sea as he is. He is playing a part -- and he plays it just as well as the parts Mr. Hooley gives him to play."

"Jove! There may be something in that," murmured the manager.

"He got my script some way, I tell you!" declared Ruth. "I am not going to let anybody maul my story and put it over as his own. No, sir!"

"But -- but, Miss Ruth!" exclaimed Mr. Hammond. "How are you going to prove what you say is true?"

"Prove it?"

"Yes. You see, the burden of proof must be on you."

"But -- but don't you believe me?" she murmured.

"Does it matter what I believe?" he asked her gently. "Remember, this man has entrusted me with a manuscript that he says is original. At least it is written in his own hand. I cannot go back of that unless you have some means of proof that his story is your story. Who did you tell about your plot, and how you worked it out? Did you read the finished manuscript -- or any part of it -- to any person who can corroborate your statements?"

"Oh, Mr. Hammond!" she cried, with sudden anguish in her voice. "Not a soul! Never to a single, solitary person. The girls, nor Aunt Alvirah, nor Tom --  -- "

She broke down again and he could not soothe her. She wept with abandon, and Mr. Hammond was really anxious for her. He went to the door, whistled for one of the boys, and sent for Mrs. Paisley.

But Ruth recovered her composure -- to a degree, at least -- before the motherly old actress came.

"Don't tell anybody! Don't tell anybody!" she sobbed to Mr. Hammond. "They will think I am crazy! I haven't a word of proof. Only my word --  -- "

"Against his," said the manager gravely. "I would accept your word, Miss Ruth, against the world! But we must have some proof before we deliberately accuse this old man of robbing you."

"Yes, yes. I see. I will be patient -- if I can."

"The thing to do is to find out who this hermit really is," said Mr. Hammond. "Through discovering his private history we may put our finger on the thing that will aid you with proof. Good-night, my dear. Try to get calm again."



Chapter XX

The Grill


Ruth did not go back to her chums until, under Mother Paisley's comforting influence, she had recovered a measure of her self-possession. The old actress asked no questions as to the cause of Ruth's state of mind. She had seen too many hysterical girls to feel that the cause of her patient's breakdown was at all important.

"You just cry all you want to, deary. Right here on Mother Paisley's shoulder. Crying will do you good. It is the Good Lord's way of giving us women an outlet for all our troubles. When the last tear is squeezed out much of the pain goes with it."

Ruth was not ordinarily a crying girl. She had wept more of late, beginning with that day at the Red Mill when her scenario manuscript had been stolen, than in all her life before.

Her tears were now in part an expression of anger and indignation. She was as mad as she could be at this man who called himself "John, the hermit." For, whether he was the person who had actually stolen her manuscript, he very well knew that his scenario offered to Mr. Hammond was not original with him.

The worst of it was, he had mangled her scenario. Ruth could look upon it in no other way. His changes had merely muddied the plot and cheapened her main idea. She could not forgive that!

The other girls were drowsy when Ruth kissed Mother Paisley good-night and entered the small shack. She was glad to escape any interrogation. By morning she had gained control of herself, but her eyes betrayed the fact that she had not slept.

"You certainly do not look as though you were enjoying yourself down here," Tom Cameron said to her at breakfast time, and with suspicion. "Maybe we did come to the wrong place for our vacation after all. How about it, Ruth? Shall we start off in the cars again and seek pastures new?"

"Not now, Tom," she told him, hastily. "I must stay right here."

"Why?"

"Because --  -- "

"That is no sensible reason."

"Let me finish," she said rather crossly. "Because I must see what sort of scenario Mr. Hammond finds -- if he finds any -- in this contest."

"Humph! And you said you and scenarios were done forever! I fancy Mr. Hammond is taking advantage of your good nature."

"He is not."

"You are positively snappish, Ruth," complained Tom. "You've changed your mind --  -- "

"Isn't that a girl's privilege?"

"Very well, Miladi!" he said, with a deep bow as they rose from the table. "However, you need not give all your attention to these prize stories, need you? Let's do something besides follow these sun-worshippers around to-day."

"All right, Tommy-boy," acclaimed his sister. "What do you suggest?"

"A run along the coast to Reef Harbor where there are a lot of folks we know," Tom promptly replied.

"Not in that old Tocsin," cried Jennie. "She's so small I can't take off my sweater without tipping her over."

"Oh, what a whopper!" gasped Helen.

"Never mind," grinned her twin. "Let Jennie run to the superlatives if she likes. Anyway, I would not dream of going so far as the Harbor in that dinky little Tocsin. I've got my eye on just the craft, and I can get her over here in an hour by telephoning to the port. It's the Stazy."

"Goody!" exclaimed Jennie Stone. "That big blue yacht! And she's got a regular crew -- and everything. Aunty won't be afraid to go with us in her."

"That's fine, Tom," said his sister with appreciation.

Even Ruth seemed to take some interest. But she suggested:

"Be sure there is gasoline enough, Tom. That Stazy doesn't spread a foot of canvas, and we are not likely to find a gas station out there in the ocean, the way we did in the hills of Massachusetts."

"Don't fear, Miss Fidget," he rejoined. "Are you all game?"

They were. The girls went to "doll up," to quote the slangy Tom, for Reef Harbor was one of the most fashionable of Maine coast resorts and the knockabout clothing they had been wearing at Beach Plum Point would never do at the Harbor hotels.

The Stazy was a comfortable and fast motor-yacht. As to her sea-worthiness even Tom could not say, but she looked all right. And to the eyes of the members of Ruth Fielding's party there was no threat of bad weather. So why worry about the pleasure-craft's balance and her ability to sail the high seas?

"It is only a short run, anyway," Tom said.

As for Colonel Marchand, he had not the first idea about ships or sailing. He admitted that only continued fair weather and a smooth sea had kept him on deck coming over from France with Jennie and Helen.

At the present time he and Jennie Stone were much too deeply engrossed in each other to think of anything but their own two selves. In a fortnight now, both the Frenchman and Tom would have to return to the battle lines. And they were, deep in their hearts, eager to go back; for they did not dream at this time that the German navy would revolt, that the High Command and the army had lost their morale, and that the end of the Great War was near.

Within Tom's specified hour the party got under way, boarding the Stazy from a small boat that came to the camp dock for them. It was not until the yacht was gone with Ruth Fielding and her party that Mr. Hammond set on foot the investigation he had determined upon the night before.

The president of the Alectrion Film Corporation thought a great deal of the girl of the Red Mill. Their friendship was based on something more than a business association. But he knew, too, that after her recent experiences in France and elsewhere, her health was in rather a precarious state.

At least, he was quite sure that Ruth's nerves were "all out of tune," as he expressed it, and he believed she was not entirely responsible for what she had said.

The girl had allowed her mind to dwell so much upon that scenario she had lost that it might be she was not altogether clear upon the subject. Mr. Hammond had talked with Tom about the robbery at the Red Mill, and it looked to the moving picture producer as though there might be some considerable doubt of Ruth's having been robbed at all.

In that terrific wind and rain storm almost anything might have blown away. Tom admitted he had seen a barrel sailing through the air at the height of the storm.

"Why couldn't the papers and note books have been caught up by a gust of wind and carried into the river?" Mr. Hammond asked himself. "The river was right there, and it possesses a strong current."

The president of the Alectrion Film Corporation knew the Lumano, and the vicinity of the Red Mill as well. It seemed to him very probable that the scenario had been lost. And the gold-mounted fountain pen? Why, that might have easily rolled down a crack in the summer-house floor.

The whole thing was a matter so fortuitous that Mr. Hammond could not accept Ruth's version of the loss without some doubt, in any case. And then, her suddenly finding in the only good scenario submitted to him by any of his company, one that she believed was plagiarized from her lost story, seemed to put a cap on the whole matter. Ruth might be just a little "off soundings," as the fishermen about Herringport would say. Mr. Hammond was afraid that she had been carried into a situation of mind where suspicion took the place of certainty.

She had absolutely nothing with which to corroborate her statement. Nobody had seen Ruth's scenario nor had she discussed the plot with any person. Secrecy necessary to the successful production of anything new in the line of picture plays was all right. Mr. Hammond advised it. But in this case it seemed that the scenario writer had been altogether too secret.

Had Ruth not chanced to read the hermit's script before making her accusation, Mr. Hammond would have felt differently. Better, had she been willing to relate to him in the first place the story of the plot of her scenario and how she had treated it, her present accusation might have seemed more reasonable.

But, having read the really good story scrawled on the scraps of brown paper that John, the hermit, had put in the manager's hands, the girl had suddenly claimed the authorship of the story. There was nothing to prove her claim. It looked dubious at the best.

John, the hermit, was a grim old man. No matter whether he was some old actor hiding away here on Beach Plum Point or not, he was not a man to give up easily anything that he had once said was his.

The manager was far too wise to accuse the hermit openly, as Ruth had accused him. They would not get far with the old fellow that way, he was sure.

First of all he called the company together and asked if there were any more scenarios to be submitted. "No," being the answer, he told them briefly that out of the twenty-odd stories he had accepted one that might be whipped into shape for filming -- and one only.

Each story submitted had been numbered and the number given to its author. The scripts could now be obtained by the presentation of the numbers. He did not tell them which number had proved successful. Nor did he let it be known that he proposed to try to film the hermit's production.

Mr. Hooley was using old John on this day in a character part. For these "types" the director usually paid ten or fifteen dollars a day; but John was so successful in every part he was given that Mr. Hooley always paid him an extra five dollars for his work. Money seemed to make no difference in the hermit's appearance, however. He wore just as shabby clothing and lived just as plainly as he had when the picture company had come on to the lot.

When work was over for the day, Hooley sent the old man to Mr. Hammond's office. The president of the company invited the hermit into his shack and gave him a seat. He scrutinized the man sharply as he thus greeted him. It was quite true that the hermit did not wholly fit the character he assumed as a longshore waif.

In the first place, his skin was not tanned to the proper leathery look. His eyes were not those of a man used to looking off over the sea. His hands were too soft and unscarred for a sailor's. He had never pulled on ropes and handled an oar!

Now that Ruth Fielding had suggested that his character was a disguise, Mr. Hammond saw plainly that she must be right. As he was a good actor of other parts before the camera, so he was a good actor in his part of "hermit."

"How long have you lived over there on the point, John?" asked Mr. Hammond carelessly.

"A good many years, sir, in summer."

"How did you come to live there first?"

"I wandered down this way, found the hut empty, turned to and fixed it up, and stayed on."

He said it quite simply and without the first show of confusion. But this tale of his occupancy of the seaside hut he had repeated frequently, as Mr. Hammond very well knew.

"Where do you go in the winter, John?" the latter asked.

"To where it's a sight warmer. I don't have to ask anybody where I shall go," and now the man's tone was a trifle defiant.

"I would like to know something more about you," Mr. Hammond said, quite frankly. "I may be able to do something with your story. We like to know about the person who submits a scenario --  -- "

"That don't go!" snapped the hermit grimly. "You offered five hundred for a story you could use. If you can use mine, I want the five hundred. And I don't aim to give you the history of my past along with the story. It's nobody's business what or who I am, or where I came from, or where I am going."

"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed Mr. Hammond. "You are quite sudden, aren't you? Now, just calm yourself. I haven't got to take your scenario and pay you five hundred dollars for it --  -- "

"Then somebody else will," said the hermit, getting up.

"Ah! You are quite sure you have a good story here, are you?"

"I know I have."

"And how do you know so much?" sharply demanded the moving picture magnate.

"I've seen enough of this thing you are doing, now -- this 'Seaside Idyl' stuff -- to know that mine is a hundred per cent. better," sneered the hermit.

"Whew! You've a good opinion of your story, haven't you?" asked Mr. Hammond. "Did you ever write a scenario before?"

"What is that to you?" returned the other. "I don't get you at all, Mr. Hammond. All this cross-examination --  -- "

"That will do now!" snapped the manager. "I am not obliged to take your story. You can try it elsewhere if you like," and he shoved the newspaper-wrapped package toward the end of his desk and nearer the hermit's hand. "I tell you frankly that I won't take any story without knowing all about the author. There are too many comebacks in this game."

"What do you mean?" demanded the other stiffly.

"I don't know that your story is original. Frankly, I have some doubt about that very point."

The old man did not change color at all. His gray eyes blazed and he was not at all pleasant looking. But the accusation did not seem to surprise him.

"Are you trying to get it away from me for less than you offered?" he demanded.

"You are an old man," said Mr. Hammond hotly, "and that lets you get away with such a suggestion as that without punishment. I begin to believe that there is something dead wrong with you, John -- or whatever your name is."

He drew back the packet of manuscript, opened a drawer, put it within, and locked the drawer.

"I'll think this over a little longer," he said grimly. "At least, until you are willing to be a little more communicative about yourself. I would be glad to use your story with some fixing up, if I was convinced you really wrote it all. But you have got to show me -- or give me proper references."

"Give me back the scenario, then!" exclaimed the old man, his eyes blazing hotly.

"No. Not yet. I can take my time in deciding upon the manuscripts submitted in this contest. You will have to wait until I decide," said Mr. Hammond, waving the man out of his office.



Chapter XXI

A Hermit For Revenue Only


The bays and inlets of the coast of Maine have the bluest water dotted by the greenest islands that one can imagine. And such wild and romantic looking spots as some of these islands are!

Just at this time, too, a particular tang of romance was in the air. The Germans had threatened to devastate our Atlantic coast from Eastport to Key West with a flock of submersibles. There actually were a few submarines lurking about the pathways of our coastwise shipping; but, as usual, the Hun's boast came to naught.

The young people on the Stazy scarcely expected to see a German periscope during the run to Reef Harbor. Yet they did not neglect watching out for something of the kind. Skipper Phil Gordon, a young man with one arm but a full and complete knowledge of this coast and how to coax speed out of a gasoline engine, ordered his "crew" of one boy to remain sharply on the lookout, as well.

The Stazy did not, however, run far outside. The high and rocky headland that marked the entrance to Reef Harbor came into view before they had more than dropped the hazy outline of Beach Plum Point astern.

But until they rounded the promontory and entered the narrow inlet to Reef Harbor the town and the summer colony was entirely invisible.

"If a German sub should stick its nose in here," sighed Helen, "it would make everybody ashore get up and dust. Don't you think so?"

"Is it the custom to do so when the enemy, he arrive?" asked Colonel Marchand, to whom the idiomatic speech of the Yankee was still a puzzle.

"Sure!" replied Tom, grinning. "Sure, Henri! These New England women would clean house, no matter what catastrophe arrived."

"Oh, don't suggest such horrid possibilities," cried Jennie. "And they are only fooling you, Henri."

"Look yonder!" exclaimed Captain Tom, waving an instructive hand. "Behold! Let the Kaiser's underseas boat come. That little tin lizzie of the sea is ready for it. Depth bombs and all!"

The grim looking drab submarine chaser lay at the nearest dock, the faint spiral of smoke rising from her stack proclaiming that she was ready for immediate work. There was a tower, too, on the highest point on the headland from which a continual watch was kept above the town.

"O-o-oh!" gurgled Jennie, snuggling up to Henri. "Suppose one of those German subs shelled the movie camp back there on Beach Plum Point!"

"They would likely spoil a perfectly good picture, then," said Helen practically. "Think of Ruthie's 'Seaside Idyl!'.

"Oh, say!" Helen went on. "They tell me that old hermit has submitted a story in the contest. What do you suppose it is like, Ruth?"

The girl of the Red Mill was sitting beside Aunt Kate. She flushed when she said:

"Why shouldn't he submit one?"

"But that hermit isn't quite right in his head, is he?" demanded Ruth's chum.

"I don't know that it is his head that is wrong," murmured Ruth, shaking her own head doubtfully.

Here Jennie broke in. "Is auntie letting you read her story, Ruth?" she asked slyly.

"Now, Jennie Stone!" exclaimed their chaperon, blushing.

"Well, you are writing one. You know you are," laughed her niece.

"I -- I am just trying to see if I can write such a story," stammered Aunt Kate.

"Well, I am sure you could make up a better scenario than that old grouch of a hermit," Helen declared, warmly.

Ruth did not add anything to this discussion. What she had discovered regarding the hermit's scenario was of too serious a nature to be publicly discussed.

Her interview the evening before with Mr. Hammond regarding the matter had left Ruth in a most uncertain frame of mind. She did not know what to do about the stolen scenario. She shrank from telling even Helen or Tom of her discovery.

To tell the truth, Mr. Hammond's seeming doubt -- not of her truthfulness but of her wisdom -- had shaken the girl's belief in herself. It was a strange situation, indeed. She thought of the woman she had found wandering about the mountain in the storm who had lost control of both her nerves and her mind, and Ruth wondered if it could be possible that she, too, was on the verge of becoming a nervous wreck.

Had she deceived herself about this hermit's story? Had she allowed her mind to dwell on her loss until she was quite unaccountable for her mental decisions? To tell the truth, this thought frightened the girl of the Red Mill a little.

Practical as Ruth Fielding ordinarily was, she must confess that the shock she had received when the hospital in France was partly wrecked, an account of which is given in "Ruth Fielding Homeward Bound," had shaken the very foundations of her being. She shuddered even now when she thought of what she had been through in France and on the voyage coming back to America.

She realized that even Tom and Helen looked at her sometimes when she spoke of her lost scenario in a most peculiar way. Was it a fact that she had allowed her loss to unbalance -- well, her judgment? Suppose she was quite wrong about that scenario the hermit had submitted to Mr. Hammond? The thought frightened her!

At least, she had nothing to say upon the puzzling subject, not even to her best and closest friends. She was sorry indeed two hours later when they were at lunch on the porch of the Reef Harbor House with some of the Camerons' friends that Helen brought the conversation around again to the Beach Plum Point "hermit."

"A real hermit?" cried Cora Grimsby, a gay, blonde, irresponsible little thing, but with a heart of gold. "And is he a hermit for revenue only, too?"

"What do you mean by that?" Helen demanded.

"Why, we have a hermit here, you see. Over on Reef Island itself. If you give us a sail in your motor yacht after lunch I'll introduce our hermit to you. But you must buy something of him, or otherwise 'cross his palm with silver.' He told me one day that he was not playing a nut for summer folks to laugh at just for the good of his health."

"Frank, I must say," laughed Tom Cameron.

"I guess he's been in the hermit business before," said Cora, sparkling at Tom in his uniform. "But this is his first season at the Harbor."

"I wonder if he belongs to the hermit's union and carries a union card," suggested Jennie Stone soberly. "I don't think we should patronize non-union hermits."

"Goody!" cried Cora, clapping her hands. "Let's ask him."

Ruth said nothing. She rather wished she might get out of the trip to Reef Island without offending anybody. But that seemed impossible. She really had seen all the hermits she cared to see!

She could not, however, be morose and absent-minded in a party of which Cora Grimsby and Jennie Stone were the moving spirits. It was a gay crowd that crossed the harbor in the Stazy to land at a roughly built dock under the high bluff of the wooded island.

"There's the hermit!" Cora cried, as they landed. "See him sitting on the rock before the door of his cabin?"

"Right on the job," suggested Tom.

"No unlucky city fly shall escape that spider's web," cried Jennie.

He was a patriarchal looking man. His beard swept his breast. He wore shabby garments, was barefooted, and carried a staff as though he were lame or rheumatic.

"Dresses the part much better than our hermit does," Helen said, in comment.

The man met the party from the Stazy with a broad smile that displayed a toothless cavity of a mouth. His red-rimmed eyes were moist looking, not to say bleary. Ruth smelled a distinct alcoholic odor on his breath. A complete drouth had evidently not struck this part of the State of Maine.

"Good day to ye!" said the hermit. "Some o' you young folks I ain't never seed before."

"They are my friends," Cora hastened to explain, "and they come from Beach Plum Point."

"Do tell! If you air goin' back to-night, better make a good v'y'ge of it. We're due for a blow, I allow. You folks ain't stoppin' right on the p'int, be ye?"

Ruth, to whom he addressed this last question, answered that they were, and explained that there was a large camp there this season, and why.

"Wal, wal! I want to know! Somebody did say something to me about a gang of movin' picture folks comin' there; but I reckoned they was a-foolin' me."

"There is a good sized party of us," acknowledged Ruth.

"Wal, wal! Mebbe that fella I let my shack to will make out well, then, after all. Warn't no sign of ye on the beach when I left three weeks ago".

"Did you live there on the point?" asked Ruth.

"Allus do winters. But the pickin's is better over here at the Harbor at this time of year."

"And the man you left in your place? Where is your house on the point?"

The hermit "for revenue only" described the hut on the eastern shore in which the other "hermit" lived. Ruth became much interested.

"Tell me," she said, while the others examined the curios the hermit had for sale, "what kind of man is this you left in your house? And who is he?"

"Law bless ye!" said the old man. "I don't know him from Adam's off ox. Never seed him afore. But he was trampin' of it; and he didn't have much money. An' to tell you the truth, Miss, that hutch of mine ain't wuth much money."

She described the man who had been playing the hermit since the Alectrion Film Corporation crowd had come to Beach Plum Point.

"That's the fella," said the old man, nodding.

Ruth stood aside while he waited on his customers and digested these statements regarding the man who claimed the authorship of the scenario of "Plain Mary."

Not that Ruth would have desired to acknowledge the scenario in its present form. She felt angry every time she thought of how her plot had been mangled.

But she was glad to learn all that was known about the Beach Plum Point hermit. And she had learned one most important fact.

He was not a regular hermit. As Jennie Stone suggested, he was not a "union hermit" at all. And he was a stranger to the neighborhood of Herringport. If he had been at the Point only three weeks, as this old man said, "John, the hermit," might easily have come since Ruth's scenario was stolen back there at the Red Mill!

Her thoughts began to mill again about this possibility. She wished she was back at the camp so as to put the strange old man through a cross-examination regarding himself and where he had come from. She had no suspicion as to how Mr. Hammond had so signally failed in this very matter.



Chapter XXII

An Arrival


Mr. Hammond was in no placid state of mind himself after the peculiarly acting individual who called himself "John, the hermit," left his office. The very fact that the man refused to tell anything about his personal affairs -- who he really was, or where he came from -- induced the moving picture producer to believe there must be something wrong about him.

Mr. Hammond went to the door of the shack and watched the man tramping up the beach toward the end of the point. What a dignified stride he had! Rather, it was the stride of a poseur -- like nothing so much as that of the old-time tragedian, made famous by the Henry Irving school of actors.

"An ancient 'ham' sure enough, just as the boys say," muttered the manager.

The so-called hermit disappeared. The moving picture people were gathering for dinner. The sun, although still above the horizon, was dimmed by cloud-banks which were rising steadily to meet clouds over the sea.

A wan light played upon the heaving "graybacks" outside the mouth of the harbor. The wind whined among the pines which grew along the ridge of Beach Plum Point.

A storm was imminent. Just as Mr. Hammond took note of this and wished that Ruth Fielding and her party had returned, a snorting automobile rattled along the shell road and halted near the camp.

"Is this the Alectrion Film Company?" asked a shrill voice.

"This is the place, Miss," said the driver of the small car.

The chauffeur ran his jitney from the railroad station and was known to Mr. Hammond. The latter went nearer.

Out of the car stepped a girl -- a very young girl to be traveling alone. She was dressed in extreme fashion, but very cheaply. Her hair was bobbed and she wore a Russian blouse of cheap silk. Her skirt was very narrow, her cloth boots very high, and the heels of them were like those of Jananese clogs.

What with the skimpy skirt and the high heels she could scarcely walk. She was laden with two bags -- one an ancient carpet-bag that must have been seventy-five years old, and the other a bright tan one of imitation leather with brass clasps. She wore a coal-scuttle hat pulled down over her eyes so that her face was quite extinguished.

Altogether her get-up was rather startling. Mr. Hammond saw Jim Hooley come out of his tent to stare at the new arrival. She certainly was a "type."

There was a certain kind of prettiness about the girl, and aside from her incongruous garments she was not unattractive -- when her face was revealed. Mr. Hammond's interest increased. He approached the spot where the girl had been left by the jitney driver.

"You came to see somebody?" he asked kindly. "Who is it you wish to see?"

"Is this the moving picture camp, Mister?" she returned.

"Yes," said the manager, smiling. "Are you acquainted with somebody who works here?"

"Yes. I am Arabella Montague Fitzmaurice," said the girl, with an air that seemed to show that she expected to be recognized when she had recited her name.

Mr. Hammond refrained from open laughter. He only said:

"Why -- that is nice. I am glad to meet you, my dear. Who are you looking for?"

"I want to see my pa, of course. I guess you know who he is?"

"I am not sure that I do, my dear."

"You don't -- Say! who are you?" demanded Bella, with some sharpness.

"I am only the manager of the company. Who is your father, child?"

"Well, of all the --  --  Wouldn't that give you your nevergitovers!" exclaimed Bella, in broad amazement. "Say! I guess my pa is your leading man."

"Mr. Hasbrouck? Impossible!"

"Never heard of him," said Bella, promptly. "Montague Fitzmaurice, I mean."

"And I never heard of him," declared Mr. Hammond, both puzzled and amused.

"What?" gasped the girl, almost stunned by this statement. "Maybe you know him as Mr. Pike. That is our honest-to-goodness name -- Pike."

"I am sorry that you are disappointed, my dear," said the manager kindly. "But don't be worried. If you expected to meet your father here, perhaps he will come later. But really, I have no such person as that on my staff at the present time."

"I don't know --  --  Why!" cried Bella, "he sent me money and said he was working here. I -- I didn't tell him I was coming. I just got sick of those Perkinses, and I took the money and went to Boston and got dressed up, and then came on here. I -- I just about spent all the money he sent me to get here."

"Well, that was perhaps unwise," said Mr. Hammond. "But don't worry. Come along now to Mother Paisley. She will look out for you -- and you can stay with us until your father appears. There is some mistake somewhere."

By this speech he warded off tears. Bella hastily winked them back and squared her thin shoulders.

"All right, sir," she said, picking up the bags again. "Pa will make it all right with you. He wrote in his letter as if he had a good engagement."

Mr. Hammond might have learned something further about this surprising girl at the time, but just as he introduced her to Mother Paisley one of the men came running from the point and hailed him:

"Mr. Hammond! There's a boat in trouble off the point. I think she was making for this harbor. Have you got a pair of glasses?"

Mr. Hammond had a fine pair of opera glasses, and he produced them from his desk while he asked:

"What kind of boat is it, Maxwell?"

"Looks like that blue motor that Miss Fielding and her friends went off in this morning. We saw it coming along at top speed. And suddenly it stopped. They can't seem to manage it --  -- "

The manager hurried with Maxwell along the sands. The sky was completely overcast now, and the wind whipped the spray from the wave tops into their faces. The weather looked dubious indeed, and the manager of the film corporation was worried before even he focused his glasses upon the distant motor-boat.



Chapter XXIII

Trouble -- Plenty


Even Ruth Fielding had paid no attention to the warning of the Reef Island hermit regarding a change in the weather, in spite of the fact that she was anxious to return to the camp near Herringport. It was not until the Stazy was outside the inlet late in the afternoon that Skipper Phil Gordon noted the threatening signs in sea and sky.

"That's how it goes," the one-armed mariner said. "When we aren't dependent on the wind to fill our canvas, we neglect watching every little weather change. She's going to blow by and by."

"Do you think it will be a real storm?" asked Ruth, who sat beside him at the steering wheel and engine, watching how he managed the mechanism.

"Maybe. But with good luck we will make Beach Plum Point long before it amounts to anything."

The long graybacks were rather pleasant to ride over at first. Even Aunt Kate was not troubled by the prospect. It was so short a run to the anchorage behind the Point that nobody expressed fear.

When the spray began to fly over the bows the girls merely squealed a bit, although they hastily found extra wraps. If the Stazy plunged and shipped half a sea now and then, nobody was made anxious. And soon the Point was in plain view.

To make the run easier, however, Skipper Gordon had sailed the motor-yacht well out to sea. When he shifted the helm to run for the entrance to the bay, the waves began to slap against the Stazy's side. She rolled terrifically and the aspect of affairs was instantly changed.

"Oh, dear me!" moaned Jennie Stone. "How do you feel, Henri? I did not bargain for this rough stuff, did you? Oh!"

"'Mister Captain, stop the ship, I want to get off and walk!'" sang Helen gaily. "Don't lose all hope, Heavy. You'll never sink if you do go overboard."

"Isn't she mean?" sniffed the plump girl. "And I am only afraid for Henri's sake."

"I don't like this for my own sake," murmured Aunt Kate.

"Are you cold, dear?" her niece asked, with quick sympathy. "Here! I don't really need this cape with my heavy sweater."

She removed the heavy cloth garment from her own shoulders and with a flirt sought to place it around Aunt Kate. The wind swooped down just then with sudden force. The Stazy rolled to leeward.

"Oh! Stop it!"

Bulging under pressure of the wind, the cape flew over the rail. Jennie tried to clutch it again; Henri plunged after it, too. Colliding, the two managed between them to miss the garment altogether. It dropped into the water just under the rail.

"Of all the clumsy fingers!" ejaculated Helen. But she could not seize the wrap, although she darted for it. Nor could Ruth help, she being still farther forward.

"Now, you've done it!" complained Aunt Kate.

The boat began to rise on another roller. The cape was sucked out of sight under the rail. The next moment the whirling propeller was stopped -- so abruptly that the Stazy shook all over.

"Oh! what has happened?" shrieked Helen.

Ruth started up, and Tom seized her arm to steady her. But the girl of the Red Mill did not express any fear. The shock did not seem to affect her so much as it did the other girls. Here was a real danger, and Ruth did not lose her self-possession.

Phil Gordon had shut off the power, and the motor-boat began to swing broadside to the rising seas.

"The propeller is broken!" cried Tom.

"She's jammed. That cape!" gasped the one-armed skipper. "Here! Tend to this till I see what can be done. Jack!" he shouted to his crew. "This way -- lively, now!"

But Ruth slipped into his place before Tom could do so.

"I know how to steer, Tommy," she declared. "And I understand the engine. Give him a hand if he needs you."

"Oh, we'll turn turtle!" shrieked Jennie, as the boat rolled again.

"You'll never become a turtle, Jen," declared Tom, plunging aft. "Turtles are dumb!"

The Stazy was slapped by a big wave, "just abaft the starboard bow," to be real nautical, and half a ton of sea-water washed over the forward deck and spilled into the standing-room of the craft.

Henri had wisely closed the door of the cabin. The water foamed about their feet. Ruth found herself knee deep for a moment in this flood. She whirled the wheel over, trying to bring up the head of the craft to meet the next wave.

"Oh, my dear!" groaned Jennie Stone. "We are going to be drowned."

"Drowned, your granny!" snapped Helen angrily. "Don't be such a silly, Jennie."

Ruth stood at the wheel with more apparent calmness than any of them. Her hair had whipped out of its fastenings and streamed over her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks aglow.

Helen, staring at her, suddenly realized that this was the old Ruth Fielding. Her chum had not looked so much alive, so thoroughly competent and ready for anything, before for weeks.

"Why -- why, Ruthie!" Helen murmured, "I believe you like this."

Her chum did not hear the words, but she suddenly flashed Helen a brilliant smile. "Keep up your pluck, child!" she shouted. "We'll come out all right."

Again the Stazy staggered under the side swipe of a big wave.

"Ye-ow!" yelped Tom in the stern, almost diving overboard.

"Steady!" shouted Skipper Gordon, excitedly.

"Steady she is, Captain!" rejoined Ruth Fielding, and actually laughed.

"How can you, Ruth?" complained Jennie, clinging to Henri Marchand. "And when we are about to drown."

"Weeping will not save us," flung back Ruth.

Her strong hands held the wheel-spokes with a grip unbreakable. She could force the Stazy's head to the seas.

"Can you start the engine on the reverse, Miss?" bawled Gordon.

"I can try!" flashed Ruth. "Say when."

In a moment the cry came: "Ready!"

"Aye, aye!" responded Ruth, spinning the flywheel.

The spark caught almost instantly. The exhaust sputtered.

"Now!" yelled the skipper.

Ruth threw the lever. The boat trembled like an automobile under the propulsion of the engine. The propeller shaft groaned.

"Ye-ow!" shouted the excited Tom again.

This time he sprawled back into the bottom of the boat, tearing away a good half of Jennie's cape in his grip. The rest of the garment floated to the surface. It was loose from the propeller.

"Full speed ahead!" shouted the one-armed captain of the motor-boat.

Ruth obeyed the command. The Stazy staggered into the next wave. The water that came in over her bow almost drowned them, but Ruth, hanging to the steering wheel, brought the craft through the roller without swamping her.

"Good for our Ruth!" shouted Helen, as soon as she could get her breath.

"Oh, Ruth! you always come to our rescue," declared Jennie gratefully.

"Hi! I thought you were a nervous wreck, young lady," Tom sputtered, scrambling forward to relieve her. "Get you into a tight corner, and you show what you are made of, all right."

The girl of the Red Mill smiled at them. She had done something! Nor did she feel at all overcome by the effort. The danger through which they had passed had inspired rather than frightened her.

"Why, I'm all right," she told Tom when he reached her. "This is great! We'll be behind the shelter of the Point in a few minutes. There's nothing to worry about."

"You're all right, Ruth," Tom repeated, admiringly. "I thought you'd lost your grip, but I see you haven't. You are the same old Ruthie Fielding, after all."



Chapter XXIV

About "Plain Mary"


Mr. Hammond and the actors with him had no idea of the nature of the accident that had happened to the Stazy. From the extreme end of Beach Plum Point they could merely watch proceedings aboard the craft, and wonder what it was all about.

The manager could, however, see through his glasses that Ruth Fielding was at the wheel. Her face came out clear as a cameo when he focused the opera glasses upon her. And at the change in the girl's expression he marveled.

Those ashore could do nothing to aid the party on the motor-yacht; and until it got under way again Mr. Hammond was acutely anxious. It rolled so that he expected it to turn keel up at almost any moment.

Before the blasts of rain began to sweep across the sea, however, the Stazy was once more under control. At that most of the spectators made for the camp and shelter. But the manager of the film corporation waited to see the motor-yacht inside the shelter of Beach Plum Point.

The rain was falling heavily, and not merely in gusts, when Ruth and her friends came ashore in the small boat. The lamps were lit and dinner was over at the main camp. Therefore the automobile touring party failed to see Bella Pike or hear about her arrival. By this time the girl had gone off to the main dormitory with Mother Paisley, and even Mr. Hammond did not think of her.

Nor did the manager speak that evening to Ruth about the hermit's scenario or his interview with the old man regarding it.

The three girls and Aunt Kate changed their clothing in the little shack and then joined the young men in the dining room for a late supper. Aunt Kate was to stay this night at the camp. There was a feeling of much thankfulness in all their hearts over their escape from what might have been a serious accident.

"Providence was good to us," said Aunt Kate. "I hope we are all properly grateful."

"And properly proud of Ruthie!" exclaimed Helen, squeezing her chum's hand.

"Don't throw too many bouquets," laughed Ruth. "It was not I that tore Jennie's cape out of the propeller. I merely obeyed the skipper's orders."

"She is a regular Cheerful Grig again, isn't she?" demanded Jennie, beaming on Ruth.

"I have been a wet blanket on this party long enough. I just begin to realize how very unpleasant I have been --  -- "

"Not that, Mademoiselle!" objected Henri.

"But yes! Hereafter I will be cheerful. Life is worth living after all!"

Tom, who sat next to her at table (he usually managed to do that) smiled at Ruth approvingly.

"Bravo!" he whispered. "There are other scenarios to write."

"Tom!" she whispered sharply, "I want to tell you something about that."

"About what?"

"My scenario."

"You don't mean --  -- "

"I mean I know what has become of it."

"Never!" gasped Tom. "Are you -- are -- you --  -- "

"I am not 'non compos,' and-so-forth," laughed Ruth. "Oh, there is nothing foolish about this, Tom. Let me tell you."

She spoke in so low a tone that the others could not have heard had they desired to. She and Tom put their heads together and within the next few minutes Ruth had told him all about the hermit's scenario and her conviction that he had stolen his idea and a large part of his story from Ruth's lost manuscript.

"It seems almost impossible, Ruth," gasped her friend.

"No. Not impossible or improbable. Listen to what that man on Reef Island told me about this hermit, so-called." And she repeated it all to the excited Tom. "I am convinced," pursued Ruth, "that this hermit could easily have been in the vicinity of the Red Mill on the day my manuscript disappeared."

"But to prove it!" cried Tom.

"We'll see about that," said Ruth confidently. "You know, Ben told us he had seen and spoken to a tramp-actor that day. Uncle Jabez saw him, too. And you, Tom, followed his trail to the Cheslow railroad yards."

"So I did," admitted her friend.

"I believe," went on Ruth earnestly, "that this man who came here to live on Beach Plum Point only three weeks ago, is that very vagrant. It is plain that this fellow is playing the part of a hermit, just as he plays the parts Mr. Hooley casts him for."

"Whew!" whistled Tom. "Almost do you convince me, Ruth Fielding. But to prove it is another thing."

"We will prove it. If this man was at the Red Mill on that particular day, we can make sure of the fact."

"How will you do it, Ruth?"

"By getting one of the camera men to take a 'still' of the hermit, develop it for us, and send the negative to Ben. He and Uncle Jabez must remember how that traveling actor looked --  -- "

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Tom, jumping up to the amazement of the rest of the party. "That's a bully idea."

"What is it?" demanded Helen. "Let us in on it, too."

But Ruth shook her head and Tom calmed down.

"Can't tell the secret yet," Helen's twin declared. "That would spoil it."

"Oh! A surprise! I love surprises," said Jennie Stone.

"I don't. Not when my chum and my brother have a secret from me and won't let me in on it," and Helen turned her back upon them in apparent indignation.

After that Ruth and Tom discussed the matter with more secrecy. Ruth said in conclusion:

"If he was there at the mill the day my story was stolen, and now submits this scenario to Mr. Hammond -- and it is merely a re-hash of mine, Tom, I assure you --  -- "

"Of course I believe you, Ruth," rejoined the young fellow.

"Mr. Hammond should be convinced, too," said the girl.

But there was a point that Tom saw very clearly and which Ruth Fielding did not seem to appreciate. She still had no evidence to corroborate her claim that the hermit's story of "Plain Mary" was plagiarized from her manuscript.

For, after all, nobody but Ruth herself knew what her scenario had been like!



Chapter XXV

Lifting The Curtain


Ruth slept peacefully and awoke the next morning in a perfectly serene frame of mind. She was quite as convinced as ever that she had been robbed of her scenario; and she was, as well, sure that "John, the hermit," had produced his picture play from her manuscript. But Ruth no longer felt anxious and excited about it.

She clearly saw her way to a conclusion of the matter. If the old actor was identified by Ben and Uncle Jabez as the tramp they had seen and conversed with, the girl of the Red Mill was pretty sure she would get the best of the thief.

In the first place she considered her idea and her scenario worth much more than five hundred dollars. If by no other means, she would buy the hermit's story at the price Mr. Hammond was willing to pay for it -- and a little more if necessary. And if possible she would force the old actor to hand over to her the script that she had lost.

Thus was her mind made up, and she approached the matter in all cheerfulness. She had said nothing to anybody but Tom, and she did not see him early in the morning. One of the stewards brought the girls' breakfast to the shack; so they knew little of what went on about the camp at that time.

The rain had ceased. The storm had passed on completely. Soon after breakfast Ruth saw the man who called himself "John, the hermit," making straight for Mr. Hammond's office.

That was where Ruth wished to be. She wanted to confront the man before the president of the film corporation. She started over that way and ran into the most surprising incident!

Coming out of the cook tent with a huge apron enveloping her queer, tight dress and tilting forward upon her high heels, appeared Bella Pike! Ruth Fielding might have met somebody whose presence here would have surprised her more, but at the moment she could not imagine who it could be.

"Ara-bella!" gasped Ruth.

The child turned to stare her own amazement. She changed color, too, for she knew she had done wrong to run away; but she smiled with both eyes and lips, for she was glad to see Ruth.

"My mercy!" she ejaculated. "If it ain't Miss Fielding! How-do, Miss Fielding? Ain't it enough to give one their nevergitovers to see you here?"

"And how do you suppose I feel to find you here at Beach Plum Point," demanded Ruth, "when we all thought you were so nicely fixed with Mr. and Mrs. Perkins? And Mrs. Holmes wrote to me only the other day that you seemed contented."

"That's right, Miss Fielding," sighed the actor's child. "I was. And Miz Perkins was always nice to me. Nothing at all like Aunt Suse Timmins. But, you see, they ain't like pa."

"Did your father bring you here?"

"No'm."

"Nor send for you?"

"Not exactly," confessed Bella.

"Well!"

"You see, he sent me money. Only on Tuesday. Forty dollars."

"Forty dollars! And to a child like you?"

"Well, Miss Fielding, if he had sent it to Aunt Suse I'd never have seen a penny of it. And pa didn't know what you'd done for me and how you'd put me with Miz Perkins."

"I suppose that is so," admitted the surprised Ruth. "But why did you come here?"

"'Cause pa wrote he had an engagement here. I came through Boston, an' got me a dress, and some shoes, and a hat -- all up to date -- and I thought I'd surprise pa --  -- "

"But, Bella! I haven't seen your father here, have I?"

"No. There's a mistake somehow. But this nice Miz Paisley says for me not to worry. That like enough pa will come here yet."

"I never!" ejaculated Ruth. "Come right along with me, Bella, and see Mr. Hammond. Something must be done. Of course, Mrs. Perkins and the doctor's wife have no idea where you have gone?"

"Oh, yes'm. I left a note telling 'em I'd gone to meet pa."

"But we must send them a message that you are all right. Come on, Bella!" and with her arm about the child's thin shoulders, Ruth urged her to Mr. Hammond's office -- and directly into her father's arms!

This was how Arabella Montague Fitzmaurice Pike came to meet her father -- in a most amazing fashion!

"Pa! I never did!" half shrieked the queer child.

"Arabella! Here? How strange!" observed the man who had been acting the part of the Beach Plum Point hermit. "My child!"

Mr. Pike could do nothing save in a dramatic way. He seized Bella and hugged her to his bosom in a most stagy manner. But Ruth saw that the man's gray eyes were moist, that his hands when he seized the girl really trembled, and he kissed Bella with warmth.

"I declare!" exclaimed Mr. Hammond. "So your name is something-or-other-Fitzmaurice Pike?"

"John Pike, if it please you. The other is for professional purposes only," said Bella's father. "If you do not mind, sir," he added, "we will postpone our discussion until a later time. I -- I would take my daughter to my poor abode and learn of her experience in getting here to Beach Plum Point."

"Go as far as you like, Mr. Pike. But remember there has got to be a settlement later of this matter we were discussing," said the manager sternly.

The actor and his daughter departed, the former giving Ruth a very curious look indeed. Mr. Hammond turned a broad smile upon the girl of the Red Mill.

"What do you know about that?" Mr. Hammond demanded. "Why, Miss Ruth, yours seems to have been a very good guess. That fellow is an old-timer and no mistake."

"My guess was good in more ways than one," said Ruth. "I believe I can prove that this Pike was at the Red Mill on the day my scenario was stolen."

She told the manager briefly of the discovery she had made through the patriarchal old fellow on Reef Island the day before, and of her intention of sending a photograph of Pike back home for identification.

"Good idea!" declared Mr. Hammond. "I will speak to Mr. Hooley. There are 'stills' on file of all the people he is using here on the lot at the present time. If you are really sure this man's story is a plagiarism on your own --  -- "

She smiled at him. "I can prove that, too, I think, to your satisfaction. I feel now that I can sit down and roughly sketch my whole scenario again. I must confess that in two places in this 'Plain Mary' this man Pike has really improved on my idea. But as a whole his manuscript does not flatter my story. You'll see!"

"Truly, you are a different young woman this morning, Miss Ruth!" exclaimed her friend. "I hope this matter will be settled in a way satisfactory to you. I really think there is the germ of a splendid picture in this 'Plain Mary.'"

"And believe me!" laughed Ruth, "the germ is mine. You'll see," she repeated.

She proved her point, and Mr. Hammond did see; but the outcome was through quite unexpected channels. Ruth did not have to threaten the man who had made her all the trouble. John M. F. Pike made his confession of his own volition when they discussed the matter that very day.

"I feel, Miss Fielding, after all that you did for my child, that I cannot go on with this subterfuge that, for Bella's sake, I was tempted to engage in. I did seize upon your manuscript in that summer-house near the mill where they say you live, and I was prepared to make the best use of it possible for Bella's sake.

"We have had such bad luck! Poverty for one's self is bad enough. I have withstood the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune for years. But my child is growing up --  -- "

"Would you want her to grow up to know that her father is a thief?" Ruth demanded hotly.

"Hunger under the belt gnaws more potently than conscience," said Pike, with a grandiloquent gesture. "I had sought alms and been refused at that mill. Lurking about I saw you leave the summer-house and spied the gold pen. I can give you a pawn ticket for that," said Mr. Pike sadly. "But I saw, too, the value of your scenario and notes. Desperately I had determined to try to enter this field of moving pictures. It is a terrible come down, Miss Fielding, for an artist -- this mugging before the camera."

He went on in his roundabout way to tell her that he had no idea of the ownership of the scenario. Her name was not on it, and he had not observed her face that day at the Red Mill. And in his mind all the time had been his own and his child's misery.

"It was a bold attempt to forge success through dishonesty," he concluded with humility.

Whether Ruth was altogether sure that Pike was quite honest in his confession or not, for Bella's sake she could not be harsh with the old actor. Nor could he, Ruth believed, be wholly bad when he loved his child so much.

As he turned over to Ruth every scrap of manuscript, as well as the notebooks she had lost, she need not worry about establishing her ownership of the script.

When Mr. Hammond had examined her material he agreed with Ruth that in two quite important places Bella's father had considerably improved the original idea of the story.

This gave Ruth the lead she had been looking for. Mr. Hammond admitted that the story was much too fine and too important to be filmed here at this summer camp. He decided to make a great spectacular production of it at the company's main studio later in the fall.

So Ruth proceeded to force Bella's father to accept two hundred dollars in payment for what he had done on the story. As her contract with Mr. Hammond called for a generous royalty, she would make much more out of the scenario than the sum John Pike had hoped to get by selling the stolen idea to Mr. Hammond.

The prospects of Bella and her father were vastly improved, too. His work as a "type" for picture makers would gain him a much better livelihood than he had been able to earn in the legitimate field. And when Ruth and her party left Beach Plum Point camp for home in their automobiles, Bella herself was working in a two-reel comedy that Mr. Hooley was directing.

"Well, thank goodness!" sighed Helen, "Ruth has settled affairs for two more of her 'waifs and strays.' Now don't, I beg, find anybody else to become interested in during our trip back to the Red Mill, Ruthie."

Ruth was sitting beside Tom on the front seat of the big touring car. He looked at her sideways with a whimsical little smile.

"I wish you would turn over a new leaf, Ruthie," he whispered.

"And what is to be on that new leaf?" she asked brightly.

"Just me. Pay a little attention to yours truly. Remember that in a week I shall go aboard the transport again, and then --  -- "

"Oh, Tom!" she murmured, clasping her hands, "I don't want to think of it. If this awful war would only end!"

"It's the only war so far that hasn't ended," he said. "And I have a feeling, anyway, that it may not last long. Henri and I have got to hurry back to finish it up. Leave it to us, Ruth," and he smiled.

But Ruth sighed. "I suppose I shall have to, Tommy-boy," she said. "And do finish it quickly! I do not feel as though I could return to college, or write another scenario, or do a single, solitary thing until peace is declared."

"And then?" asked Tom, significantly.

Ruth gave him an understanding smile.

<eob>

Sunk At Sea

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

Treats Of Our Hero's Early Life, And Touches On Domestic Matters.

William Osten was a wanderer by nature. He was born with a thirst for adventure that nothing could quench, and with a desire to rove that nothing could subdue.

Even in babyhood, when his limbs were fat and feeble, and his visage was round and red, he displayed his tendency to wander in ways and under circumstances that other babies never dreamt of. He kept his poor mother in a chronic fever of alarm, and all but broke the heart of his nurse, long before he could walk, by making his escape from the nursery over and over again, on his hands and knees; which latter bore constant marks of being compelled to do the duty of feet in dirty places.

Baby Will never cried. To have heard him yell would have rejoiced the hearts of mother and nurse, for that would have assured them of his being near at hand and out of mischief -- at least not engaged in more than ordinary mischief. But Baby Will was a natural philosopher from his birth. He displayed his wisdom by holding his peace at all times, except when very hard pressed by hunger or pain, and appeared to regard life in general in a grave, earnest, inquiring spirit. Nevertheless, we would not have it understood that Will was a slow, phlegmatic baby. By no means. His silence was deep, his gravity profound, and his earnestness intense, so that, as a rule, his existence was unobtrusive. But his energy was tremendous. What he undertook to do he usually did with all his might and main -- whether it was the rending of his pinafore or the smashing of his drum!

We have said that he seldom or never cried, but he sometimes laughed, and that not unfrequently; and when he did so you could not choose but hear, for his whole soul gushed out in his laugh, which was rich, racy, and riotous. He usually lay down and rolled when he laughed, being quite incapable of standing to do it -- at least during the early period of babyhood. But Will would not laugh at everything. You could not make him laugh by cooing and smirking and talking nonsense, and otherwise making an ass of yourself before him.

Maryann, the nurse, had long tried that in vain, and had almost broken her heart about it. She was always breaking her heart, more or less, about her charge, yet, strange to say, she survived that dreadful operation, and ultimately lived to an extreme old age!

"Only think," she was wont to say to Jemima Scrubbins, her bosom friend, the monthly nurse who had attended Will's mother, and whose body was so stiff, thin, and angular, that some of her most intimate friends thought and said she must have been born in her skeleton alone -- "Only think, Jemimar, I give it as my morial opinion that that hinfant 'asn't larfed once -- no, not once -- durin' the last three days, although I've chirruped an' smiled an' made the most smudgin' faces to it, an' heaped all sorts o' blandishments upon it till -- . Oh! you can't imagine; but nothink's of any use trying of w'en you can't do it; as my 'usband, as was in the mutton-pie line, said to the doctor the night afore he died -- my 'art is quite broken about it, so it is."

To which Jemima was wont to reply, with much earnestness -- for she was a sympathetic soul, though stiff, thin, and angular -- "You don't say so, Maryhann! P'raps it's pains."

Whereupon Maryann would deny that pains had anything to do with it, and Jemima would opine that it was, "koorious, to say the least of it."

No, as we have said, Baby Will would not laugh at everything. He required to see something really worth laughing at before he would give way, and when he did give way, his eyes invariably disappeared, for his face was too fat to admit of eyes and mouth being open at the same time. This was fortunate, for it prevented him for a little from seeing the object that tickled his fancy, and so gave him time to breathe and recruit for another burst. Had it been otherwise, he would certainly have suffocated himself in infancy, and this, his veracious biography, would have remained unwritten!

To creep about the house into dangerous and forbidden places, at the risk of life and limb, was our hero's chief delight in early childhood. To fall out of his cradle and crib, to tumble down stairs, and to bruise his little body until it was black and blue, were among his most ordinary experiences. Such mishaps never drew tears, however, from his large blue eyes. After struggling violently to get over the rail of his crib, and falling heavily on the floor, he was wont to rise with a gasp, and gaze in bewilderment straight before him, as if he were rediscovering the law of gravitation. No phrenologist ever conceived half the number of bumps that were developed on his luckless cranium.

We make no apology to the reader for entering thus minutely into the character and experiences of a baby. That baby is the hero of our tale. True, it is as a young man that he is to play his part; but a great philosopher has told us that he always felt constrained to look upon children with respect; and a proverb states that, "the child is the father of the man."

Without either pinning our faith to the philosopher or the proverb, we think it both appropriate and interesting to note the budding genius of the wanderer whose footsteps we are about to follow.

Baby Will's mother was a gentle and loving, but weak woman. His father, William Horace Osten by name, was a large, hearty, affectionate, but coarse man. He appreciated his wife's gentle, loving nature, but could not understand her weakness. She admired her husband's manly, energetic spirit, but could not understand his roughness. He loved the baby, and resolved to "make a man of him." She loved the baby, and wished to make him a "good boy." In the furtherance of their designs the one tried to make him a lion, the other sought to convert him into a lamb. Which of the two would have succeeded can never be known. It is probable that both would have failed by counteracting each other, as is no uncommon experience when fathers and mothers act separately in such a matter. If the one had succeeded, he would have made him a bear. The other, if successful, would have made him a nincompoop. Fortunately for our hero, a higher power saved him, and, by training him in the school of adversity, made him both a lion and a lamb. The training was very severe and prolonged, however.

It was long before the lion would consent to lie down in the same breast with the lamb. Certainly it was not during the season of childhood. The lion appeared to have it all his own way during that interesting epoch, and the father was proportionately gratified, while the mother was dismayed.

Boyhood came, and with it an increased desire to rove, and a more fervent thirst for adventure. At school our hero obtained the name that stuck to him through life -- "Wandering Will." The seaport town in the west of England in which he dwelt had been explored by him in all its ramifications. There was not a retired court, a dark lane, or a blind alley, with which he was unfamiliar. Every height, crag, cliff, plantation, and moor within ten miles of his father's mansion had been thoroughly explored by Will before he was eight years of age, and his aspiring spirit longed to take a wider flight.

"I want to go to sea, father," said he one evening after tea, looking in his father's face with much more of the leonine gaze than the father had bargained for. His training up to that point had been almost too successful!

This was not the first time that the boy had stated the same wish; his gaze, therefore, did not quail when his father looked up from his newspaper and said sternly -- "Fiddlesticks, boy! hold your tongue."

"Father," repeated Will, in a tone that caused Mr Osten to lay down his paper, "I want to go to sea."

"Then the sooner you give up the idea the better, for I won't let you."

"Father," continued Will, "you remember the proverb that you've often told me has been your motto through life, 'Never venture never win?'"

"Certainly; you know that I have often urged you to act on that principle at school. Why do you ask the question?"

"Because I mean to act on it now, and go to sea," replied Will firmly.

"What? without permission, without clothes, and without money; for you shan't have a six-pence from me?"

"Yes," replied Will.

Mr Osten was one of those stern, despotic men who cannot bear to be thwarted. He was a rich merchant, and almost the king of the little town in which he dwelt. His greatest ambition was to make his only son a thorough man of business. To be spoken to in such a tone by that rebellious son was too much for him. He lost his temper, leaped up, and, seizing Will by the collar, thrust him out of the room.

The boy ran to his own bedroom, and, seating himself in front of the dressing-table, hit that piece of furniture with his clenched fist so violently that all its contents leaped up and rattled.

"Dear, dear Will," said a gentle voice at his side, while a loving hand fell on his shoulder, "why do you frown so fiercely?"

"How can I help it, mother, when he treats me like that? He is harsh and unfair to me."

"Not so unfair as you think, dear Will," said his mother.

We will not detail the arguments by which the good lady sought to combat her son's desires. Suffice it to say that she succeeded -- as only mothers know how -- in lulling the lion to sleep at that time, and in awakening the lamb. Wandering Will went back to school with a good grace, and gave up all idea of going to sea.



Chapter Two.

Records A Sudden Departure, And Maryann's Opinion Thereon.

There is a fallacy into which men and women of mature years are apt to fall -- namely, that the cares and sorrows of the young are light.

How many fathers and mothers there are who reason thus -- "Oh, the child will grow out of this folly. 'Tis a mere whim -- a youthful fancy, not worthy of respect," -- forgetting or shutting their eyes to the fact, that, light though the whim or fancy may be in their eyes, it has positive weight to those who cherish it, and the thwarting of it is as destructive of peace and joy to the young as the heavier disappointments of life are to themselves.

True, the cares and sorrows of the young are light in the sense that they are not usually permanent. Time generally blows them away, while the cares of later years often remain with us to the end. But they are not the less real, heavy, and momentous at the time on that account.

Those troubles cannot with propriety be called light which drive so many young men and women to rebellion and to destruction. Well would it have been for Mr Osten if he had treated his son like a rational being, instead of calling him a "young fool," and commanding him to "obey."

Will, however, was not an untractable young lion. He went through school and entered college, despite his unconquerable desire to go to sea, in obedience to his father's wishes. Then he resolved to study medicine. Mr Osten regarded the time thus spent as lost, inasmuch as his son might have been better employed in learning "the business" to which he was destined; still he had no great objection to his son taking the degree of MD, so he offered no opposition; but when Will, at the age of eighteen, spoke to him of his intention to take a run to the north or south seas, as surgeon in a whaler, he broke out on him.

"So, it seems that your ridiculous old fancy still sticks to you," said Mr Osten, in great wrath, for the recurrence of the subject was like the lacerating of an old sore.

"Yes, father; it has never left me. If you will listen for a few moments to my reasons -- "

"No, boy," interrupted his father, "I will not listen to your reasons. I have heard them often enough -- too often -- and they are foolish, false, utterly inconclusive. You may go to Jericho as far as I am concerned; but if you do go, you shall never darken my doors again."

"When I was a boy, father," said Will earnestly, "your speaking sharply to me was natural, for I was foolish, and acted on impulse. I am thankful now that I did not give way to rebellion, as I was tempted to do; but I am not now a boy, father. If you will talk calmly with me -- "

"Calmly!" interrupted Mr Osten, growing still more angry at the quiet demeanour of his son; "do you mean to insinuate that -- that -- . What do you mean, sir?"

"I insinuate nothing, father; I mean that I wish you to hear me patiently."

"I won't hear you," cried Mr Osten, rising from his chair, "I've heard you till I'm tired of it. Go if you choose, if you dare. You know the result."

Saying this he left the room hastily, shutting the door behind him with a bang.

A grave, stern expression settled on the youth's countenance as he arose and followed him into the passage. Meeting his mother there, he seized her suddenly in his arms and held her in a long embrace; then, without explaining the cause of his strong emotion, he ran down stairs and left his father's house.

In a dirty narrow street, near the harbour of the town, there stood a small public-house which was frequented chiefly by the sailors who chanced to be in the port, and by the squalid population in its immediate neighbourhood. Although small, the Red Lion Inn was superior in many respects to its surroundings. It was larger than the decayed buildings that propped it; cleaner than the locality that owned it; brighter and warmer than the homes of the lean crew on whom it fattened. It was a pretty, light, cheery, snug place of temptation, where men and women, and even children assembled at nights to waste their hard-earned cash and ruin their health. It was a place where the devil reigned, and where the work of murdering souls was carried on continually, --  nevertheless it was a "jolly" place. Many good songs were sung there, as well as bad ones; and many a rough grasp of hearty friendship was exchanged. Few people, going into the house for a few minutes, could have brought themselves to believe that it was such a very broad part of the road leading to destruction: but the landlord had some hazy notion on that point. He sat there day and night, and saw the destruction going on. He saw the blear-eyed, fuddled men that came to drown conscience in his stalls, and the slatternly women who came and went. Nevertheless he was a rosy, jocund fellow who appeared to have a good deal of the milk of human kindness about him, and would have looked on you with great surprise, if not scorn, had you told him that he had a hand in murdering souls. Yes! the Red Lion might have been appropriately styled the Roaring Lion, for it drove a roaring trade among the poor in that dirty little street near the harbour.

The gas was flaring with attractive brilliancy in the Red Lion when Will Osten entered it, and asked if Captain Dall was within.

"No, sir," answered the landlord; "he won't be here for half-an-hour yet."

"A pot of beer," said Will, entering one of the stalls, and sitting down opposite a tall, dark-countenanced man, who sat smoking moodily in a corner.

It was evident that our hero had not gone there to drink, for the beer remained untouched at his elbow, as he sat with his face buried in his hands.

The dark man in the corner eyed him steadily through the smoke which issued from his lips, but Will paid no attention to him. He was too deeply absorbed in his own reflections.

"A fine night, stranger," he said at length, in a slightly nasal tone.

Still Will remained absorbed, and it was not until the remark had been twice repeated that he looked up with a start.

"I beg pardon; did you speak?" he said. "Well, yes," drawled the dark man, puffing a long white cloud from his lips, "I did make an observation regardin' the weather. It looks fine, don't it?"

"It does," said Will.

"You're waitin' for Captain Dall, ain't you?"

"Why, how did you come to know that?" said Will.

"I didn't come to know it, I guessed it," said the dark man.

At that moment the door opened, and a short thick-set man, in a glazed hat and pea-jacket, with huge whiskers meeting under his chin, entered.

His eye at once fell upon the dark man, whom he saluted familiarly -- "All ready, Mr Cupples?"

"All ready, sir," replied the other; "it's now more than half-flood; in three hours we can drop down the river with the first of the ebb, and if this breeze holds we'll be in blue water before noon to-morrow."

"Hallo, doctor, is that yourself?" said the captain, whose eye had for some moments rested on Will.

"It is," said the youth, extending his hand, which the other grasped and shook warmly.

"What! changed your mind -- eh?"

"Yes, I'm going with you."

"The governor bein' agreeable?" inquired the captain.

Will shook his head.

"Hope there ain't bin a flare-up?" said the captain earnestly.

"Not exactly," said Will; "but he is displeased, and will not give his consent, so I have come away without it."

At this the jovial skipper, who was styled captain by courtesy, sat down and shook his head gravely, while he removed his hat and wiped the perspiration from his bald forehead.

"It's a bad business to run agin the wishes of one's parents," he said; "it seldom turns out well; couldn't you come round him nohow?"

"Impossible. He won't listen to reason."

"Ah, then, it's of no manner of use," said the captain, with a pitying sigh, "when a man won't listen to reason, what's the consequence? why he's unreasonable, which means bein' destitoot of that which raises him above the brutes that perish. Such bein' the case, give it up for a bad job, that's my advice. Come, I'll have a bottle o' ginger-beer, not bein' given to strong drink, an' we'll talk over this matter."

Accordingly the beer was ordered, and the three sat there talking for a couple of hours in reference to a long, long voyage to the southern seas.

After that they rose, and, leaving the Red Lion, went down to the pier, where a boat was in waiting. It conveyed them to a large ship, whose sails were hanging in the loose condition peculiar to a vessel ready to set sail. An hour after that the anchor was raised, and wind and tide carried the ship gently down to the sea. There seemed to Will something very solemn and mysterious in the quiet way in which, during these still and dark hours of the night, the great ship was slowly moved towards her ocean cradle. At length she floated on the sea, and, soon after, the moon arose on the distant horizon, streaming across the rippling surface as if to kiss and welcome an old friend. The wind increased; the ship became submissive to the breeze, obedient to the helm, and ere long moved on the waters like "a thing of life," leaving Old England far behind her.

It was then that young Osten, leaning over the taffrail and looking wistfully back at the point where he had seen the last glimpse of the chalk cliffs, began to experience the first feelings of regret. He tried to quiet his conscience by recalling the harsh and unjustifiable conduct of his father, but conscience would not be quieted thus, and faithful memory reminded him of the many acts of kindness he had experienced at his father's hands, while she pointed to his gentle mother, and bade him reflect what a tremendous blow this sudden departure would be to her.

Starting up and shaking off such thoughts, sternly he went below and threw himself into his narrow cot, where conscience assailed him still more powerfully and vividly in dreams. Thus did Wandering Will leave his native land.

Commenting on his sudden departure, two days afterwards, Maryann said, in strict confidence, to her bosom friend "Jemimar," that she "know'd it would 'appen -- or somethink simular, for, even w'en a hinfant, he had refused to larf at her most smudgin' blandishments; and that she knew somethink strange would come of it, though she would willingly have given her last shilling to have prevented it, but nothink was of any use tryin' of w'en one couldn't do it, as her 'usband, as was in the mutton-pie line, said to the doctor the night afore he died, -- and that her 'art was quite broken about it, so it was."

Whereupon Jemima finished to the dregs her last cup of tea, and burst into a flood of tears.



Chapter Three.

Tells Of The Sea, And Some Of The Mysteries Connected Therewith.

For many days and nights the good ship Foam sailed the wide ocean without encountering anything more than the ordinary vicissitudes and experiences of sea-life. Dolphins were seen and captured, sharks were fished for and caught, stiff breezes and calms succeeded each other, constellations in the far north began to disappear and new constellations arose in the southern skies. In fact, during many weeks the voyage was prosperous, and young Will Osten began to experience those peculiar feelings with which all travellers are more or less acquainted -- he felt that the ship was "home"; that his cabin with its furniture, which had appeared so small and confined at first, was quite a large and roomy place; that all the things about him were positive realities, and that the home of his childhood was a shadow of the past --  a sort of dream.

During all this time the young doctor led a busy life. He was one of those active, intelligent, inquiring spirits which cannot rest. To acquire information was with him not a duty, but a pleasure. Before he had been many days at sea he knew the name and use of every rope, sail, block, tackle, and spar in the ship, and made himself quite a favourite with the men by the earnestness with which he questioned them in regard to nautical matters and their own personal experiences. George Goff, the sail-maker, said he "was a fust-rate feller;" and Larry O'Hale, the cook, declared, "he was a trump intirely, an' ought to have been born an Irishman." Moreover, the affections of long Mr Cupples (as the first mate was styled by the men) were quite won by the way in which he laboured to understand the use of the sextant, and other matters connected with the mysteries of navigation; and stout Jonathan Dall, the captain, was overjoyed when he discovered that he was a good player on the violin, of which instrument he was passionately fond. In short, Will Osten became a general favourite on board the Foam, and the regard of all, from the cabin-boy to the captain, deepened into respect when they found that, although only an advanced student and, "not quite a doctor," he treated their few ailments with success, and acted his part with much self-possession, gentleness, and precision.

Larry O'Hale was particularly eloquent in his praises of him ever after the drawing of a tooth which had been the source of much annoyance to the worthy cook. "Why, messmates," he was wont to say, "it bait everything the way he tuk it out. 'Open yer mouth,' says he, an' sure I opened it, an' before I cud wink, off wint my head -- so I thought -- but faix it wor only my tuth -- a real grinder wi' three fangs no less -- och! he's a cliver lad intirely."

But Will did not confine his inquiries to the objects contained within his wooden home. The various phases and phenomena of the weather, the aspects of the sky, and the wonders of the deep, claimed his earnest attention. To know the reason of everything was with him a species of mania, and in pursuit of this knowledge he stuck at nothing. "Never venture never win," became with him as favourite a motto as it had been with his father, and he acted on it more vigorously than his father had ever done.

One calm evening, as he was leaning over the side of the ship near the bow, gazing contemplatively down into the unfathomable sea, he overheard a conversation between the cook and one of the sailors named Muggins. They were smoking their pipes seated on the heel of the bowsprit.

"Larry," said Muggins, "I think we have got into the doldrums."

"Ye're out there, boy," said Larry, "for I heerd the capting say we wos past 'em a long way."

The men relapsed into silence for a time.

Then Muggins removed his pipe and said -- 

"Wot ever caused the doldrums?"

"That's more nor I can tell," said Larry; "all I know about them is, that it's aisy to git into them, but uncommon hard to git out again. If my ould grandmother was here, she'd be able to tell us, I make no doubt, but she's in Erin, poor thing, 'mong the pigs and the taties."

"Wot could she tell about the doldrums?" said Muggins, with a look of contempt.

"More nor ye think, boy; sure there isn't nothin' in the univarse but she can spaik about, just like a book, an' though she niver was in the doldrums as far as I knows, she's been in the dumps often enough; maybe it's cousins they are. Anyhow she's not here, an' so we must be contint with spekilation."

"What's that you say, Larry?" inquired the captain, who walked towards the bow at the moment.

The cook explained his difficulty.

"Why, there's no mystery about the doldrums," said Captain Dall. "I've read a book by an officer in the United States navy which explains it all, and the Gulf Stream, and the currents, an' everything. Come, I'll spin you a yarn about it."

Saying this, the captain filled and lighted his pipe, and seating himself on the shank of the anchor, said -- 

"You know the cause of ocean currents, I dare say?"

"Niver a taste," said Larry. "It's meself is as innocent about 'em as the babe unborn; an' as for Muggins there, he don't know more about 'em than my ould shoes -- "

"Or your old grandmother," growled Muggins.

"Don't be irriverent, ye spalpeen," said Larry.

"I ax her reverence's pardon, but I didn't know she wos a priest," said Muggins. -- "Go on, Cap'n Dall."

"Well," continued the captain, "you know, at all events, that there's salt in the sea, and I may tell you that there is lime also, besides other things. At the equator, the heat bein' great, water is evaporated faster than anywhere else, so that there the sea is salter and has more lime in it than elsewhere. Besides that it is hotter. Of course, that being the case, its weight is different from the waters of the cold polar seas, so it is bound to move away an' get itself freshened and cooled. In like manner, the cold water round the poles feels obliged to flow to the equator to get itself salted and warmed. This state of things, as a natural consequence, causes commotion in the sea. The commotion is moreover increased by the millions of shell-fish that dwell there. These creatures, not satisfied with their natural skins, must needs have shells on their backs, and they extract lime from the sea-water for the purpose of makin' these shells. This process is called secretin' the lime; coral insects do the same, and, as many of the islands of the south seas are made by coral insects, you may guess that a considerable lot of lime is made away with. The commotion or disturbance thus created produces two great currents -- from the equator to the poles and from the poles to the equator. But there are many little odds and ends about the world that affect and modify these currents, such as depth, and local heat and cold, and rivers and icebergs, but the chief modifiers are continents. The currents flowin' north from the Indian Ocean and southern seas rush up between Africa and America. The space bein' narrow -- comparatively -- they form one strong current, on doublin' the Cape of Good Hope, which flies right across to the Gulf of Mexico. Here it is turned aside and flows in a nor'-easterly direction, across the Atlantic towards England and Norway, under the name of the Gulf Stream, but the Gulf of Mexico has no more to do with it than the man in the moon, 'xcept in the way of turnin' it out of its nat'ral course. This Gulf Stream is a river of warm water flowing through the cold waters of the Atlantic; it keeps separate, and wherever it flows the climate is softened. It embraces Ireland, and makes the climate there so mild that there is, as you know, scarcely any frost all the year round -- "

"Blissin's on it," broke in Larry, "sure that accounts for the purty green face of Erin, which bates all other lands in the world. Good luck to the Gulf Stream, say I!"

"You're right, Larry, and England, Scotland, and Norway have reason to bless it too, for the same latitudes with these places in America have a rigorous winter extendin' over more than half the year. But what I was comin' to was this -- there are, as you know, eddies and stagnant places in ornary rivers, where sticks, leaves, and other odds and ends collect and remain fixed. So, in this great ocean river, there are eddies where seaweed collects and stagnates, and where the air above also stagnates (for the air currents are very much like those of the sea). These eddies or stagnant parts are called sargasso seas. There are several of them, of various sizes, all over the ocean, but there is one big one in the Atlantic, which is known by the name of the 'Doldrums.' It has bothered navigators in all ages. Columbus got into it on his way to America, and hundreds of ships have been becalmed for weeks in it since the days of that great discoverer. It is not very long since it was found out that, by keeping well out of their way, and sailing round 'em, navigators could escape the Doldrums altogether."

The captain paused at this point, and Larry O'Hale took the opportunity to break in.

"D'ye know, sir," said he, "that same Gulf Strame has rose a lot o' pecooliar spekilations in my mind, which, if I may make so bowld, I'll -- "

Here the mate's voice interrupted him gruffly with -- 

"Shake out a reef in that top-gall'n s'l; look alive, lads!"

Larry and his comrades sprang to obey. When they returned to their former place in the bow, the captain had left it, so that the cook's "pecooliar spekilations" were not at that time made known.



Chapter Four.

A Storm And Its Consequences.

In course of time the Foam, proceeding prosperously on her voyage, reached the region of Cape Horn -- the cape of storms. Here, in days of old, Magellan and the early voyagers were fiercely buffeted by winds and waves. In later days Cook and others met with the same reception. In fact, the Cape is infamous for its inhospitality, nevertheless it shone with bright smiles when the Foam passed by, and a gentle fair-wind wafted her into the great Pacific Ocean. Never, since that eventful day when the adventurous Castilian, Vasco Nunez de Balboa, discovered this mighty sea, did the Pacific look more peaceful than it did during the first week in which the Foam floated on its calm breast. But the calm was deceitful. It resembled the quiet of the tiger while crouching to make a fatal spring.

Will Osten reclined against the top of the mainmast, to which he had ascended in order to enjoy, undisturbed, the quiet of a magnificent evening.

The sun was setting in a world of clouds, which took the form of mountains fringed with glittering gold and with shadows of pearly grey.

Oh what castles young Osten did build on these mountains, to be sure! Structures so magnificent that Eastern architects, had they seen them, would have hung their heads and confessed themselves outdone. But you must not imagine, reader, that the magnificence of all of these depended on their magnitude or richness. On the contrary, one of them was a mere cottage -- but then, it was a pattern cottage. It stood in a palm-wood, on a coral island near the sea-shore, with a stream trickling at its side, and a lake full of wild fowl behind, and the most gorgeous tropical plants clustering round its open windows and door, while inside, seated on a couch, was a beautiful girl of fifteen (whom Will had often imagined, but had not yet seen), whose auburn hair shone like gold in the sun, contrasting well with her lovely complexion, and enhancing the sweetness of a smile which conveyed to the beholder only one idea -- love. Many other castles were built in the clouds at that time by Will, but the cottage made the most lasting impression on his mind.

"Sleepin'?" inquired Cupples, the mate, thrusting his head through that orifice in the main-top which is technically called the "lubber's hole."

"No, meditating," answered Will; "I've been thinking of the coral islands."

"Humph," ejaculated the mate contemptuously, for Cupples, although a kind-hearted man, was somewhat cynical and had not a particle of sentiment in his soul. Indeed he showed so little of this that Larry was wont to say he "didn't belave he had a sowl at all, but was only a koorious specimen of an animated body."

"It's my opinion, doctor, that you'd as well come down, for it's goin' to blow hard."

Will looked in the direction in which the mate pointed, and saw a bank of black clouds rising on the horizon. At the same moment the captain's voice was heard below shouting -- "Stand by there to reef topsails!" This was followed by the command to close-reef. Then, as the squall drew rapidly nearer, a hurried order was giving to take in all sail. The squall was evidently a worse one than had at first been expected.

On it came, hissing and curling up the sea before it.

"Mind your helm! -- port a little, port!"

"Port it is, sir," answered the man at the wheel, in the deep quiet voice of a well-disciplined sailor, whose only concern is to do his duty.

"Steady!" cried the captain.

The words had barely left his lips, and the men who had been furling the sails had just gained the deck, when the squall struck them, and the Foam was laid on her beam-ends, hurling all her crew into the scuppers. At the same time terrible darkness overspread the sky like a pall. When the men regained their footing, some of them stood bewildered, not knowing what to do; others, whose presence of mind never deserted them, sprang to where the axes were kept, in order to be ready to cut away the masts if necessary. But the order was not given.

Captain Dall and Will, who had been standing near the binnacle, seized and clung to the wheel.

"She will right herself," said the former, as he observed that the masts rose a little out of the sea.

Fortunately the good ship did so, and then, although there was scarcely a rag of canvas upon her, she sprang away before the hurricane like a sea-gull.

Terrible indeed is the situation of those who are compelled to "scud under bare poles," when He who formed the great deep, puts forth His mighty power, causing them to "stagger and be at their wits' end." For hours the Foam rushed wildly over the sea, now rising like a cork on the crest of the billows, anon sinking like lead into the valleys between. She was exposed to double danger; that of being cast upon one of the numerous coral reefs with which the Pacific in some parts abounds, or being "pooped" and overwhelmed by the seas which followed her.

During this anxious period little was said or done except in reference to the working of the ship. Men snatched sleep and food at intervals as they best might. At length, after two days, the gale began to abate, and the sea to go down.

"It was sharp while it lasted, captain, but it seems to have done us little harm," said Will Osten, on the evening of the second day.

"True," said the captain heartily; "we'll soon repair damages and make all snug. -- Is there much water in the hold, Mr Cupples?"

The mate answered gloomily that there was a good deal.

It must not be supposed that Mr Cupples' gloominess arose from anxiety. Not at all. It was simply his nature to be gloomy. If it had been his duty to have proclaimed the approach of his own marriage, he would have done it as sadly as if it had been the announcement of his death. His thoughts were gloomy, and his tones were appropriate thereto. Even his jokes were grave, and his countenance was lugubrious.

"It is gaining on us, sir," added Mr Cupples.

"Then get all the spare hands to work with buckets immediately," said the captain, "and send the carpenter here; we must have the leak discovered."

"Yes, sir," sighed Mr Cupples, as if he had given way to despair; nevertheless, he went off actively to obey the order.

"A strange man that," said the captain, turning to Will; "he is a capital seaman, and a kind-hearted, honest fellow, yet he is melancholy enough to throw a man into the blues."

"He and I get on famously notwithstanding," said Will, with a laugh. "See, he is running aft -- with bad news I fear, for his face is longer if possible than -- "

"Leak's increasing, sir," said the mate hurriedly; "we must have started a plank."

This seemed to be too true. All hands were now plying pumps and buckets vigorously, and every effort was being made to discover the leak, but in vain. Hour by hour, inch by inch, the water gained on them, and it soon became apparent that the ship must sink.

It is difficult for those who have never been at sea to realise the feelings of men who are thus suddenly awakened to the awful fact that the vessel which has been their home for many weeks or months can no longer be counted on, and that, in a few hours, they shall be left in open boats, far from land, at the mercy of the wide and stormy sea. So terrible was the thought to those on board the Foam, that every man, from the captain to the cabin-boy, toiled for hours at the pumps in silent desperation. At last, when it was found that the water gained on them rapidly, and that there was no hope of saving the ship, the captain quietly left off working and put on his coat.

"Avast pumping, my lads," said he, in a grave, earnest tone; the good ship is doomed, and now it behoves us to bow to the will of the Lord, and do the best we can to save our lives. Stand by to hoist out the boats. Get up bread and water, steward, and stow in them as much as you can with safety. Mr Cupples, see my orders carried out, and have the provisions properly divided among the boats. I want you, doctor, to come below, and help me to get up a few things that will be of use to us.

The prompt energy of the captain infused confidence into the men, who soon executed the orders given them. Ere long the boats were ready to be launched over the side, but this was a matter of the greatest difficulty and danger, for the sea was still running high, and the ship rolled heavily.

And now the great evil of not being provided with proper tackling to launch the boats became apparent. One of the quarter-boats was the first to be lowered; it was full of men. The order was given to lower, and it dropped on the water all right. Then the order to unhook the tackle was given. The man at the stern tackle succeeded in unhooking, but the man at the bow failed. The result was fatal and instantaneous. When the ship rose on the next wave, the boat was lifted by the bow out of the water until she hung from the davits, and a terrible cry was uttered as all the men were thrown out of her into the sea. Next moment the boat was plunged into the waves, the tackle snapt, and she was swept away.

"Lower away the long-boat!" shouted the captain.

This was eagerly and quickly done, and the mate with a number of men leaped into it. The lowering was successfully accomplished, but when they pulled to the spot where the quarter-boat had gone down, not one of those who had manned her could be found. All had perished.

The remaining four boats were lowered in safety, and all of them pulled away from the sinking ship, for latterly she had been settling down so deep that it was feared every pitch would be her last, and had she sunk while the boats were alongside, their destruction would have been inevitable. They were rowed, therefore, to a safe distance, and there awaited the end.

There was something inexpressibly sad in this. It seemed like standing at the death-bed of an old friend. The sea was still heaving violently; the gale, although moderated, was still pretty stiff, and the sun was setting in wild lurid clouds when the Foam rose for the last time --  every spar and rope standing out sharply against the sky. Then she bent forward slowly, as she overtopped a huge billow. Into the hollow she rushed. Like an expert diver she went down head foremost into the deep, and, next moment, those who had so lately trod her deck saw nothing around them save the lowering sky and the angry waters of the Pacific Ocean.



Chapter Five.

Adrift On The Wide Ocean.

For some time after the disappearance of the ship, the men in the boats continued to gaze, in a species of unbelief, at the place where she had gone down. They evidently felt it difficult to realise the truth of what they had seen. The suddenness of the change and the extreme danger of their position might have shaken the stoutest hearts, for the sea still ran high and none of the boats were fitted to live in rough weather. They were, as far as could be judged, many hundreds of miles from land, and, to add to the horror of their circumstances, night was coming on.

"My lads," said Captain Dall, sitting down in the stern of his boat, and grasping the tiller, "it has pleased the Almighty to sink our ship and to spare our lives. Let us be thankful that we didn't go to the bottom along with her. To the best of my knowledge we're a long way from land, and all of us will have to take in a reef in our appetites for some time to come. I have taken care to have a good supply of salt junk, biscuit, water, and lime-juice put aboard, so that if the weather don't turn out uncommon bad, we may manage, with God's blessing, to make the land. In circumstances of this kind, men's endurance is sometimes tried pretty sharply, and men in distress are occasionally driven to forgetting their duty to their comrades. I tell you beforehand, lads, that I will do all that in me lies to steer you to the nearest port, and to make your lot as comfortable as may be in an open boat; but if any of you should take a fancy to having his own way, I've brought with me a little leaden pill-box (here the captain drew aside the breast of his coat and exposed the handle of a revolver) which will tend to keep up discipline and prevent discord. Now, lads, ship your oars and hoist the foresail close-reefed, and look alive, for it seems to me that we'll have a squally night."

The effect of this speech was very striking. There is nothing that men dislike so much, in critical circumstances, where action is necessary, as uncertainty or want of decision on the part of their leader. The loss of their ship, and their forlorn, almost desperate condition, had sunk their spirits so much that an air of apathetic recklessness had, for a few minutes, crossed the countenances of some of the boldest among the sailors; but while the captain was speaking this expression passed away, and when he had finished they all gave one hearty cheer, and obeyed his orders with alacrity.

In a few minutes the sails, closely reefed, were hoisted, and the long-boat rushed swiftly over the waves. At first the four boats kept company -- the other three having also made sail -- but as darkness set in they lost sight of each other. The first mate had charge of the jolly-boat, and the second mate and carpenter had the two others. In the captain's boat were Will Osten, Larry O'Hale, Goff, Muggins, and several of the best seamen.

Soon after the sails were set, a heavy sea broke inboard and nearly filled the boat.

"Bail her out, lads," shouted the captain.

There was no occasion for the order, the men knew their danger well enough, and every one seized anything that came to hand and began to bail for life. There was only one bucket on board, and this was appropriated by the cook, who, being one of the strongest men in the boat, thought himself entitled to the post of honour, and, truly, the way in which Larry handled that bucket and showered the water over the side justified his opinion of himself.

"We must rig up something to prevent that happening again," said Captain Dall; "set to work, Goff, and cut a slice out of the tarpaulin, and nail it over the bows."

This was done without delay, and in less than an hour a sort of half-deck was made, which turned off the spray and rendered the task of bailing much lighter -- a matter of considerable importance, for, in such a sea, there was no possibility of an open boat remaining afloat without constant bailing.

At first the men talked a good deal in comparatively cheerful tones while they worked, and the irrepressible Larry O'Hale even ventured to cut one or two jokes; but when night began to cover the deep with thick darkness, one after another dropped out of the conversation, and at last all were perfectly silent, except when it became necessary to give an order or answer a question, and nothing was heard save the whistling of the wind and the gurgling of the waves as they rushed past, their white crests curling over the edge of the boat as if greedy to swallow her, and gleaming like lambent fire all around.

"This is a terrible situation," said Will Osten, in a low tone, with an involuntary shudder. "Do you think there is much chance of our surviving, captain?"

"That's not an easy question to answer, doctor," replied Captain Dall, in a tone so hearty that our hero was much cheered by it. "You see, there is much in our favour as well as much against us. In the first place, this is the Pacific, and according to its name we have a right to expect more fine weather than bad, especially at this time of the year. Then we have the trade winds to help us, and our boat is a good one, with at least two weeks' provisions aboard. But then, on the other hand, we're a terrible long way off land, and we must count upon a gale now and then, which an open boat, however good, is not calc'lated to weather easily. See that now," added the captain, looking back over the stern, where, from out of the darkness, Osten could just see a huge wave, like a black mountain with a snowy top, rolling towards them. "If we were only a little more down in the stern, that fellow would drop on board of us and send us to the bottom in half a minute."

Will felt that, although the captain's tones were reassuring, his words were startling. He was ill at ease, and clutched the seat when the billow rolled under them, raising the stern of the boat so high that it seemed as if about to be thrown completely over, but the wave passed on, and they fell back into the trough of the sea.

"Musha! but that was a wathery mountain no less," exclaimed Larry.

"You've heard of Captain Bligh, Larry, I suppose?" said the captain, in a loud voice, with the intention of letting the men hear his remarks.

"May be I have," replied Larry with caution, "but if so I misremimber."

"He was the captain of the Bounty, whose crew mutinied and turned him adrift in an open boat in the middle of the Pacific. What I was goin' to tell ye was, that his circumstances were a trifle worse than ours, for he was full four thousand miles from the nearest land, and with short allowance of provisions on board."

"An' did he make out the voyage, sur?" asked Larry.

"He did, and did it nobly too, in the face of great trouble and danger, but it's too long a yarn to spin just now; some day when the weather's fine I'll spin it to 'ee. He weathered some heavy gales, too, and what one man has done another man may do; so we've no reason to get down-hearted, for we're nearer land than he was, and better off in every way. I wish I could say as much for the other boats."

The captain's voice dropped a little in spite of himself as he concluded, for, despite the strength and buoyancy of his spirit, he could not help feeling deep anxiety as to the fate of his companions in misfortune.

Thus, talking at intervals in hopeful tones, and relapsing into long periods of silence, they spent that stormy night without refreshment and without rest. The minutes seemed to float on leaden wings, and the weary watchers experienced in its highest degree that dreary feeling -- so common in the sick room -- that "morning would never come."

But morning came at length -- a faint glimmer on the eastern horizon. It was hailed by Larry with a deep sigh, and the earnest exclamation -- 

"Ah, then, there's the blessed sun at last, good luck to it!"

Gradually the glimmer increased into grey dawn, then a warm tint brightened up the sky, and golden clouds appeared. At last the glorious sun arose in all its splendour, sending rays of warmth to the exhausted frames of the seamen and hope to their hearts. They much needed both, for want of sleep, anxiety, and cold, had already stamped a haggard look of suffering on their faces. As the morning advanced, however, this passed away, and by degrees they began to cheer up and bestir themselves, -- spreading out their clothes to dry, and scanning the horizon at intervals in search of the other boats.

About eight o'clock, as nearly as he could guess, the captain said -- 

"Now, lads, let's have breakfast; get out the bread-can. Come, Larry, look alive! You've no cooking to do this morning, but I doubt not that your teeth are as sharp and your twist as strong as ever."

"Stronger than iver, sur, av ye plaze."

"I'm sorry to hear it, for you'll have to go on short allowance, I fear."

"Ochone!" groaned the cook.

"Never mind, Larry," said Will Osten, assisting to spread the sea-biscuit and salt junk on one of the thwarts; "there's a good time coming."

"Sure, so's Christmas, doctor, but it's a long way off," said Larry.

"Fetch me the scales; now then, doctor, hold 'em," said the captain, carefully weighing out a portion of biscuit and meat which he handed to one of the men. This process was continued until all had been supplied, after which a small quantity of water and lime-juice was also measured out to each.

The breakfast was meagre, but it was much needed, and as the sea had gone down during the night and the morning was beautiful, it was eaten not only in comfort, but with some degree of cheerfulness. While they were thus engaged, Goff looked up and exclaimed suddenly, "Hallo! look here, boys!"

Every one started up and gazed in the direction indicated, where they saw something black floating on the water. The captain, who had taken the precaution before leaving the ship to sling his telescope over his shoulder, applied it to his eye, and in a few seconds exclaimed, "It's the jolly-boat capsized! Out with the oars, boys -- be smart! There's some of 'em clinging to the keel."

It need scarcely be said that the men seized the oars and plied them with all their might. Under the influence of these and the sail together they soon drew near, and then it was distinctly seen that three men were clinging to the boat -- it followed, of course, that all the rest must have been drowned. Silently and swiftly they pulled alongside, and in a few minutes had rescued Mr Cupples and the steward and one of the sailors, all of whom were so much exhausted that they could not speak for some time after being taken on board. When they could tell what had happened, their tale was brief and sad. They had kept in sight of the long-boat while light enabled them to do so. After that they had run before the gale, until a heavy sea capsized them, from which time they could remember nothing, except that they had managed to get on the bottom of the upturned boat, to which they had clung for many hours in a state of partial insensibility.



Chapter Six.

Describes A Boat Voyage, And Touches On Coral Islands.

The gale moderated to a fresh breeze, and all that day the long-boat of the ill-fated Foam flew over the sea towards the west.

"You see," said Captain Dall, in answer to a question put to him by Will Osten, "I don't know exactly whereabouts we are, because there was a longish spell of dirty weather afore the Foam went down, and I hadn't got a sight o' the sun for more than a week; but it's my belief that we are nearer to some of the coral islands than to the coast of South America, though how near I cannot tell. Five hundred miles, more or less, perhaps."

"A mere trifle, sure!" said Larry, filling his pipe carefully -- for his was the only pipe that had been rescued from the sinking ship, and the supply of tobacco was very small. Small as it was, however, the captain had taken the precaution to collect it all together, causing every man to empty his pockets of every inch that he possessed, and doled it out in small equal quantities. The pipe, however, could not be treated thus, so it had to be passed round -- each man possessing it in turn for a stated number of minutes, when, if he had not consumed his portion, he was obliged to empty the pipe and give it up.

"It's my turn, Larry," cried Muggins, holding out his hand for the coveted implement of fumigation.

"No, ye spalpeen, it's not," said Larry, continuing to press down the precious weed, "owld Bob had it last, an' ivery wan knows that I come after him."

"It's the first time I ever heard ye admit that you comed after anybody," answered Muggins with a grin; "ye ginerally go before us all --  at least ye want to."

"Not at all," retorted the cook; "whin there's dirty work to be done, I most usually kape modestly in the background, an' lets you go first, bekase it's your nat'ral callin'. Arrah! the sun's goin' to set, boys," he added with a sigh, as he commenced to smoke.

This was true, and the knowledge that another long night of darkness was about to set in depressed the spirits which had begun to revive a little. Silence gradually ensued as they sat watching the waves or gazing wistfully towards the gorgeous mass of clouds in which the sun was setting. For a considerable time they sat thus, when suddenly Will Osten started up, and, pointing towards the horizon a little to the left of the sun, exclaimed -- 

"Look there, captain; what's that?"

"Land ho!" shouted Larry O'Hale at that moment, springing up on the thwart and holding on to the foremast.

All the rest leaped up in great excitement.

"It's only a cloud," said one.

"It's a fog-bank," cried another.

"I never seed a fog-bank with an edge like that," observed old Bob, "an' I've sailed the salt sea long enough to know."

"Land it is, thank God," said the captain earnestly, shutting up his telescope. "Get out the oars again, lads! We can't make it before dark, but the sooner we get there the better, for landing on these coral islands isn't always an easy job."

The oars were got out at once, and the men pulled with a will, but it was late at night before they drew near to the land and heard the roar of the surf on the coral reef that stood as a sentinel to guard the island.

"Captain," said Will Osten, "the wind has almost died away, yet it seems to me that the surf roars as violently as if a storm were raging."

"That surf never goes down in those seas, doctor. Even in calm weather the swell of the big ocean gathers into a huge billow and bursts in foam upon the coral islands."

"Surely, then," said Will, "it must make landing both difficult and dangerous."

"It is, sometimes, but not always," replied the captain; "for a channel of safety has been provided, as you shall see, before long. Take the boat-hook, Goff, and look out in the bows."

The man rose and stood up with the boat-hook ready to "fend off" if necessary.

A word or two here about the coral islands -- those wonderful productions of the coral insect -- may perhaps render the position of the boat and her subsequent proceedings more intelligible.

They are of all sizes and shapes. Some are small and low, like emeralds just rising out of the ocean, with a few cocoa-nut palms waving their tufted heads above the sandy soil. Others are many miles in extent, covered with large forest trees and rich vegetation. Some are inhabited, others are the abode only of sea-fowl. In many of them the natives are naked savages of the most depraved character. In a few, where the blessed gospel of Jesus Christ has been planted, the natives are to be seen, "clothed and in their right minds." Wherever the gospel has taken root, commerce has naturally sprung up, and the evils that invariably follow in her train have in too many cases been attributed to Christianity. Poor indeed must be that man's knowledge of the influence of Christianity, who would judge of its quality or value by the fruit of its professors. "By their fruits ye shall know them," truly -- them, but not Christianity. The world is an hospital, and life the period of convalescence. Christianity is the one grand and all-sufficient medicine. Shall we, the afflicted and jaundiced patients, still suffering from the virulence and effect of sin, condemn the medicine because it does not turn us out cured in a single day? Still, even to fruits we can appeal, mingled and confounded with crab-apples though they be.

Come, sceptic, make a trial of it. Go to the Fiji Islands; get yourself wrecked among them. Be cast into the stormy deep; buffet the waves manfully, and succeed in struggling exhausted to the shore. The savages there, if not Christianised, will haul you out of the sea, roast you, and eat you! They do this in compliance with a humane little law which maintains that all who are shipwrecked, and cast on shore, are thus to be disposed of. Ha! you need not smile. The record of this fact may be read, in unquestionable authorities, in every public library in the kingdom. Search and see.

On the other hand, go and get cast on one of the Fiji group where Christianity holds sway, and there, despite the errors, inconsistencies, and sins of its professors and enemies, the same natives will haul you out of the sea, receive you into their houses, feed and clothe you, and send you on your way rejoicing.

There is one peculiarity which applies to most of the coral islands --  each is partially surrounded by a coral reef which lies at a distance from the shore varying from less than one to two miles. Outside of this reef the sea may heave tumultuously, but the lagoon within remains calm. The great breakers may thunder on the reef, and even send their spray over, for it is little above the level of the sea, and nowhere much more than a few yards in breadth, but inside all is peaceful and motionless. In this reef there are several openings, by which a ship of the largest size may enter and find a safe, commodious harbour. It is found that these openings occur usually opposite to any part of the islands where a stream flows into the sea; and the openings have frequently a little herbage, sometimes a few cocoa-nut palms growing on either side, which form a good natural land-mark to the navigator.

Towards one of these openings the long-boat of the Foam was rowed with all speed. The night was dark, but there was light sufficient to enable them to see their way. As they drew near they came within the influence of the enormous breakers, which rose like long gigantic snakes and rolled in the form of perpendicular walls to the reef, where they fell with a thunderous roar in a flood of milky foam.

Here it was necessary to exercise the utmost caution in steering, for if the boat had turned broadside on to one of these monstrous waves, it would have been rolled over and over like a cask.

"Pull gently, lads," said the captain, as they began to get within the influence of the breakers. "I don't quite see my way yet. When I give the word, pull with a will till I tell ye to hold on. Your lives depend on it."

This caution was necessary, for when a boat is fairly within the grasp of what we may term a shore-going wave, the only chance of safety lies in going quite as fast as it, if not faster. Presently the captain gave the word; the men bent to their oars and away they rushed on the crest of a billow, which launched them through the opening in the reef in the midst of a turmoil of seething foam. Next moment they were rowing quietly over the calm lagoon, and approaching what appeared to be a low-lying island covered with cocoa-nut trees; but the light rendered it difficult to distinguish objects clearly. A few minutes later the boat's keel grated on the sand, and the whole party leaped on shore.

The first impulse of some of the men was to cheer, but the feelings of others were too deep for expression in this way.

"Thanks be to God!" murmured Captain Dall as he landed.

"Amen!" said Will Osten earnestly.

Some of the men shook hands, and congratulated each other on their escape from what all had expected would prove to be a terrible death.

As for Larry O'Hale, he fell on his knees, and, with characteristic enthusiasm, kissed the ground.

"My best blissin's on ye," said he with emotion. "Och, whither ye be a coral island or a granite wan no matter; good luck to the insict that made ye, is the prayer of Larry O'Hale!"



Chapter Seven.

Hopes, Fears, And Prospects On The Coral Island.

Few conditions of life are more difficult to bear than that which is described in the proverb, "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick." Day after day, week after week passed by, and every morning the unfortunate men who had been cast on the coral island rose with revived hope to spend the day in anxiety, and to lie down in disappointment.

The island proved to be a low one, not more than four miles in length by about half a mile in breadth, on which nothing grew except a few cocoa-nut palms. These afforded the wrecked crew a scanty supply of food, which, with the provisions they had brought, enabled them to live, but the prospect of a residence on such a spot was so hopeless, that they would have left it immediately had not an accident happened which deprived them of their boat.

A few mornings after landing, several of the men rose early, and, without obtaining the captain's permission, went to fish in the lagoon, intending to surprise their comrades by bringing a supply of fresh fish. They were unsuccessful, but, supposing that their chance would be better in the open sea, they rowed through the opening in the reef. They had, however, miscalculated the size and power of the breakers that continually thundered there. The boat was heavy and unmanageable except by a strong crew. She turned broadside to the breakers, and, in a few seconds, was hurled upon the reef and dashed to pieces. The men were saved almost by a miracle. They succeeded in landing on the reef, and afterwards, with the aid of broken pieces of the wreck, swam across the lagoon to the island.

The loss was irreparable, so that they had now no hope left except in the passing of a ship or a native canoe. This latter contingency they were led to hope for by the discovery, one very clear morning, of what appeared to be the mountain tops of a cluster of islands, barely visible on the horizon. But as day after day passed without the appearance of a canoe, they came to the conclusion that these islands were not inhabited. As weeks passed by and no sail appeared, their hearts began to fail them, for the small stock of provisions was rapidly diminishing.

One morning Captain Dall ascended to the highest point on the island, where he was wont to spend the greater part of each day on the lookout. He found Will Osten there before him.

"Good-morning doctor," said the captain, with a dash of the old hearty spirit in his voice, for he was not easily depressed; "anything in sight?"

"Nothing," replied Will, with a degree of energy in his tone that caused the captain to look at him in surprise.

"Hallo, doctor, have you made a discovery, or have you made up your mind to swim off the island, that you speak and look so resolute this morning?"

"Yes, I have made a discovery. I have discovered that the provisions will not last us another week; that our vigour is not what it used to be; that a sort of apathy is stealing over us all; that the sands of life, in short, are running out while we are sitting idle here making no effort to help ourselves."

"What can we do, lad?" said the captain sadly, supposing that the youth was merely giving vent to a spirit of desperation.

"I'll tell you what we can do," said Will, rising; "we can cut down most of the trees and make a huge pile of them, which, with the broken pieces of the long-boat to kindle them, will create a blaze that will attract the attention of the people who live on yonder island -- if there be any. I know the character of South Sea islanders, but it is better to live in captivity or die by the hand of savages than to perish of hunger and thirst. Come, Captain Dall, we must stir the men up to make a last effort. Rather than die here, I will make a raft and hoist a sail on it, and commit myself to the winds and waves. What say you? Shall we try?"

"There is something in what you say, doctor," replied the captain, pondering the subject; "at all events, no harm can come of making the attempt. I'll go speak to the men."

In pursuance of this intention he left the place of outlook accompanied by Will, and the result of their consultation with the men was, that in a few minutes Larry O'Hale and Mr Cupples set to work with all the energy in their natures to fell trees with the two axes they possessed. When they were exhausted, Will Osten and Goff relieved them, and then the captain and old Bob took the axes. Thus the work went on all day, and in the evening a pile of logs was raised almost as large as a medium-sized cottage.

There was something hopeful in the mere act of working with a view to deliverance that raised the spirits of the men, and when the sun began to sink towards the western horizon, they sat down to their slight meal of biscuit and cocoa-nut milk with more appetite and relish than they had experienced for many days.

"I've bin thinkin'," said Larry, pausing in the midst of his supper.

"Well, wot have 'ee bin thinkin', lad?" said Muggins, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat and wishing for more food -- but wishing in vain, for he had finished his allowance -- "you're a good deal given to thinkin', but there's not much ever comes on it, 'xcept wind in the shape o' words."

"And what's words," retorted the cook, in supreme contempt, "but the expression o' sintiment, widout which there wouldn't have bin nuthin' wotsomediver in the univarse? Sintiment is the mother of all things, as owld Father O'Dowd used to say to my grandmother whin he wanted to come the blarney over her. It was a philosopher sintimentilisin' over a tay-kittle, I'm towld, as caused the diskivery o' the steam-ingine; it was a sintimintal love o' country as indooced Saint Patrick to banish the varmin from Ireland, an' it was religious sintiment as made Noah for to build the Ark, but for which nother you nor me would have bin born to git cast upon a coral island. Sintiment is iverything, Muggins, and of that same there isn't more in your whole body than I cud shove into the small end of a baccy-pipe. But to return to the pint: I've bin thinkin' as to whether it would be best to set a light to this here little pile in the daylight or in the dark, bekase, in the wan case it's the smoke that would call attintion, an' in the other case it's the flame."

"That is true, Larry," said the captain; "I'm inclined to think it would be better seen at night, fire being more powerful than smoke."

"But they're more likely to be asleep at night, and to miss seein' it," observed Cupples, in a hollow tone.

It may be remarked in passing, that the mate's voice had become much more sepulchral and his aspect more cadaverous since his arrival on the island.

"True for ye," chimed in Larry; "an' who knows, if they did see it, but they might take it for the moon in a fog -- or for a volkainy?"

"Wouldn't the best way to settle the matter be to kindle the fire just now, before it grows dark," suggested Will Osten, "so that they will have a chance of seeing the smoke, and then, when it grows dark, the fire will be getting brighter?"

"Right, doctor, you're right. Come, we'll put the light to it at once," cried the captain, rising. "Hand me the match-box, Mr Cupples; it's in the head o' the bread cask."

The whole party rose and went to the pile of timber, which was on the highest part of the islet and towered to a height of nearly twelve feet. Captain Dall applied a match to the tarry pieces of the long-boat, which had been placed at the foundation, and the flames at once leaped up and began to lick greedily round the timber, winding through the interstices and withering up the leaves. Soon a thick smoke began to ascend, for much of the timber in the pile was green, and before the sun had set a dense black cloud was rising straight up like a pillar and spreading out into the sky. As the fire gathered strength, a great tongue of flame flashed up ever and anon into the midst of the rolling cloud and rent it for a single instant; by degrees those tongues waged fierce war with the smoke. They shot through it more and more frequently, licked and twined round it -- in and out -- until they gained the mastery at last, and rose with a magnificent roar into the heavens. Then it was that Larry O'Hale gave vent to his excitement and admiration in an irrepressible shout, and his comrades burst into a mingled cheer and fit of laughter, as they moved actively round the blazing mass and stirred it into fiercer heat with boat-hooks and oars.

When night had closed in, the brilliancy of the bonfire was intense, and the hopes of the party rose with the flames, for they felt certain that any human beings who chanced to be within fifty miles of them could not fail to see the signal of distress.

So the greater part of the night was passed in wild excitement and energetic action. At last, exhausted yet hopeful, they left the bonfire to burn itself out and sat down to watch. During the first half-hour they gazed earnestly over the sea, and so powerfully had their hopes been raised, that they expected to see a ship or a boat approaching every minute. But ere long their hopes sank as quickly as they had been raised. They ceased to move about and talk of the prospect of speedy deliverance. The hearts of men who have been long exposed to the depressing influence of "hope deferred," and whose frames are somewhat weakened by suffering and insufficient food, are easily chilled. One after another they silently crept under the sail, which had been spread out in the form of a tent to shelter them, and with a sigh lay down to rest. Weariness and exposure soon closed their eyes in "kind Nature's sweet restorer -- balmy sleep," and the coral island vanished utterly from their minds as they dreamed of home, and friends, and other days. So, starving men dream of sumptuous fare, and captives dream of freedom.

Will Osten was last to give way to the feeling of disappointment, and last to lie down under the folds of the rude tent. He was young, and strong, and sanguine. It was hard for one in whose veins the hot blood careered so vigorously to believe in the possibility of a few days reducing him to the weakness of infancy -- harder still for him to realise the approach of death; yet, when he lay meditating there in the silence of the calm night, a chill crept over his frame, for his judgment told him that if a merciful God did not send deliverance, "the end" was assuredly drawing very nigh.



Chapter Eight.

In Which Our Hero Suggests A Plan Which Gets The Party Out Of One Difficulty But Plunges Them Into Another.

How long Wandering Will would have lain in the midst of his slumbering comrades, indulging in gloomy reveries, it is impossible to say, for he was suddenly startled out of them by the appearance of a black object on the sea, at a considerable distance from the shore. Will's couch was near the open entrance to the tent, and from the spot where his head lay pillowed on his coat, he could see the lagoon, the opening in the reef, and the ocean beyond. He rose softly, but quickly, and went out to assure himself that his disturbed fancy had not misled him. No -- there could be no doubt about it. Grey dawn was already breaking, and enabled him to see it distinctly -- a dark moving speck on the sea far outside the reef. It could not be a gull or sea-bird, he felt persuaded; neither was it a ship, for his eye during the voyage had become a practised one in observing distant vessels. It might be a boat!

Full of this idea, and trembling with hope and anxiety, he returned to the tent, and gently awoke the captain.

"Sh! don't speak," he whispered, laying his hand on the captain's mouth.

"I'm convinced it is a boat," continued Will, as he stood beside the now smouldering fire, while the captain gazed long and earnestly through his telescope at the object on the sea.

"You're only half-right," said the other, with unusual seriousness, as he handed the glass to his companion; "it's a canoe -- a large one, I think, and apparently full of men; but we shan't be left long in doubt as to that; our fire has evidently attracted them, and now we must prepare for their reception."

"Do you then doubt their friendliness?" asked Will, returning the glass to the captain, who again examined the approaching canoe carefully.

"Whether they shall turn out to be friends or foes, doctor, depends entirely on whether they are Christians or heathens. If the missionaries have got a footing amongst 'em, we are saved; if not -- I wouldn't give much for our chance of seeing Old England again."

The captain's voice dropped as he said this, and his face was overspread with an expression of profound gravity.

"Do you really believe in all the stories we have heard of the blood-thirstiness of these savages, and their taste for human flesh?" asked Will, with some anxiety.

"Believe them!" exclaimed the captain, with a bitter, almost ferocious laugh; "of course I do. I have seen them at their bloody work, lad. It's all very well for shore-goin' folk in the old country to make their jokes about 'Cold missionary on the sideboard,' and to sing of the 'King of the Cannibal Islands;' but, as sure as there is a sky over your head, and a coral island under your feet, so certainly do the South Sea savages kill, roast, and eat their enemies, and so fond are they of human flesh that, when they can't get hold of enemies, they kill and eat their slaves. Look, you can make out the canoe well enough now without the glass; she's makin' straight for the opening in the reef. The sun will be up in half an hour, and they'll arrive about the same time. Come, let us rouse the men."

Hastening down to the tent, the captain raised the curtain, and shouted hoarsely -- 

"Hallo, lads, turn out there -- turn out. Here's a canoe in sight -- look alive!"

Had a bomb-shell fallen into the midst of the sleepers, it could scarcely have produced more commotion among them. Every one sprang up violently.

"Hooroo!" shouted Larry O'Hale, "didn't I say so? Sure it's mysilf was draimin' of ould Ireland, an' the cabin in the bog wi' that purty little crature -- " He stopped abruptly, and added, "Och! captain dear, what's wrong?"

"Hold you tongue, Larry, for a little, and keep your cheerin' till you have done fightin', for it's my opinion we may have something to do in that way ere long."

"Faix, it's mysilf as can enjoy a taste o' that too," said Larry, buttoning his jacket and turning up his cuffs.

By this time the canoe was approaching the passage in the reef, and the whole party hastened to the beach, where they held a hasty council of war, for it was now clear that the canoe was one of the largest size --  capable of holding nearly a hundred men -- and that it was quite full of naked savages. In a few words the captain explained to the men the character of the islanders, as ascertained by himself on previous voyages, and showed how hopeless would be their case if they turned out to be heathens.

"Now," said he, "we are fifteen in number, all told, with two muskets, one pistol, three or four cutlasses, and a small supply of ammunition. If these men prove to be enemies, shall we attack them, and try to take their canoe, or shall we at once lay down our arms and trust to their generosity? Peace or war, that's the question?"

Larry at once declared for war, and several of the more fiery spirits joined him, among whom was Will Osten; for the young doctor shrank with horror from the idea of being roasted and eaten!

"I vote for peace," said the mate gloomily.

"Sure, Mr Cupples," exclaimed Larry, "I wonder at that, for it's little pace ye gave us aboord the Foam."

"It's not possible," continued the mate -- taking no notice of the cook's remark, nor of the short laugh which followed it -- "it's not possible for fifteen men, armed as we are, to beat a hundred savages, well supplied with clubs and spears -- as I make no doubt they are -- so I think we should trust to their friendliness."

"Bah!" whispered Larry to the man next him; "he knows that he's too tough and dry for any savage in his siven sinses to ait him, cooked or raw, and so he hopes to escape."

"Mr Cupples is right, lads," said the captain; "we'd have no chance in a fair fight, an' though I make no doubt we should kill double our number in the scrimmage, what good would that do?"

Some of the men here seconded the captain; the others began to waver, and it was finally decided that they should at least begin with pacific advances.

When the council broke up, the sailors went down to the water's edge and awaited her arrival. As she came nearer, it became apparent that she was a war-canoe fill with warriors. Steadily and swiftly she advanced to within a short distance of the shore. Then the paddlers suddenly ceased, and she was allowed to drift slowly in, while a splendid looking savage stood up in the bow with a shield on his left arm and a javelin in his right hand.

The chief, for such he evidently was, wore no clothing, except a piece of native cloth round his loins; but his whole body was elaborately tatooed with various devices; and this species of decoration, coupled with the darkness of his skin, did away very much with the appearance of nakedness. He seemed as if he had been clothed in a dark skin-tight dress. But the most conspicuous part about him was the top of his head, on which there seemed to be a large turban, which, on closer inspection, turned out to be his own hair curled and fizzed out artificially. Altogether he was an imposing and gigantic fellow.

When about fifty yards from the shore, the savages checked the canoe's progress and stood up. Now was the time for action, so, according to previous arrangement, the sailors laid their weapons down on the beach, and held up their hands, at the same time making such signs of friendship as they thought would be understood. The savages, who were quick-witted fellows, at once ran the canoe ashore, leaped out, and hastened towards the white men.

As they did so, Captain Dall put his telescope to his eye for a moment, wishing to scan closely the features of the chief. Instantly the whole band turned with a howl, and, making towards the canoe, jumped in and pushed off.

"Ha!" exclaimed the captain, with a smile, "these fellows have been fired at by Europeans before now. They evidently mistook my telescope for a musket."

The savages paused, and again faced about at a short distance from the beach, and the captain sought by every imaginable sign and gesticulation to remove the bad impression he had so innocently created. He succeeded. In a short time the natives again landed and advanced towards them. On drawing near, the chief stopped and made a short speech -- which, of course, none of the white men understood. To this Captain Dall replied in a short speech -- which, of course, none of the natives understood. Both parties looked very amiably, however, at each other, and by degrees drew closer together, when the natives began to manifest much curiosity in reference to the costume of the sailors. Soon they became more familiar, and the truth of the proverb, that, "familiarity breeds contempt," was quickly illustrated by one of the savages seizing hold of the musket which Larry O'Hale carried. The hot blood of the Irishman instantly fired.

"Let go, ye dirty bit o' mahogany," he cried, holding the musket tight with his left hand, and clenching his right in a threatening manner.

Captain Dall, foreseeing what would be the result of a blow, sought to create a diversion by raising his telescope to his eye. The quick-sighted savage observed the motion, let go his hold of the musket and shrank behind his comrades, who, however, did not appear disposed to screen him, for they all began to dodge behind each other until the telescope was lowered.

The temporary distraction of attention which this incident caused emboldened another savage to pounce upon the other musket, which was carried by old Bob. He wrenched it out of the sailor's hand and bounded away with a shout, swinging it over his head. Unfortunately his fingers touched the trigger and the piece exploded, knocking down the man who held it, and sending the ball close past the chief's ear.

Instantly there followed a loud yell, clubs were brandished, cutlasses gleamed, and blood would certainly have been spilt had not Captain Dall suddenly seized the chief by the shoulders and rubbed noses with him. He knew this to be the mode of salutation among some of the South Sea tribes, and sought to make a last effort at conciliation. The act was reciprocated by the chief, who signed to his men to forbear.

Captain Dall now felt convinced that any undecided course of action would only render their case more desperate, so he turned to his men with a look of authority and said sternly -- 

"My lads, we have only one hope left to us, and that is, submission. Throw down your weapons, and put your trust in the Almighty."

The men obeyed -- some with hesitation and others sullenly; they flung their cutlasses on the sand and crossed their arms on their breasts. No sooner was this done than the savages rushed upon them in overwhelming numbers, and they were instantly overpowered. Larry O'Hale and Will Osten, with some of the younger men, struggled fiercely, and knocked down several of their opponents before they were subdued, but against such overwhelming odds they had no chance. It would have been better for them had they acted on the captain's advice. Whatever is worth doing is worth doing well, and this truth is not less applicable to the act of submission than to that of resistance. The only result of their ill-timed display of valour was the tighter fastening of the cords with which the savages bound them hand and foot, and somewhat rough handling when they, with their comrades, were tossed into the bottom of the canoe.

After the sailors were secured, the natives collected the provisions that had been brought by them to the island, and stowed these also in the canoe. This occupied a considerable time, for they were so careful to avoid missing anything, that they ranged over the whole island, examining every part minutely, and leaving nothing behind that had the slightest appearance of value in their eyes. During all this time the white men were left lying in the water which had leaked into the canoe. Indeed, the valiant Larry would certainly have been drowned, but for the aid extended to him by our hero, for he chanced to have been thrown into the canoe with his face downwards near the stern, and as the water gradually settled down there from the prow, which was raised on the sand, it covered his mouth. Fortunately Will, who was near him, managed to assist the unfortunate man in his struggles so as to enable him to rest his head on the blade of a paddle!

When everything belonging to the crew of the Foam had been collected, the savages returned to their canoe, re-launched her, paddled out to sea, and ere long left the little coral island out of sight behind them.



Chapter Nine.

Contains An Account Of The Desperate Circumstances Of The Prisoners.

Five hours passed away, during which the savages continued to paddle almost without intermission, and our hero with his friends lay fast bound in the bottom of the canoe. They suffered great pain from the swelling of their limbs and the tightening of the cords that bound them; but although Larry O'Hale, in the exasperation of his spirit, gave vent to one or two howls, accompanied by expressions that were the reverse of complimentary, no attention was paid to them until the island towards which they steered was reached.

The instant the canoe touched the sand the captives were lifted out --  their hands and feet were tied together in a bunch, and, each being slung on a stout pole as one might sling a bundle, they were carried up to a native village on the margin of a wood. On the way, Wandering Will could see that the beach swarmed with natives -- a fact, however, of which his ears had already assured him, for the air was filled with yells of delight as the captives were successively lifted out of the canoe. He also observed that the island appeared to be a large one, for he got a glimpse of a huge mountain rising over the tree tops. Neither he nor any of his comrades, however, had time to make many observations, for they were hurried up the beach and into the village, where they were thrown down under a rudely built hut which was covered with broad leaves.

Here the cords that fastened them were unloosed; but if this for a moment raised the hope that they were about to be set free, they were quickly undeceived by the savages, who rebound their hands behind them. Our hero, Captain Dall, Mr Cupples, Larry O'Hale, and Muggins, were then fastened with cords of cocoa-nut fibre to the several posts of the hut in such a manner that they could stand up or lie down at pleasure. George Goff, old Bob, and the others were led away. Seeing that they were about to be separated, Captain Dall suddenly called out, "Farewell, lads," in a tone so sad, that Goff looked back at him in surprise, but his captors forced him away before he could reply.

"You think we won't see them again?" said Osten, when they were left alone.

"I think not. From what I know of those savages, I fear they have taken our comrades away to be sacrificed, and that our own time will soon come."

Something between a groan and a growl escaped from O'Hale when this was said.

"Cudn't we break thim ropes, and run amuck amongst the murtherin' blackguards," he exclaimed, seizing the rope that bound him with his teeth and endeavouring to tear it -- an effort which it is needless to say was futile, and nearly cost him a tooth.

"It's of no use, Larry," said the captain; "we can't help ourselves. If the Lord don't help us, we're dead men."

Although Will Osten was much depressed, not to say alarmed, by what he heard, he could not help wondering why the captain had so suddenly lost his buoyant spirit. At the time when a slow death by starvation had stared him in the face, he had not only retained his own heartiness of spirit, but had kept up wonderfully the spirits of his companions. Now, however -- when, as Will thought, they had the chance of escaping by stratagem or by force from their captors, or, at the worst, of selling their lives dearly -- his spirit seemed to have utterly forsaken him. Yet the captain was only despondent -- not despairing. He had seen the deeds of savages in former years, and knew that with them there was seldom a long period between the resolve to kill and the accomplishment of the crime. He feared for the lives of his shipmates, and would have given his right hand at that moment to have been free to aid them, but the attempts of himself and his comrades to break their bonds were fruitless, so, after making one or two desperate efforts, they sat down doggedly to await their fate.

It might have been a curious study to have noted the different spirit in which these unfortunate men submitted to their unavoidable doom on that occasion. The captain sat down on a log of wood that chanced to be near him, folded his hands quietly on his knees, allowed his head to sink forward on his chest, and remained for a long time quite motionless. Will Osten, on the other hand, stood up at first, and, leaning his head on his arm against the wall of the hut, appeared to be lost in reverie. Doubtless he was thinking of home; perhaps reproaching himself for the manner and spirit in which he had quitted it -- as many a poor wanderer has done before when too late! He quickly changed his thoughts, however, and, with them, his position: sat down and got up frequently, frowned, clenched his hands, shook his head, stamped his foot, bit his lips, and altogether betrayed a spirit ill at ease. Mr Cupples, whose soul had from the moment of their capture given way to the deepest possible dejection, lay down, and, resting his elbow on the floor and his head on his hand, gazed at his comrades with a look so dreadfully dolorous that, despite their anxiety, they could hardly suppress a smile. As for Muggins and O'Hale, the former, being a phlegmatic man and a courageous, sat down with his back against the wall, his hands thrust into his pockets, and a quid in his cheek, and shook his head slowly from side to side, while he remarked that every one had to die once, an' when the time came no one couldn't escape and that was all about it! Poor Larry O'Hale could not thus calm his mercurial spirit. He twisted his hard features into every possible contortion, apostrophised his luck, and his grandmother, and ould Ireland in the most pathetic manner, bewailed his fate, and used improper language in reference to savages in general, and those of the South Seas in particular, while, at intervals, he leaped up and tried to tear his bonds asunder.

Thus several hours were spent. Evening approached, and darkness set in; still no one came near the prisoners. During this period, however, they heard the continual shouting and singing of the savages, and sometimes caught a glimpse of them through crevices between the logs of which the hut was built. It was not possible for them to ascertain what they were about, however, until night set in, when several large fires were lighted, and then it could be seen that they were feasting and dancing. Suddenly, in the midst of the din, an appalling shriek was heard. It was quickly succeeded by another and another. Then the yells of the revellers increased in fury, and presently a procession of them was observed approaching the hut, headed by four men bearing a sort of stage on their shoulders.

The shrieks had struck like a death-chill to the hearts of the prisoners. No one spoke, but each had recognised familiar tones in the terrible cries. For the first time some of them began to realise the fact that they were really in the hands of murderers, and that the bloody work had actually begun. Great drops of sweat rolled down the face of Muggins as he gazed in horror through one of the crevices, and his broad chest heaved convulsively as he exclaimed, "God be merciful to us, it's George Goff!" This was too true. On the stage, carried by four natives, sat the unfortunate seaman. It required no second glance to tell that his spirit had fled, and that nothing but a corpse sat swaying there, supported by means of a pole, in a sitting posture. The cannibals were conveying it to their temple, there to cut it up and prepare it for that dreadful feast which is regarded as inexpressibly repulsive by all the human race except these islanders of the South Seas, who, incredible though it may appear, absolutely relish human flesh as a dainty morsel.

At sight of this, poor Will Osten, who had never quite believed in such terrible things, sank down on his knees with a deep groan, and, for the first time in his life, perhaps, prayed earnestly.

O'Hale's spirit blazed up in ungovernable fury. Like a wild beast, he tore and wrenched at the rope which bound him, and then, finding his efforts unavailing, he flung himself on the ground, while deep sobs burst at intervals from his oppressed heart.

A few minutes elapsed; then there was a rush of footsteps without, accompanied by fierce yells and the waving of torches. The prisoners leaped up, feeling almost instinctively that there hour had come. A moment later and the hut was filled with natives. All were naked, with the exception of a small piece of cloth round their loins. They were tatooed, however, and painted nearly from head to foot.

The prisoners were instantly seized and overpowered, and preparations were being rapidly made to carry them away, when a shout was heard outside, and a remarkably tall, powerful, and thickly painted savage sprang in. He pushed the natives violently aside, and gave some stern orders to those who held the prisoners. The immediate result was, that the latter were released and allowed to rise, although their hands were still bound behind them. Meanwhile the tall savage, standing beside them, harangued his comrades with great energy of tone and action.

While this was going on, Larry O'Hale whispered excitedly to his companions -- 

"Howld on, lads, a bit. Sure I've burst the ropes at last. The moment I git howld o' that blackguard's knife I'll cut yer lashin's. Stand by for a rush."

As Larry spoke, the tall savage drew the knife referred to from his girdle, and, glancing over his shoulder, said in English -- 

"Keep quiet, lads. I'll do my best to save 'ee; but if you offer to fight, you're dead men all in five minutes."

Amazement, if no other feeling had operated, would have rendered the prisoners perfectly quiet after that. They waited in deep anxiety and wonder, while the tall savage continued his harangue, at the conclusion of which his hearers uttered an expressive grunt or growl, as if of assent, and then they all filed out of the hut, leaving the prisoners alone with their deliverer.



Chapter Ten.

Our Hero And His Comrades In Distress Become Savage Warriors For The Nonce.

"Friend," said Captain Dall, taking the hand of the tall savage in his and speaking with some emotion, "you have been sent as our deliverer, I know, but how a South Sea islander should happen to befriend us, and how you should come to speak English as well as ye do, is more than I can understand."

"Onderstand!" exclaimed Larry; "it's past belaif. It baits cock-fightin' intirely."

A grim smile crossed the painted face of the savage, as he said somewhat hurriedly: -- 

"I'm no more a South Sea islander than you are, lads, but this is not the time for explanations. It's enough for you to know, in the meantime, that I'm an Englishman, and will befriend you if you agree to obey me."

"Obey ye!" cried Larry with enthusiasm, "blissin's on yer painted mug, it's warship ye we will, av ye only git us out o' this scrape."

"That's so," said Muggins, nodding his head emphatically, while Mr Cupples, in tones of the most awful solemnity, and with a look that cannot be described, vowed eternal friendship.

"Well, then," said the tall man, "we have no time to waste, for you are in a greater fix just now than ye think for. About myself it's enough to know that I'm a runaway sailor; that I made my way among these fellers here by offering to join 'em and fight for 'em, and that I won their respect at first by knocking down, in fair stand-up fight, all the biggest men o' the tribe. I don't think they would have spared me even after that, but I curried favour with the chief and married one of his daughters. Now I'm a great man among them. I didn't hear of your having been brought here till half an hour ago, havin' bin away with a war party in canoes. I returned just too late to save your comrades."

"What! are they all dead?" asked Will Osten.

"Ay, all, and if you don't follow them it will only be by attending to what I tell you. My name is Buchanan, but the savages can only manage to make Bukawanga out o' that. The word means fire, and ain't a bad one after all!"

The man smiled grimly as he said this, and then resumed, more rapidly and sternly than before: -- 

"You have but one chance, and that is to join us. I have come to the village with the news that a neighbouring tribe is about to attack us. If you agree to help us to fight, I may manage to save you; if not your case is hopeless. There is no time for consideration. Ay or no, that's the word."

"Sure I'll jine ye, Mr Bukkie Whangy," said Larry O'Hale, "wid all the pleasure in life. It's always for fightin' I am, at laist whin -- "

"I don't like to shed human blood," said Captain Dall, interrupting, "where I've no quarrel."

"Then your own must be shed," said Bukawanga firmly.

"There's no help for it, captain," said Will Osten. "'Tis better to fight for these men than to be murdered by them. What say you, Mr Cupples?"

"War," replied the mate emphatically.

"Ditto," said Muggins, nodding his head and buttoning his jacket.

"Then strip, and we'll paint you right off," said Bukawanga; "look alive, now!"

He fastened the torch which he held in his hand to a beam of the hut, and cut the bonds of the prisoners; then, going to the door, he summoned two men, who came in with a basket made of leaves, in which were several cocoa-nut shells filled with red, white, and black earth, or paint.

"What!" exclaimed Will Osten, "must we fight without clothing?"

"An' wid painted skins?" said Larry.

"Yes, unless you would be a special mark for the enemy," replied Bukawanga; "but you have no chance if you don't become in every way like one of us."

Seeing that the man was in earnest, they were fain to submit. After removing their clothes, the natives began diligently to paint them from head to foot, laying on the colours so thickly, and in such bold effective strokes, that ere long all appearance of nudity was removed. Man is a strange being. Even in the midst of the most solemn scenes he cannot resist giving way at times to bursts of mirth. Philosophy may fail to account for it, and propriety may shudder at it, but the fact is undeniable. With death hovering, they knew not how near, over them, and the memory of the fearful things they had just witnessed strong upon them, they were compelled, now and then, to smile and even to laugh aloud, as the process of painting went on. There was some variety in the adornment of each, but let that of Larry O'Hale serve as an example. First of all his legs were rubbed all over with white earth, and his body with yellow. Then, down each lower limb, behind, a palm-tree was drawn in red -- the roots beginning at his heels, and the branches above spreading out on his calves. Various fanciful devices were drawn on his breast and arms, and some striking circles on his back. Last of all, one-half of his face was painted red, and the other half black, with a stripe of white extending from the root of his hair down to the point of his nose. It is needless to say that during the process the enthusiastic Irishman commented freely on the work, and offered many pieces of advice to the operator. Indeed, his tendency to improve upon existing customs had well-nigh put an end to the friendly relations which now subsisted between the white men and the natives, for he took a fancy to have a red stripe down each of his legs. Either the native did not understand him, or would not agree to the proposal, whereupon Larry took the brush and continued the work himself. At this the savage indignantly seized him by the arm and pinched him so violently that he lost temper, and, thrusting the red brush into the native's face, hurled him to the ground. There was a yell and a rush at once, and it is probable that blood would have been shed had not Bukawanga interposed.

When the painting was completed, their protector led the white men (now no longer white!) to the hut of the chief. Bukawanga was received somewhat coldly at first. The chief, a large, fine-looking old man, named Thackombau, with an enormous head of frizzled hair, looked askance at the newcomers, and was evidently disposed to be unfriendly. Observing this, and that the warriors around him scowled on them in a peculiarly savage manner, most of the prisoners felt that their lives hung, as it were, upon a thread. The aspect of things changed, however, when their friend stood up and addressed the assembly.

Bukawanga had not yet said a word about the cause of his sudden return from the war expedition. It was, therefore, with much concern that the chief and his men learned that a neighbouring and powerful tribe, with which they had always been at enmity, were actually on the way to attack them; and when Bukawanga talked of the needful preparations for defence, and, pointing to the prisoners, said that they were his countrymen, able to fight well, and willing to help them, there was a perceptible improvement in the looks of the party. Finally, Thackombau condescended to rub noses with them all, and they were ordered off to another hut to have supper. This latter arrangement was brought about by their deliverer, who knew that if they remained to sup with the natives they would be shocked, and, perhaps, roused to some act of desperate violence, by the horrible sight of portions of the bodies of their poor comrades, which, he knew, were to be eaten that night. He therefore sought to divert their thoughts from the subject by sitting down and relating many anecdotes connected with his own adventurous history, while they partook of a meal of which they stood much in need.

The dishes, although new to them, were by no means unpalatable. They consisted of baked pig and yams served on banana leaves, and soup in cocoa-nut shells. Also a dish made of taro-tops, and filled with a creamy preparation of cocoa-nut done in an oven. Bread-fruits were also served, and these tasted so like the crumb of wheaten loaf, that it was difficult to believe them to be the fruit of a tree. For drink they had the juice of the young cocoa -- a liquid which resembles lemonade, and of which each nut contains about a tumblerful. There was also offered to them a beverage named ava, which is intoxicating in its nature, and very disgusting in its preparation. This, however, Bukawanga advised them not to touch.

"Now, Mr Bukkie Whangy," said Larry, after having appeased his appetite, "if I may make so bowld as to ax -- how came ye here?"

"The story is short enough and sad enough," replied his new friend. "The fact is, I came here in a sandal-wood trader's ship; I was so disgusted with the captain and crew that I ran away from them when they touched at this island for water. 'Tis eight years ago now, and I have bin here ever since. I have regretted the step that I took, for the devilry that goes on here is ten times worse than I ever saw aboard ship. However, it's too late for regret now."

"Ah! too late," murmured Will Osten, and his thoughts leaped back to England.

"The worst of it is," continued the runaway sailor, "that I have no chance of gettin' away, for the cruelty of sailors to the natives of this island has rendered them desperate, and they murder every white man they can get hold of. Indeed there would have been no chance for you but for the breaking out of war, and the fact that they are somewhat short of fightin' men just now. Not long after I landed on the island, an American whaler sent her boats ashore for water. They quarrelled, somehow, with the natives, who drove them into their boats with tremendous hooting and yells and some hard blows, although no blood was spilt. Well, what did the scoundrels do but pulled aboard their ship, brought their big guns to bear on the people, and fired on several villages -- killing and wounding a good many of 'em, women and children among the rest. That's the way these fellows set the natives against white men. It was all I could do to prevent them from knocking out my brains after the thing happened."

While Bukawanga was speaking, a great commotion was heard outside.

"They're gettin' ready for action," he said, springing up. "Now, lads, follow me. I'll get you weapons, and, hark-'ee," he added, with a somewhat peculiar smile, "I heerd some of 'ee say ye don't want to spill blood where ye have no quarrel. Well, there's no occasion to do so. Only act in self-defence, and that'll do well enough; d'ye understand?"

The man gave vent to a short chuckle as he said this, and then, leading his countrymen from the hut, conducted them towards a temple, near to which a large band of warriors was busily engaged in making preparations for the approaching fight.



Chapter Eleven.

A Fight, Which Results In A Mistake And A Hasty Flight.

The horrors of war are neither agreeable to write about nor to reflect upon. However much, therefore, it may disappoint those readers whose minds delight to wallow in the abominations of human cruelty, we will refrain from entering into the full particulars of the sanguinary fight that ensued just after the arrival of Wandering Will and his friends in the island. It is sufficient to say that many lives were lost. Of course the loss of life bore no proportion to that which occurs in civilised warfare. One roar from the throats of our terrific engines of destruction will sometimes send more souls into eternity in one moment than all the fierce fury of a hundred savages can accomplish in an hour. But what the savage lacks in power he more than makes up for in cruelty and brutality. During the few days in which the fight raged, the sights that met the eyes of the white men, and the appalling sounds that filled their ears, turned their hearts sick, and induced a longing desire to escape.

The war was carried on chiefly in the way of bush fighting. Our sailors found this mode of warfare convenient, for it enabled them to act very much as spectators. Passing over the details of the brief campaign, we touch only on those points which affected the subsequent movements of the whites.

Bukawanga, who virtually acted the part of commander-in-chief, although all the chiefs considered themselves above him, moved about actively at all times to make sure that the village was properly guarded at every point. While thus employed he had, on one occasion, to pass through a piece of scrub, or thick bush, in which he heard the shriek of a woman. Turning aside he came to an opening where a man was endeavouring to kill a little boy, whose mother was doing her best to defend him. He evidently wished to kill the child and to spare the woman, but she stooped over the child and warded off the blows with her arms so cleverly, that it was still uninjured, although the poor mother was bleeding profusely from many wounds. Bukawanga instantly rushed to the rescue, and raised his club to deal the savage a deadly blow. Unobserved by him, however, another savage had been attracted to the spot, and, seeing what was about to happen, he ran up behind Bukawanga and felled him with a blow of his club. During the scuffle the woman snatched up her boy and escaped. The two savages then began to dispute as to which had the best right to cut off the head of their fallen foe and carry it away in triumph. Both of them were much fatigued with fighting, so they sat down on the back of the prostrate seaman to conduct the discussion more comfortably. The point was still undecided when Bukawanga recovered consciousness, felt the heavy pressure on his back and loins, and heard part of the interesting dialogue!

It chanced, at this point, that Will Osten and Larry O'Hale, who, from natural affinity or some other cause, always kept together, came to the spot and peeped through the bushes. Seeing two men sitting on the body of a third and engaged in an animated dispute, they did not see cause to interfere, but remained for a few minutes almost amused spectators of the scene, being utterly ignorant, of course, as to the purport of their dispute. Suddenly, to their great surprise, they beheld the two men leap into the air; the supposed dead body sprang up, and, before either savage could use his weapons, each received a strong British fist between his eyes and measured his length on the sward, while the conqueror sprang over them into the bush and disappeared.

"Man alive!" exclaimed Larry, "if it isn't Bukkie Whangy himself! Och, the murtherin' daimons!"

With that Larry leaped over the bushes flourishing his club and yelling like a very savage. But Will Osten was before him. Both savages had risen immediately after being knocked down, and now faced their new enemies. They were no match for them. Being expert in all athletic exercises, young Osten found no difficulty in felling the first of the men, while Larry disposed of the other with equal celerity. The Irishman's blood had fired at the thought of the narrow escape of his deliverer, and, still whirling his club round his head, he looked about eagerly as if desirous of finding another foe on whom to expend his fury. At that moment he caught sight of a pair of savage eyes gleaming at him from the bushes.

"Hah! ye dirty polecat," he cried, throwing his club at the eyes with all his force.

Never was there a worse aim or a better shot! The club flew high into the air and would have fallen some fifty yards or more wide of the mark, had it not touched the limb of a tree in passing. It glanced obliquely down, and, striking the owner of the eyes between the shoulders felled him to the earth.

Larry sprang upon him with a yell of triumph, but the yell was changed into a howl of consternation when he made the discovery that he had knocked down, if not killed, one of the principal chiefs of the village! To say that poor O'Hale wrung his hands, and wished bad luck to fightin' in general, and to himself in particular, gives but a feeble idea of the distress of his mind at this untoward event.

"D'ye think I've kilt him intirely, doctor dear?" he asked of Will Osten, who was on his knees beside the fallen chief examining his hurt.

"No, not quite. See, he breathes a little. Come, Larry, the moment he shows symptoms of reviving we must bolt. Of course he knows who knocked him down, and will never forgive us."

"That's true, O murther!" exclaimed Larry, with a mingled look of contrition and anxiety.

"Depend upon it they'll kill us all," continued Osten.

"And bake an' ait us," groaned Larry.

"Come," said Will, rising hastily as the stunned chief began to move, "we'll go search for our comrades."

They hurried away, but not before the chief had risen on one elbow and shaken his clenched fist at them, besides displaying a terrible double row of teeth, through which he hissed an unintelligible malediction.

They soon found their comrades, and related what had occurred. A hurried council of war was held on the spot, and it was resolved that, as a return to the village would ensure their destruction, the only chance of life which remained to them was to take to the mountains. Indeed, so urgent was the necessity for flight, that they started off at once, naked though they were, and covered with blood, paint, and dust, as well as being destitute of provisions.

All that night they travelled without halt, and penetrated into the wildest fastnesses of the mountains of the interior. Bukawanga had already told them, during intervals in the fight when they had met and eaten their hasty meals together, that the island was a large, well wooded, and fruitful one -- nearly thirty miles in diameter; and that the highest mountain in the centre was an active volcano. There were several tribes of natives on it, all of whom were usually at war with each other, but these tribes dwelt chiefly on the coast, leaving the interior uninhabited. The fugitives, therefore, agreed that they should endeavour to find a retreat amongst some of the most secluded and inaccessible heights, and there hide themselves until a ship should chance to anchor off the coast, or some other mode of escape present itself.

The difficulties of the way were greater than had been anticipated. There was no path; the rocks, cliffs, and gullies were precipitous; and the underwood was thick and tangled, insomuch that Mr Cupples sat down once or twice and begged to be left where he was, saying that he would take his chance of being caught, and could feed quite well on cocoa-nuts! This, however, was not listened to. Poor Cupples was dragged along, half by persuasion and half by force. Sailors, as a class, are not celebrated for pedestrian powers, and Cupples was a singularly bad specimen of his class. Muggins, although pretty well knocked up before morning, held on manfully without a murmur. The captain, too, albeit a heavy man, and fat, and addicted to panting and profuse perspiration, declared that he was game for anything, and would never be guilty of saying "die" as long as there was "a shot in the locker." As for Larry O'Hale, he was a man of iron mould, one of those giants who seem to be incapable of being worn out or crushed by any amount of physical exertion. So far was he from being exhausted, that he threatened to carry Mr Cupples if he should again talk of falling behind. We need scarcely say that Wandering Will was quite equal to the occasion. Besides being a powerful fellow for his age, he was lithe, active, and hopeful, and, having been accustomed to hill-climbing from boyhood, could have left the whole party behind with ease.

Grey dawn found the fugitives far up the sides of the mountains -- fairly lost, as Muggins said, in a waste howlin' wilderness. It was sunrise when they reached the top of a high cliff that commanded a magnificent view of land and sea.

"A good place this for us," said the captain, wiping his forehead as he sat down on a piece of rock. "The pass up to it is narrow; two or three stout fellows could hold it against an army of savages."

"Av there was only a cave now for to live in," said Larry, looking round him.

"Wot's that?" exclaimed Muggins, pointing to a hole in the perpendicular cliff a short distance above the spot where they stood. -- "Ain't that a cave?"

Will Osten clambered up and disappeared in the hole. Soon after he re-appeared with the gratifying intelligence that it was a cave, and a capital dry one; whereupon they all ascended, with some difficulty, and took possession of their new home.



Chapter Twelve.

Shows How South Sea Missionaries Do Their Work, And That If The Whites Can Surprise The Natives The Latter Can Sometimes Astonish The Whites!

For three months did Wandering Will and his friends remain concealed in the mountains. Of course they were pursued and diligently sought for by the natives, and undoubtedly they would have been discovered had the search been continued for any length of time, but to their great surprise, after the first week of their flight, the search was apparently given up. At all events, from that period they saw nothing more of the natives, and gradually became more fearless in venturing to ramble from the cave in search of food. They puzzled over the matter greatly, for, to say the least of it, there appeared to be something mysterious in the total indifference so suddenly manifested towards them by the savages; but although many were the guesses made, they were very far from hitting on the real cause.

During this period they subsisted on the numerous fruits and vegetables which grew wild in great abundance on the island, and spent their days in gathering them and hunting wild pigs and snaring birds. As Larry was wont to observe with great satisfaction, and, usually, with his mouth full of victuals -- 

"Sure it's the hoith o' livin' we have -- what with cocky-nuts, an' taros an' bananas, an' young pigs for the killin', an' ginger-beer for the drinkin', an' penny loaves growin' on the trees for nothin', wid no end o' birds, an' pots ready bilin', night an' day, to cook 'em in -- och! it would be hiven intirely but for the dirty savages, bad luck to 'em!"

There was more truth in Larry's remark than may be apparent at first sight. Vegetation was not only prolific and beautiful everywhere, but exceedingly fruitful. The bread-fruit tree in particular supplied them with more than they required of a substance that was nearly as palatable and nutritious as bread. Captain Dall fortunately knew the method of cooking it in an oven, for the uncooked fruit is not eatable. The milk of the young cocoa-nuts was what the facetious Irishman referred to under the name of ginger-beer; but his remark about boiling pots was literally correct. The summit of that mountainous island was, as we have already said, an active volcano, from which sulphurous fumes were constantly issuing -- sometimes gently, and occasionally with violence.

Several of the springs in the neighbourhood were hot -- a few being almost at the boiling point, so that it was absolutely possible to boil the wild pigs and birds which they succeeded in capturing, without the use of a fire! Strange to say, they also found springs of clear cold water not far from the hot springs.

There is a species of thin tough bark round the upper part of the stem of the cocoa-nut palm -- a sort of natural cloth -- which is much used by the South Sea islanders. Of this they fashioned some rude but useful garments.

"It seems curious, doesn't it," said Will Osten to Captain Dall, one day, referring to these things and the beauty of the island, "that the Almighty should make such a terrestrial paradise as this, and leave it to be used, or rather abused, by such devils in human shape?"

"I'm not sure," answered the captain slowly, "that we are right in saying that He has left it to be so abused. I'm afraid that it is we who are to blame in the matter."

"How so?" exclaimed Will, in surprise.

"You believe the Bible to be the Word of God, don't you?" said Captain Dall somewhat abruptly, "and that its tendency is to improve men?"

"Of course I do; how can you ask such a question?"

"Did you ever," continued the captain pointedly, "hear of a text that says something about going and teaching all nations, and have, you ever given anything to send missionaries with the Bible to these islands?"

"I -- I can't say I ever have," replied Will, with a smile and a slight blush.

"No more have I, lad," said the captain, smiting his knee emphatically; "the thought has only entered my head for the first time, but I do think that it is we who leave islands such as this to be abused by the human devils you speak of, and who, moreover, are not a whit worse -- nay, not so bad -- as many civilised human devils, who, in times not long past, and under the cloak of religion, have torn men and tender women limb from limb, and bound them at the stake, and tortured them on the rack, in order to make them swallow a false creed."

This was the commencement of one of the numerous discussions on religion, philosophy, and politics, with which the echoes of that cavern were frequently awakened after the somewhat fatiguing labours of each day's chase were over, for a true Briton is the same everywhere. He is a reasoning (if you will, an argumentative) animal, and our little band of fugitives in those mountain fastnesses was no exception to the rule.

Meanwhile, two events occurred at the native village which require notice. Their occurrence was not observed by our friends in hiding, because the summit of the mountain completely shut out their view in that direction, and they never wandered far from their place of retreat.

The first event was very sad, and is soon told. One morning a schooner anchored off the village, and a party of armed seamen landed, the leader of whom, through the medium of an interpreter, had an interview with the chief. He wished to be permitted to cut sandal-wood, and an agreement was entered into. After a considerable quantity had been cut and sent on board, the chief wanted payment. This was refused on some trivial ground. The savages remonstrated. The white men threatened, and the result was that the latter were driven into their boats. They pulled off to their vessel, loaded a large brass gun that occupied the centre of the schooner's deck, and sent a shower of cannister shot among the savages, killing and wounding not only many of the men, but some of the women and children who chanced to be on the skirt of the wood. They then set sail, and, as they coasted along, fired into several villages, the people of which had nothing to do with their quarrel.

Only a week after this event another little schooner anchored off the village. It was a missionary ship, sent by the London Missionary Society to spread the good news of salvation through Christ among the people. Some time before, a native teacher -- one who, on another island, had embraced Christianity, and been carefully instructed in its leading truths -- had been sent to this island, and was well received; but, war having broken out, the chief had compelled him to leave. A second attempt was now being made, and this time an English missionary with his wife and daughter were about to trust themselves in the hands of the savages.

They could not have arrived at a worse time. The islanders, still smarting under a sense of the wrong and cruelty so recently done them, rushed upon the little boat of the schooner, brandishing clubs and spears, the instant it touched the land, and it was with the utmost difficulty that the missionary prevailed on them to stay their hands and give him a hearing. He soon explained the object of his visit, and, by distributing a few presents, so far mollified the people that he was allowed to land, but it was plain that they regarded him with distrust. The tide was turned in the missionary's favour, however, by the runaway sailor, Buchanan, or Bukawanga. That worthy happened at the time to be recovering slowly from the effects of the wound he had received in the fight, which had so nearly proved to be his last. On hearing of the arrival of strangers he feared that the savages would kill them out of revenge, and hastened, weak and ill though he was, to meet, and, if possible, protect them. His efforts were successful. He managed to convince the natives that among Christians there were two classes -- those who merely called themselves by the name, and those who really did their best to practise Christianity; that the sandal-wood traders probably did not even pretend to the name, but that those who had just arrived would soon give proof that they were of a very different spirit. The result of this explanation was, that the chiefs agreed to receive the missionary, who accordingly landed with his family, and with all that was necessary for the establishment of a mission.

Those who have not read of missionary enterprise in the South Seas can form no conception of the difficulties that missionaries have to contend with, and the dangers to which they are exposed on the one hand, and, on the other, the rapidity with which success is sometimes vouchsafed to them. In some instances, they have passed years in the midst of idolatry and bloody rites, the mere recital of which causes one to shudder, while their lives have hung on the caprice of a volatile chief; at other times God has so signally blessed their efforts that a whole tribe has adopted Christianity in the course of a few weeks. Misunderstand us not, reader. We do not say that they all became true Christians; nevertheless it is a glorious fact that such changes have occurred; that idolatry has been given up and Christianity embraced within that short period, and that the end has been the civilisation of the people; doubtless, also, the salvation of some immortal souls.

In about two months after their arrival a marvellous change had taken place in the village.

The natives, like very children, came with delight to be taught the use of the white man's tools, and to assist in clearing land and building a cottage. When this was finished, a small church was begun. It was this busy occupation that caused the savages to forget, for a time, the very existence of Wandering Will and his friends; and if Bukawanga thought of them, it was to conclude that they had taken refuge with one of the tribes on the other side of the island.

That which seemed to amuse and delight the natives most in the new arrivals was the clothing which was distributed among them. They proved very untractable, however, in the matter of putting it on. One man insisted on putting the body of a dress which had been meant for his wife on his own nether limbs -- thrusting his great feet through the sleeves, and thereby splitting them to the shoulder. Another tied a tippet round his waist, and a woman was found strutting about in a pair of fisherman's boots, and a straw bonnet with the back to the front!

One of the chiefs thus absurdly arrayed was the means of letting the fugitive white men have an idea that something strange had occurred at the village. This man had appropriated a scarlet flannel petticoat which had been presented to his mother, and, putting it on with the waist-band tied round his neck, sallied forth to hunt in the mountains. He was suddenly met by Larry O'Hale and Will Osten.

"Musha! 'tis a ow-rangy-tang!" cried the Irishman.

His companion burst into a fit of loud laughter. The terrified native turned to flee, but Larry darted after him, tripped up his heels, and held him down.

"Kape quiet, won't ye?" he said, giving the struggling man a severe punch on the chest.

The savage thought it best to obey. Being allowed to get on his legs he was blindfolded, and then, with Will grasping him on one side, and the Irishman on the other, he was led up to the mountain-cave, and introduced to the family circle there, just as they were about to sit down to their mid-day meal.



Chapter Thirteen.

Remarkable Changes For The Better.

It will not surprise the reader to be told that the savage with the red flannel petticoat tied round his neck was received with shouts of laughter by the inmates of the cave, and that his costume filled them with mingled feelings of astonishment and curiosity. The information obtained from him by signs did not enlighten them much, but it was sufficient to convince them that something unusual had occurred at the native village, and to induce Will Osten to act in accordance with his favourite motto.

"I tell you what, comrades," said he, after a few minutes' deliberation, "I have made up my mind to go back to the village with this red-coated gentleman, and see whether they are all decked out in the same fashion. To tell the truth, I have been thinking for some time back that we have been living here to no purpose -- "

"Only hear that, now," said Larry O'Hale, interrupting; "haven't we bin livin' like fightin' cocks, an' gettin' as fat as pigs? Why, Mr Cupples hisself begins to throw a shadow on the ground whin the sun's pretty strong; an' as for Muggins there -- "

"You let Muggins alone," growled the seaman; "if we are fatterer, p'raps it'll only be for the good o' the niggers when they come to eat us."

"Well, well," said Will; "at all events we shall never escape from this place by remaining here -- ('True for ye,' said Larry) -- therefore I shall go to the village, as I have said. If they receive me, well and good; I will return to you. If not -- why, that's the end of me, and you'll have to look out for yourselves."

As usual an energetic discussion followed this announcement. The captain said it was madness, Mr Cupples shook his head and groaned, Muggins thought that they should all go together and take their chance, and Larry protested that he would sooner be eaten alive than allow his comrade to go without him; but in time Will Osten convinced them all that his plan was best.

What would be the good of the whole of them being killed together, he said -- better that the risk should fall on one, and that the rest should have a chance of escape. Besides, he was the best runner of the party, and, if he should manage to wriggle out of the clutches of the savages, would be quite able to outrun them and regain the cave. At length the youth's arguments and determination prevailed, and in the afternoon he set off accompanied by his sable friend in female attire.

On nearing the village, the first thing that greeted the eyes of our hero was a savage clothed in a yellow cotton vest and a blue jacket, both of which were much too small for him; he also had the leg of a chair hung round his neck by way of ornament.

This turned out to be the principal chief of the village, Thackombau, and a very proud man he obviously was on that occasion. To refrain from smiling, and embrace this fellow by rubbing noses with him, was no easy matter, but Will Osten did it nevertheless. While they were endeavouring to converse by signs, Will was suddenly bereft of speech and motion by the unexpected appearance of a white man -- a gentleman clothed in sombre costume -- on whose arm leaned a pleasant-faced lady! The gentleman smiled on observing the young man's gaze of astonishment, and advancing, held out his hand.

Will Osten grasped and shook it, but still remained speechless.

"Doubtless you are one of the party who escaped into the hills lately?" said the gentleman.

"Indeed I am, sir," replied Will, finding words at last, and bowing to the lady; "but from what star have you dropt? for, when I left the village, there were none but savages in it!"

"I dropt from the Star of Hope," answered the gentleman, laughing. "You have hit the mark, young sir, nearer than you think, for that is the name of the vessel that brought me here. I am a missionary; my name is Westwood; and I am thankful to say I have been successful in making a good commencement on this island. This is my wife -- allow me to introduce you -- and if you will come with me to my cottage -- "

"Cottage!" exclaimed Will.

"Ay, 'tis a good and pretty one, too, notwithstanding the short time we took to build it. The islanders are smart fellows when they have a mind to labour, and it is wonderful what an amount can be done when the Lord prospers the work. These good fellows," added the missionary, casting a glance at the two natives, "who, as you see, are somewhat confused in their ideas about dress, have already done me much service in the building of the church -- "

"Church!" echoed Will.

Again the missionary laughed, and, offering his arm to his wife, turned towards the village, saying -- 

"Come, Mr Osten -- you see I know your name, having heard of you from your friend Buchanan -- come, I will show you what we have been about while you were absent; but first -- tell me -- how fares it with your comrades?"

Will Osten at once entered into a full account of the doings of himself and his friends, and had just concluded, when he was once more rendered speechless by the sight of the missionary's cottage. It was almost the realisation of the waking dream which had captivated him so much on the evening when the storm arose that proved fatal to the Foam. He was still gazing at it in silent admiration, listening to an enthusiastic account of the zeal and kindness of the natives who helped to build it, when a young girl, apparently bordering on seventeen or eighteen years of age, with nut-brown curls, rosy cheeks, and hazel eyes, sprang out and hastened to meet them.

"Oh, father," she exclaimed, while the colour of her face came and went fitfully, "I'm so glad you have come! The natives have been so -- so -- "

"Not rude to you, Flora, surely?" interrupted the missionary.

"No, not exactly rude, but, but -- "

Flora could not explain! The fact turned out to be that, never having seen any woman so wonderfully and bewitchingly beautiful before, the natives had crowded uninvited into the cottage, and there, seated on their hams round the walls, quietly gazed at her to their hearts' content -- utterly ignorant of the fact that they were violating the rules of polite society!

Will Osten, to his disgrace be it said, violated the same rules in much the same way, for he continued to gaze at Flora in rapt admiration until Mr Westwood turned to introduce her to him.

That same evening Bukawanga, accompanied by Thackombau, went to the mountain-cave, and, having explained to its occupants the altered state of things at the village, brought them down to the mission-house where they took up their abode.

It need scarcely be said that they were hospitably received. Mr Westwood had not met with countrymen for many months, and the mere sight of white faces and the sound of English voices were pleasant to him. He entertained them with innumerable anecdotes of his experiences and adventures as a missionary, and on the following morning took them out to see the church, which had just been begun.

"Already," said Mr Westwood, as they were about to set forth after breakfast, "my wife and Flora have got up a class of women and girls, to whom they teach needle-work, and we have a large attendance of natives at our meetings on the Sabbath. A school also has been started, which is managed by a native teacher who came with me from the island of Raratonga, and most of the boys in the village attend it."

"But it does seem to me, sir," said Captain Dall, as they sauntered along, "that needle-work and book-learning can be of no use to such people."

"Not of much just now, captain, but these are only means to a great end. Already, you see, they are beginning to be clothed -- fantastically enough at present, no doubt -- and I hope ere long to see them in their right mind, through the blessed influence of the Bible. Look there," he added, pointing to an open space in the forest, where the four walls of a large wooden building were beginning to rise; "there is evidence of what the gospel of Jesus Christ can do. The labourers at that building are, many of them, bitter enemies to each other. Only yesterday we succeeded in getting some of the men of the neighbouring village to come and help us. After much persuasion they agreed, but they work with their weapons in their hands, as you see."

This was indeed the case. The men who had formerly been enemies were seen assisting to build the same church. They took care, however, to work as far from each other as possible, and were evidently distrustful, for clubs and spears were either carried in their hands, or placed within reach, while they laboured.

Fortunately, however, they restrained their passions at that time, and it is due to them to add that before that church was finished their differences were made up, and they, with all the others, ultimately completed the work in perfect harmony, without thinking it necessary to bring their clubs or spears with them.

The reader must not suppose that all missionary efforts in the South Seas have been as quickly successful as this one. The records of that interesting region tell a very different tale; nevertheless there are many islands in which the prejudices of the natives were overcome almost at the commencement, and where heathen practices seemed to melt away at once before the light of the glorious gospel.

During two months, Wandering Will and the wrecked seamen remained here assisting the missionary in his building and other operations. Then an event occurred which sent them once more afloat, and broke the spell of their happy and busy life among the islanders.



Chapter Fourteen.

Contains More Than One Surprise, And Touches On "Love's Young Dream."

One quiet and beautiful Sabbath morning, the inhabitants of the South Sea Island village wended their way to the House of God which they had so recently erected. Among them were Will Osten and his friends, with the clergyman's wife and daughter.

Poor Wandering Will was very unhappy. The sunshine was bright, the natives were blithe, and the birds were joyous, but our hero was despondent! The fact was that he had fallen head and ears in love with Flora Westwood, and he felt that he might as well have fallen in love with the moon -- as far as any chance of getting married to her was concerned. Will was therefore very miserable, and, like all ardent and very youthful lovers, he hugged his misery to his bosom -- rather enjoyed it, in fact, than otherwise. In short, if truth must be told, he took pleasure in being miserable for her sake! When he allowed himself to take romantic views of the subject, and thought of the heights of bliss that might be attained, he was, so to speak, miserably happy. When he looked the stern realities in the face, he was miserably sad.

That Sabbath morning poor Will felt more impressed than ever with the hopelessness of his case, as he walked slowly and silently to church beside the modest Flora and her mother. He also became impressed with the ridiculousness of his position, and determined to "overcome his weakness." He therefore looked at Flora with the intention of cutting a joke of some sort, but, suddenly recollecting that it was Sunday, he checked himself. Then he thought of getting into a serious talk, and was about to begin, when his eye happened to fall on Thackombau, who, in honour of the day, had got himself up with unusual care, having covered his shoulders with a cotton jacket, his loins with a lady's shawl, and his head with a white night-cap -- his dark tatooed legs forming a curious and striking contrast to the whole.

Before Will could think of another mode of opening the conversation, they had arrived at the church, and here, in front of the open door, there lay the most singular contribution that ever was offered to the cause of Christianity. Many dozens of church-door plates rolled into one enormous trencher would have been insufficient to contain it, for it was given not in money (of course) but in kind. There were a number of lengths of hollow bamboo containing cocoa-nut oil, various fine mats and pieces of native cloth, and sundry articles of an ornamental character, besides a large supply of fruits and vegetables, with four or five baked pigs, cold and ready for table! The entire pile was several feet in diameter and height, and was a freewill offering of the natives to the church -- the beginning of a liberality which was destined in future years to continue and extend -- a species of liberality which is by no means uncommon among the South Sea Islanders, for there are some of those who were savage idolators not many years ago who now give annually and largely to the support of the missions with which their churches are connected.

Larry O'Hale had just made a remark in reference to "the plate" which was not conducive to the gravity of his companions, when the echoes of the mountains were awakened by a cannon-shot, and a large ship was seen to round the point of land that stretched out to the westward of the island. Instantly the natives poured out of the church, rushed down to the shore, launched their canoes and paddled over the lagoon to meet the vessel, which, running before a stiff breeze, soon entered the natural gateway in the reef. The congregation having dispersed thus unceremoniously, the clergyman and his friends were compelled to postpone service for a time.

The ship which had created such a sensation in the village, was also the means of causing great disturbance in sundry breasts, as shall be seen. She had called for water. Being in a hurry, her captain had resolved not to waste time by conciliating the natives, but, rather, to frighten them away by a cannonade of blank cartridge, land a strong party to procure water while they were panic-stricken, and then up anchor and away. His surprise was great, therefore, when the natives came fearlessly off to him (for he had been warned to beware of them), and he was about to give them a warm reception, when he caught a glimpse of the small spire of the new church, which at once explained the cause of the change.

With rollicking good humour -- for he was a strong healthy man with a sleeping conscience -- Captain Blathers, on landing, swaggered up to the clergyman and shook him heartily and gratefully by the hand, exclaiming, with a characteristic oath, that he had not much opinion of religion in his own country, but he was bound to say it was "a first-rate institootion in the South Seas."

Mr Westwood rebuked the oath and attempted to correct the erroneous opinion, but Captain Blathers laughed, and said he knew nothing about these matters, and had no time for anything but getting fresh water just then. He added that he had "a batch of noosepapers, which he'd send ashore for the use of all and sundry."

Accordingly, off he went about his business, and left the clergyman and natives to return to church, which they all did without delay.

That night the missionary went on board the ship to see the captain and preach to the crew. While he was thus engaged, our friends, Captain Dall, Mr Cupples, O'Hale, Muggins, and Wandering Will, in a retired part of the forest, held an earnest conversation as to whether they should avail themselves of the arrival of the ship to quit the island. Captain Dall had already spoken with Captain Blathers, who said he was quite willing to let them work their passage to England.

"Now, you see, comrades," said Captain Dall, thrusting his right fist into his left palm, "the only trouble is, that he's not goin' direct home -- got to visit the coast of South America and San Francisco first, an' that will make it a long voyage."

"But, sure," said Larry, "it won't be so long as waitin' here till next year for the missionary schooner, and then goin' a viage among the islands before gettin' a chance of boording a homeward-bound ship?"

"That's so," said Muggins, with a nod of approval. "I says go, ov coorse."

Mr Cupples also signified that this was his opinion.

"And what says the doctor?" asked Captain Dall, turning to Will Osten with an inquiring look.

"Eh? well, ah!" exclaimed Will, who had been in a reverie, "I -- I don't exactly see my way to -- that is -- if we only could find out if she is -- is to remain here always, or hopes some day to return to England -- "

Poor Will stopped in sudden confusion and blushed, but as it was very dark that did not matter much.

"What does the man mean?" exclaimed Captain Dall. "How can she remain here always when she's to be off at daybreak -- ?"

"True, true," interrupted Will hurriedly, not sorry to find that his reference to Flora was supposed to be to the ship. "The fact is, I was thinking of other matters -- of course I agree with you. It's too good an opportunity to be missed, so, good-night, for I've enough to do to get ready for such an abrupt departure."

Saying this, he started up and strode rapidly away.

"Halloo!" shouted Larry after him; "don't be late -- be on the baich at daybreak. Arrah he's gone mad intirely."

"Ravin'," said Muggins, with a shake of his head as he turned the quid in his cheek.

Meanwhile Wandering Will rushed he knew not whither, but a natural impulse led him, in the most natural way, to the quiet bay, which he knew to be Flora's favourite walk on moonlight nights! The poor youth's brain was whirling with conflicting emotions. As he reached the bay, the moon, strange to say, broke forth in great splendour, and revealed --  what! -- could it be? -- yes, the graceful figure of Flora! "Never venture," thought Will, "never -- "

In another moment he was by her side; he seized her hand; she started, suppressed a scream, and tried to free her hand, but Will held it fast. "Forgive me, Flora, dearest girl," he said in impassioned tones, "I would not dare to act thus, but at daybreak I leave this island, perhaps for ever! yet I cannot go without telling you that I love you to distraction, that -- that -- oh! say tell me -- "

At that moment he observed that Flora blushed, smiled in a peculiar manner, and, instead of looking in his face, glanced over his shoulder, as if at some object behind him. Turning quickly round, he beheld Thackombau, still decked out in his Sunday clothes, gazing at them in open-mouthed amazement.

Almost mad with rage, Will Osten rushed at him. The astonished savage fled to the woods, Will followed, and in a few minutes lost himself! How he passed that night he never could tell; all that he could be sure of was that he had wandered about in distraction, and emerged upon the shore about daybreak. His appointment suddenly recurring to him, he ran swiftly in the direction of the village. As he drew near he observed a boat pushing off from the shore.

"Howld on!" shouted a well-known voice; "sure it's himself after all."

"Come along, young sir, you're late, and had well-nigh lost your passage," growled Captain Blathers.

Will jumped into the boat and in a few minutes found himself on board the Rover, which, by the time he reached it, was under weigh and making for the opening in the reef.

Another hour, and the island was a mere speck on the horizon. Gradually it faded from view; and the good ship, bending over to the freshening breeze, bounded lightly away over the billows of the mighty sea.

<eob>

Elsie At Viamede

By

Martha Finley



Chapter I.


IT was a beautiful evening at Viamede: the sun nearing its setting, shadows sleeping here and there upon the velvety flower-bespangled lawn, and filling the air with their delicious perfume, the waters of the bayou beyond reflecting the roseate hues of the sunset clouds, and the song of some negro oarsmen, in a passing boat, coming to the ear in pleasantly mellowed tones. Tea was over, and the family had all gathered upon the veranda overlooking the bayou. A momentary silence was broken by Rosie's pleasant voice:

"Mamma, I wish you or grandpa, or the captain, would tell the story of Jackson's defence of New Orleans. Now while we are in the neighborhood we would all, I feel sure, find it very interesting. I think you have been going over Lossing's account of it, mamma," she added laughingly, "for I found his 'Pictorial History of the War of 1812' lying on the table in your room, with a mark in at that part."

"Yes, I had been refreshing my memory in that way," returned her mother, smiling pleasantly into the dark eyes gazing so fondly and entreatingly into hers. "And," she added, "I have no objection to granting your request, except that I do not doubt that either your grandfather or the captain could do greater justice to the subject than I," glancing inquiringly from one to the other.

"Captain, I move that you undertake the task," said Mr. Dinsmore. "You are, no doubt, better prepared to do it justice than I, and I would not have my daughter fatigued with the telling of so long a story."

"Always so kindly careful of me, my dear father," remarked Mrs. Travilla in a softly spoken aside.

"I am doubtful of my better preparation for the telling of the story, sir," returned the captain in his pleasant tones, "but if both you and mother are disinclined for the exertion I am willing to undertake the task."

"Yes, do, captain; do, papa," came in eager tones from several young voices, and lifting baby Ned to one knee, Elsie to the other, while the rest of the young members of the household grouped themselves about him, he began his story after a slight pause to collect his thoughts.

"You all, I think, have more or less knowledge of the War of 1812-14, which finished the work of separation from the mother country so nearly accomplished by the War of the Revolution. Upon the close of that earlier contest, England, it is true, acknowledged our independence, but evidently retained a hope of finally recovering her control here.

"All through the intervening years, our sailors on our merchant vessels, and even, in some instances, those belonging to our navy, were subjected to insults and oppression when met on the high seas by the more powerful ones of the English. The conduct of British officers -- claiming the right to search our vessels for deserters from theirs, and often seizing American born men as such -- was most gallingly insulting; the wrongs thus inflicted upon our poor seamen were enough to rouse the anger and indignation of the meekest of men. The clearest proofs of citizenship availed nothing; they were seized, carried forcibly aboard the British ships, and, if they refused to serve their captors, were brutally flogged again and again.

"But I will not go into details with which you are all more or less acquainted. We did not lack abundant cause for exasperation, and at length, though ill prepared for the struggle, our government declared war against Great Britain.

"That war had lasted two years; both parties were weary of the struggle, and negotiations for peace were being carried on in Europe. In fact the treaty had been signed, December 24, in the city of Ghent, Belgium, but news did not travel in those days nearly so fast as it does now, and so it happened that the battle of New Orleans was fought two weeks afterward, January 8, 1815, both armies being still in ignorance of the conclusion of peace."

"What a pity!" exclaimed Grace.

"And Andrew Jackson was the commanding general?" remarked Walter in a tone between inquiry and assertion. "Was he an American by birth, Brother Levis?"

"Yes; his parents were from Ireland, but he was born on the border between North and South Carolina, in 1767; so that he was old enough to remember some of the occurrences of the Revolutionary War; one of them being himself carried to Camden, South Carolina, as a prisoner, and there nearly starved to death and brutally treated by a British officer; cut with a sword because he refused to black his boots for him."

"Was that so, sir?" queried Walter. "Well, I shouldn't wonder if the recollection of all that made him more ready to fight them in the next war, particularly at New Orleans, than he would have been otherwise."

"No doubt," returned the captain. "Jackson was a man of great energy, determination, and persistence. It is said his maxim was, 'till all is done nothing is done.' In May of 1814 he was made a major-general in the regular army and appointed to the command of the Department of the South, the Seventh Military District, with his headquarters at Mobile, of which the Americans had taken possession as early as April, 1812.

"Jackson's vigilance was sleepless. The Spanish had possession of Pensacola, and, though professing neutrality, were secretly favoring the British. Of this Jackson promptly informed our government, but at that time our War Department was strangely apathetic, and his communication was not responded to in any way.

"But he had trusty spies, both white and dark-skinned, everywhere, who kept him informed of all that was taking place in the whole region around. He knew that British marines were allowed to land and encamp on shore; that Edward Nichols, their commander, was a guest of the Spanish governor, and the British flag was unfurled over one of the forts. Also, that Indians were invited to enroll themselves in the service of the British crown, and that Nichols had sent out a general order to his soldiers, and a proclamation to the people of Kentucky and Louisiana, announcing that the land and naval forces at Pensacola were only the van of a far larger number of vessels and troops which were intended for the subjugation of Louisiana and especially the city of New Orleans.

"Jackson arrived in that city on the 2d of December, and prepared to defend it from the British, whom he had driven out of Florida. They had planned to take the lower Mississippi Valley, intending to keep possession of the western bank of the river. They had among them some of the finest of Wellington's troops, who, but a short time before, had been engaged in driving Napoleon out of Europe.

"In December, 12,000 men under the command of Sir Edward Packenham, brother-in-law of Wellington, were landed below New Orleans. They had come from Jamaica across the Gulf of Mexico. Their expedition was a secret one, and they approached New Orleans midway between Mobile Bay and the Mississippi River, entering Lake Borgne and anchoring there.

"A small American navy, composed of five gunboats, opposed their progress, but was soon dispersed by their superior force of fifty vessels, large and small. Then the British took full possession of the lake, and landed troops upon a lonely island called the Isle des Pois (or Pea Island).

"Some Spaniards, who had formerly lived in New Orleans, told Cochrane of Bayou Bienvenu, at the northwestern extremity of Lake Borgne, by which he could nearly reach the city, the bayou being navigable for large barges to within a few miles of the Mississippi River.

"A party was sent to explore it, and found that by following it and a canal they would reach a spot but half a mile from the river and nine miles below the city.

"They hurried back to Cochrane with a report to that effect, and by the 23d of December half of the army had reached the spot.

"A few months before -- September 1st -- the British sloop of war Sophia, commanded by Captain Lockyer, had sailed from Pensacola with despatches for Jean Lafitte, inviting him and his band to enter the British service."

"Lafitte! Who was he, Brother Levis?" queried Walter.

"A Frenchman," replied the captain, "who, with his elder brother, Pierre, had come to New Orleans some six years before. They were blacksmiths, and for a time worked at their trade; but afterward they engaged in smuggling, and were leaders of a band of corsairs, seizing, it was said, merchantmen of different nations, even some belonging to the people of the United States, and for that they were outlawed, though there was some doubt that they were really guilty. But they carried on a contraband trade with some of the citizens of Louisiana, smuggling their wares into New Orleans through Bayou Teche, or Bayou Lafourche and Barataria Lake. That had brought them into trouble with the United States authorities, and the British thought to get the help of the buccaneers in their intended attack upon the city, where Pierre Lafitte was at that time a prisoner.

"Captain Lockyer carried to Jean a letter from Colonel Nichols offering him a captain's commission in the British Navy and $30,000, and to his followers exemption from punishment for past deeds, indemnification for any losses, and rewards in money and lands, if they would go into the service of England's king.

"Lockyer also brought another paper, in which they were threatened with extermination if they refused the offers in the first."

"Were they frightened and bribed into doing what the British wished, sir?" asked Walter.

"No," replied the captain; "they seized Captain Lockyer and his officers, and threatened to carry them to New Orleans as prisoners of war; but Lafitte persuaded them to give that up, and they released the officers. Lafitte pretended to treat with them, asking them to come back for his reply in ten days, and they were permitted to depart.

"After they had gone, he wrote to a member of the legislature telling of the visit of the British officers, what they had said to him and his men, and sending with his letter the papers Captain Lockyer had left with him. He also offered his own and his men's services in defence of the city, on condition that past offences should never be brought up against them.

"Troops were badly needed in the American army, and Governor Claiborne was inclined to accept Lafitte's offer; but the majority of his officers were opposed to so doing, thinking the papers sent were forgeries, and the story made up to prevent the destruction of the colony of outlaws, against whom an expedition was then fitting out. Lafitte knew of the preparations, but supposed they were for an attack upon the British. They, the members of the expedition, made a sudden descent upon Barataria, captured a large number of Lafitte's men, and carried them and a rich booty to New Orleans.

"Some of the Baratarians escaped, Jean and Pierre Lafitte among them. They soon collected their men again near the mouth of Bayou Lafourche, and after General Jackson took command in New Orleans, again offered their services, which Jackson accepted, sending a part to man the redoubts on the river, and forming of the rest a corps which served the batteries with great skill.

"In his letter at the time of sending information with regard to the attempt of the British to bribe him to enter their service, Jean Lafitte said: 'Though proscribed in my adopted country, I will never miss an occasion of serving her, or of proving that she has never ceased to be dear to me.'"

"There!" exclaimed Lulu with enthusiasm, "I don't believe he was such a very bad man, after all."

"Nor do I," her father said with a slight smile; then went on with his story.

"Early on the 15th of December, Jackson, hearing of the capture of the gunboats, immediately set to work to fortify the city and make every possible preparation to repulse the expected attack of the enemy. He sent word to General Winchester, in command at Mobile, to be on the alert, and messengers to Generals Thomas and Coffee urging them to hasten with their commands to assist in the defence of the city.

"Then he appointed, for the 18th, a grand review of all the troops in front of the Cathedral of St. Louis, in what is now Jackson Square, but at that time was called Place d'Armes.

"All the people turned out to see the review. The danger was great, the military force with which to meet the foe small and weak, but Jackson made a stirring address, and his aide, Edward Livingston, read a thrilling and eloquent one.

"They were successful in rousing both troops and populace to an intense enthusiasm, taking advantage of which, Jackson declared martial law and a suspension of the writ of habeas corpus."

"What is that, papa?" asked Grace.

"It is a writ which in ordinary times may be given by a judge to have a prisoner brought before him that he may inquire into the cause of his detention and have him released if unlawfully detained. It is a most important safeguard to liberty, inherited by us from our English ancestors."

"Then what right had Jackson to suspend it, sir?" queried Walter.

"A right given by the constitution of the United States, in which there is an express provision that it may be suspended in cases of rebellion or invasion, should the public safety demand it," replied the captain: then resumed his narrative.

"After the review, Jean Lafitte again offered his own services and those of his men, urging their acceptance, and they were mustered into the ranks and appointed to important duty.

"Jackson showed himself sleeplessly vigilant and wonderfully active, making every possible preparation to meet and repulse every coming foe.

"On the evening of the 23d, the schooner Carolina, one of the two armed American vessels in the river, moved down and anchored within musket shot of the centre of the British camp. Half an hour later she opened a tremendous fire upon them from her batteries, and in ten minutes had killed or wounded a hundred or more men. The British answered with a shower of Congreve rockets and bullets, but with little or no effect, and in less than half an hour were driven in confusion from their camp.

"They had scarcely recovered from that when they were startled by the sound of musketry in the direction of their outposts. Some prisoners whom General Keane had taken told him there were more than 12,000 troops in New Orleans, and he now felt convinced that such was the fact. He gave Thornton full liberty to do as he would.

"Thornton moved forward and was presently met by a column under Jackson. There was some fierce fighting, and at length the British fell sullenly back. About half past nine the fighting was over; but two hours later, when all was becoming quiet in the camp, musket firing was heard in the distance. Some drafted militia, under General David Morgan, had heard the firing upon the Carolina early in the evening, insisted upon being led against the enemy, and on their way had met some British pickets at Jumonsville and exchanged shots with them. By that advance against the foe, Jackson had saved New Orleans for the time, and now he set vigorously to work to prepare for another attack, for he knew there would be another. Also, that the men who were to make it were fresh from the battlefields of Europe -- veteran troops not likely to be easily conquered or driven away. He omitted nothing which it was in his power to do for the defence of the city, setting his soldiers to casting up intrenchments along the line of the canal from the river to Cypress Swamp. They were in excellent spirits, and plied their spades with such energy and zeal that by sunset a breastwork three feet high might be seen along the whole line of his army.

"The American troops were quite hilarious on that Christmas eve, the British soldiers gloomy and disheartened, having lost confidence in their commander, Keane, and finding themselves on wet ground, under a clouded sky, and in a chilly atmosphere; but the sudden arrival of their new commander, Sir Edward Packenham, in whose skill and bravery they had great confidence, filled them with joy.

"But while the Americans were at work preparing for the coming conflict, the foe were not idle; day and night they were busy getting ready a heavy battery with which to attack the Carolina. On the morning of the 27th, they had it finished, began firing hot shot upon her from a howitzer and several twelve and eighteen pounders, and soon succeeded in setting her on fire, so that she blew up.

"It was a tremendous explosion, but fortunately her crew had abandoned her in time to escape it. The Louisiana, who had come down to her aid, was near sharing her fate, but, by great exertion on the part of her crew, she was towed out of reach of the enemy's shot, anchored nearly abreast of the American camp, on the other side of the river, and so saved to take a gallant part in the next day's fight. Packenham next ordered his men to move forward and carry the intrenchments of the Americans by storm. They numbered 8000, and toward evening the two columns, commanded respectively by Generals Gibbs and Keane, obeyed that order, moving forward, driving in the American pickets and outposts, and at twilight they encamped, some of them seeking repose while others began raising batteries near the river.

"The Americans, however, kept them awake by quick, sharp attacks, which the British called 'barbarian warfare.'"

"Barbarian warfare, indeed!" sniffed Walter. "I wonder if it was half so barbarous as what they employed the Indians to do to our people."

"Ah, but you must remember that it makes a vast difference who does what, Walter," laughed Rosie.

"Oh, yes, of course," returned the lad; and Captain Raymond went on with his story.

"Jackson was busy getting ready to receive the enemy: watching their movements through a telescope, planting heavy guns, blowing up some buildings that would have interfered with the sweep of his artillery, and calling some Louisiana militia from the rear. By the time the British were ready to attack, he had 4000 men and twenty pieces of artillery ready to receive them. Also the Louisiana was in a position to use her cannon with effect in giving them a warm reception.

"As soon as the fog of early morning had passed away, they could be seen approaching in two columns, while a party of skirmishers, sent out by Gibbs, were ordered to turn the left flank of the Americans and attack their rear.

"Just then a band of rough looking men came down the road from the direction of the city. They were Baratarians, who had run all the way from Fort St. John to take part in the fight, and Jackson was delighted to see them. He put them in charge of the twenty-four pounders and they did excellent service.

"Next came the crew of the Carolina, under Lieutenants Norris and Crawley, and they were given charge of the howitzer on the right. A galling fire of musketry fell upon the British as they advanced in solid column, then the batteries of the Louisiana and some of Jackson's heavy guns swept their lines with deadly effect, one of the shots from the Louisiana killing and wounding fifteen men. The British rocketeers were busy on their side, too, but succeeded in inflicting very little damage upon the Americans.

"But I must leave the rest of the story for another time, for I see we are about to have company," concluded the captain, as a carriage was seen coming swiftly up the driveway. It brought callers who remained until the hour for the retiring of the younger ones among his hearers.



Chapter II.


THE next evening the Viamede family were again gathered upon the veranda, and, at the urgent request of the younger portion, seconded by that of the older ones, the captain resumed the thread of his narrative.

"Keane's men," he said, "could no longer endure the terrible fire that was so rapidly thinning their ranks, and they were presently ordered to seek shelter in the little canals, where, in mud and water almost waist deep, they leaned forward, concealing themselves in the rushes which grew on the banks. They were Wellington's veterans, and must have felt humiliated enough to be thus compelled to flee before a few rough backwoodsmen, as they considered Jackson's troops.

"In the meantime, Gibbs and Rennie were endeavoring to flank the American left, driving in the pickets till they were within a hundred yards of Carroll and his Tennesseeans. Carroll perceived their object and sent Colonel Henderson with 200 Tennesseeans to cut Rennie off from the main body of the enemy by gaining his rear. Henderson went too far, met a large British force, and he and five of his men were killed and several wounded. But Gibbs, seeing how hard the fight was going with Keane, ordered Rennie to fall back to his assistance. Rennie reluctantly obeyed, but only to be a witness of Keane's repulse. Packenham, deeply mortified by the unexpected disaster to his veterans, presently ordered his men to fall back, and retired to his headquarters at Villere's."

"Had he lost many of his men that day, sir?" queried Walter.

"The British loss in the engagement is said to have been about one hundred and fifty," replied Captain Raymond; "that of the Americans nine killed and eight wounded. Packenham called a council of war, at which it was resolved to bring heavy siege guns from the navy and with them make another attempt to conquer the Americans and get possession of the city, which Packenham now began to see to be by no means the easy task he had at first imagined. He perceived that it was difficult, dangerous, and would require all the skill of which he was master; that his movements must be both courageous and persevering if he would save his army from destruction.

"Jackson, too, was busy with his preparations, extending his line of intrenchments, placing guns, establishing batteries, and appointing those who were to command and work them.

"A company of young men from the best families, under Captain Ogden, were made his body-guard and subject to his orders alone. They were posted in Macarte's garden.

"Everybody was full of enthusiasm, active and alert. Particularly so were the Tennessee riflemen; they delighted in going on 'hunts,' as they called expeditions to pick off the sentinels of the enemy. So successful were they in this kind of warfare on Jackson's left, very near the swamp, that soon the British dared not post sentinels there. They (the British) threw up a strong redoubt there which Captain You and Lieutenant Crawley constantly battered with heavy shot from their cannon; but the British persevered, and by the end of the month had mounted several heavy guns, with which, on the 31st, they began a vigorous fire upon the Americans.

"That night the whole of the British army moved forward to within a few hundred yards of the American lines, and in the gloom, began rapid work with spade and pickaxe. They brought up siege guns from the lake, and before dawn had finished three half-moon batteries at nearly equal distances apart, and six hundred yards from the American line.

"They (the batteries) were made of earth, hogsheads of sugar, and whatever else could be laid hold of that would answer the purpose. Upon them they placed thirty pieces of heavy ordnance, manned by picked gunners of the fleet, who had served under Nelson, Collingwood, and St. Vincent.

"That morning was the 1st of January, 1815. A thick fog hid the two armies from each other until after eight o'clock. Then a gentle breeze blew it aside, and the British began firing briskly upon the American works, doubtless feeling sure they would presently scatter them to the winds, and that their own army, placed ready in battle array, would then rush forward, overpower the Americans, and take the city.

"Heavier and heavier grew their bombardment; the rocketeers sent an incessant shower of fiery missiles into the American lines and upon Jackson's headquarters at Macarte's, more than a hundred balls, shells, and rockets striking the building in the course of ten minutes. He and his staff immediately left the house, and in the meantime he had opened his heavy guns on the assailants.

"The British were amazed to find heavy artillery thundering along the whole line, and wondered how and where the Americans had got their guns and gunners.

"It was a terrible fight. Packenham sent a detachment of infantry to turn the American left, but they were driven back in terror by the Tennesseeans under Coffee. After that, the conflict was between the batteries alone, and before noon the fire of the British had sensibly abated. Then they abandoned their works and fled helter-skelter to the ditches for safety; for their demi-lunes were crushed and broken, the hogsheads, of which they were largely composed, having been reduced to splinters and the sugar that had filled them mixed with the earth. Some of their guns were dismounted, others careened so that it was very difficult to work them, while the fire of the Americans was still unceasing. At noon, as I have said, they gave up the contest. That night they crawled back and carried away some of their cannon, dragging them with difficulty over the wet ground, and leaving five of them a spoil to the Americans.

"They (the British) were deeply chagrined by their repulse, had eaten nothing for sixty hours, nor had any sleep in all that time, so that their New Year's Day was even gloomier than their Christmas had been.

"The Americans, on the other hand, were full of joy that they had been able to repulse their own and their country's foes; and their happiness was increased by the news that they were soon to have a re-enforcement, Brigadier-General John Adair arriving with the glad tidings that 2000 drafted militia from Kentucky were coming to their assistance. These arrived on the 4th of the month, and 700 of them were sent to the front under Adair.

"Packenham had lost some of his confidence in the ability of himself and his troops to conquer the Americans, but hoped to be more successful in a new effort. He decided to try to carry Jackson's lines on both sides of the river. He resolved to rebuild his two batteries near the levee, which had been destroyed by the Americans, mount them well, and employ them in assailing the American right, while Keane, with his corps, was to advance with fascines to fill the ditches, and scaling ladders with which to mount the embankments.

"But first 1500 infantry, with some artillery, were to be sent under cover of night to attack Morgan, whose works were but feebly manned, and, getting possession, enfilade Jackson's line, while the main British army attacked it in front.

"All the labor of completing these arrangements was finished on the 7th, and the army, now 10,000 strong, was in fine spirits, no doubt thinking they had an easy task before them. But Jackson saw through their designs, and was busily engaged in making his preparations. He had thrown up a redoubt on the edge of the river, and mounted it with cannon so as to enfilade the ditch in front of his line. He had, besides, eight batteries at proper distances from each other, and Patterson's marine battery across the river, mounting nine guns; also the Louisiana near at hand and ready to take any part she could in assisting him.

"The plain of Chalmette was in front of Jackson's line. His whole force on the New Orleans side of the river was about 5000; only 2200 of them were at his line; only 800 of them were regulars, most of them being new recruits commanded by young officers.

"The British attempted to carry out Packenham's plans, but Thornton was delayed in reaching Morgan by the falling of the water in the canal and river, so that the sailors had to drag the boats through the mud in many places, and it was three o'clock in the morning before half his force had crossed. Besides, the powerful current of the Mississippi carried them down stream, and they were landed at least a mile and a half below the point at which they had intended to disembark, and the roar of the cannon on the plain of Chalmette was heard before all had landed. The British had formed in line and advanced to within 450 yards of the American intrenchments, and there, under Gibbs and Keane, they stood in the darkness, fog, and chilly air, listening for the boom of Thornton's guns.

"The time must have seemed long to them, and doubtless they wondered what delayed him. But day began to dawn, the red coats of the enemy could be dimly seen by our troops through the fog, and Lieutenant Spotswood, of battery No. 7, opened the battle by sending one of his heavy shots in among them.

"The fog rolled away, and the British line was seen extending two-thirds of the distance across the plain of Chalmette. A rocket was sent up from each end of the line and it broke into fragments, the men forming into columns by companies. Then Gibbs moved forward toward the wooded swamp, his troops, as they advanced, terribly pelted by the fire of the Americans, the batteries Nos. 6, 7, and 8 pouring shot incessantly into their line, making lanes through it.

"Some sought shelter from the storm behind a projection of the swamp into the plain; but in vain. Whole platoons were prostrated, but their places were instantly filled by others.

"The company who were to have brought the fascines and scaling ladders had forgotten them, and that, with the terrible fire of the American batteries, wrought some confusion in the ranks; but they pressed on bravely, cheering each other with loud huzzas, their front covered by blazing rockets. As rank after rank fell under the fire of the Americans, their places were instantly occupied by others, and the column pushed on toward the American batteries on the left and the weaker line defended by the Kentuckians and the Tennesseeans.

"Those British troops were Wellington's veterans who had fought so bravely in Europe, and now, in spite of the awful slaughter in their ranks, they moved unflinchingly forward, without pause or recoil, stepping unhesitatingly over their fallen comrades, till they were within two hundred yards of our lines, when General Carroll's voice rang out in clear, clarion tones, 'Fire!' and, at the word, the Tennesseeans rose from behind their works, where they had lain concealed, and poured in a deadly fire, each man taking sure aim, and their bullets cutting down scores of the enemy.

"Then, as the Tennesseeans fell back, the Kentuckians stepped quickly into their places and poured in their fire with equally deadly aim; then another rank followed, and still another, so that the fire slackened not for a moment, while at the same time grape and round shot from the batteries went crashing through the British ranks, making awful gaps in them.

"It was enough to appall the stoutest heart, and their lines began to waver; but their officers encouraged them with the cry, 'Here comes the Forty-fourth with the fascines and the ladders!'"

"Papa, what are fascines?" asked Grace.

"Long faggots used for different purposes in engineering," he replied. "It was true they were coming with them, Packenham at their head, encouraging his men by stirring words and deeds; but presently a bullet struck his bridle arm, and his horse was shot under him. He quickly mounted a pony belonging to his favorite aid, but another shot disabled his right arm, and, as his pony was being led away to the rear, another passed through his thigh, killed the horse, and he and it fell to the ground together. He was carried to the rear and placed under an oak, where he soon died in the arms of Sir Duncan McDougall, the aid who had resigned the pony to him.

"Other officers fell, till there were not enough to command. General Keane was shot through the neck, and the wound compelled him to leave the field. General Gibbs was mortally wounded and died the next day. Major Wilkinson, who then took command, fell on the parapet, mortally wounded; then the British fled in wild confusion."

"But they had been very brave," remarked Grace. "What a pity it was that they had to fight in such a bad cause. Were there very many of them killed, papa?"

"Yes, a great many. Of a regiment of brave Highlanders, with twenty-five officers, only nine officers and one hundred and thirty men could be mustered after the terrible fight was over. Another regiment had lost five hundred men.

"While this fighting had been going on, another of their divisions of nearly one thousand men, led by Colonel Rennie, attacked an unfinished redoubt on Jackson's right and succeeded in driving out the Americans there, but could not hold it long, being terribly punished by Humphreys' batteries and the Seventh Regiment. Yet Rennie succeeded in scaling the parapet of the American redoubt. Beale's New Orleans Rifles poured such a tempest of shot upon the officers and men in the redoubt that nearly every one was killed or wounded. Rennie, who had just shouted, 'Hurrah, boys! the day is ours!' fell mortally wounded.

"And now this attacking column also fell back, and by hastening to the plantation ditches, sought shelter from the terrible tempest of shot and shell coming from Jackson's lines.

"General Lambert with his troops tried to come to the aid of Packenham, Gibbs, and Keane, but was able only to cover the retreat of their vanquished and flying columns."

"And the victory was won then, papa?" queried Lulu.

"Yes, though the battle had lasted but a short time; by half past eight A. M. the musketry fire had ceased, though the artillery kept theirs up till two o'clock in the afternoon."

"Were both Americans and British playing their national airs while the fight was going on, sir?" asked Walter.

"The British had no music but a bugle," replied the captain, "not even a drum or a trumpet; but all through the fight, from the time they sent up their first signal rocket, the New Orleans Band was stationed near the spot where the American flag was flying, playing national airs to cheer and animate our soldiers."

"Were not the British rather more successful in another part of the field, Captain?" asked Eva.

"Yes," he replied; "in their attack upon the troops on the right bank of the river, they being only militia and few in number; also fatigued and poorly armed. Morgan, their commander, was compelled to spike his cannon and throw them into the river, his men being driven from their intrenchments.

"Then Thornton, his assailant, pushed on to Patterson's battery, three hundred yards in the rear, and Patterson, threatened by a flank movement also, was compelled to spike his guns and flee on board of the Louisiana, his sailors helping to get her out of the reach of the foe.

"But Thornton soon heard of the disasters of his comrades on the other side of the river, and received orders to rejoin them. Jackson had sent four hundred men to re-enforce Morgan, but there was now no need of their services. Thornton re-embarked his troops at twilight, the Americans repossessed themselves of their works, and Patterson removed the spikes from his guns, put his battery in better position, and at dawn informed Jackson of what he had done by heavy firing upon the British outposts at Bienvenu's.

"In that battle of January 8, 1815, the British had lost twenty-six hundred men, seven hundred killed, fourteen hundred wounded, and five hundred made prisoners; while the Americans had only eight killed and thirteen wounded. Lossing tells us, 'The history of human warfare presents no parallel to this disparity in loss.'

"In Thornton's attack, the British loss was a little more than one hundred; the American, one killed and five wounded. On that side of the river the British secured their only trophy of their efforts to capture New Orleans. So Lossing tells us, adding, 'It was a small flag, and now , hangs conspicuously among other war trophies in Whitehall, London, with the inscription: "Taken at the battle of New Orleans, January 8, 1815."'"

"That looks as though our British cousins must esteem it quite a triumph to be able to succeed in taking anything from Uncle Sam," laughed Rosie.

"Yes," said Walter, "I think they compliment us by making so much of that one little trophy."

"So do I," said Lulu. "Papa, is that the end of your story?"

"No, not quite," replied the captain. "After the battle had come to an end, Jackson and his staff passed slowly along his whole line, speaking words of congratulation and praise to his brave troops, officers and men. Then the band struck up 'Hail Columbia,' and cheer after cheer for the hero went up from every part of the line. The citizens also, who had been anxiously and eagerly watching the battle from a distance, joined in the cheering. Then, after refreshing themselves with some food (doubtless having gone into the battle without waiting to eat their breakfast), the soldiers set to work to bury the dead of the enemy in front of Jackson's lines, and take care of the wounded.

"General Lambert sent a flag of truce asking for an armistice in order to bury his dead, and Jackson granted it on condition that the British should not cross to the right bank of the river.

"The next morning, detachments from both armies were drawn up in front of the American lines, at a distance of three hundred yards, then the dead bodies between that point and the intrenchments were carried by the Americans upon the very scaling ladders left there by the British, and delivered to them. They were buried on Bienvenu's plantation, and, as Lossing tells us, the graves were still there undisturbed when he visited the spot in 1861. He says also that it is regarded with superstitious awe by the negroes in the neighborhood.

"The wounded who had been taken prisoners were carried to the barracks in New Orleans and tenderly cared for by the citizens. Some of the dead British officers were buried that night by torch light in the garden at Villere's; the bodies of others, among whom were Packenham, Rennie, and Gibbs, were sent to their friends in England."

The captain paused, and Violet said playfully, "I fear we are fatiguing you, my dear; suppose you leave the rest of your story for another time."

"And that we have some music now," added her mother, a suggestion which was immediately adopted, the whole party adjourning to the parlor.



Chapter III.


THE captain opened the piano and glanced smilingly at his young wife. But Violet shook her head playfully. "I think mamma should be the player to-night," she said. "She has scarcely touched the piano for months, and I am really hungry to have her do so."

"Will you give us some music, mother?" queried the captain, offering to lead her to the instrument.

"Yes," she returned laughingly. "I could never wilfully allow my daughter to suffer from hunger when in my power to relieve it."

"Patriotic songs first, please, mamma," entreated Walter, as she took her seat before the instrument. "I do believe we all feel like singing 'Hail, Columbia!' and the 'Star-Spangled Banner.' At least I do, I am sure."

"I presume we are all in a patriotic frame of mind to-night," she returned, giving him a smile of mingled love and pride as she struck a chord or two, then dashed off into "Yankee-doodle-dandy," with variations.

"Hail Columbia!" and "Star-Spangled Banner" followed, old and young uniting together with enthusiasm in singing the patriotic words, but still other voices were unexpectedly heard joining in on the concluding strains:

"That star-spangled banner, oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!"

"Oh, Cousin Molly and Mr. Embury! Dick, too! and Betty!" cried Violet, hurrying with outstretched hand toward the doorway into the hall, where the cousins stood in a little group looking smilingly in upon them. "Come in; I am delighted to see you."

The invitation was promptly accepted, and for the next few minutes there was a tumultuous exchange of joyous greetings.

Dr. Percival and his half brother, Robert Johnson, had been spending some months together in Europe, their sister Betty visiting friends in Natchez through the winter, and only that morning the three had returned to Magnolia Hall, where Betty had a home with her sister Molly, and the brothers were always welcome guests.

Presently all were seated and a very animated conversation ensued, the newly arrived having much to tell and many inquiries to make concerning absent friends and relatives.

After a little it came out that Betty was engaged and shortly to be married, provided "Uncle Horace" was satisfied with regard to the suitableness of the match, of which no one acquainted with the reputation, family, and circumstances of the favored lover, felt any doubt.

It was a love match on both sides; the gentleman, an American, engaged in a lucrative business, of irreproachable character and reputation, pleasing appearance and manners, in fact, all that could reasonably be desired, assured of which, Mr. Dinsmore gave a prompt consent, adding his warm congratulations, which Betty accepted with blushes and smiles.

"I was not unprepared for this, Betty," he said with a smile, "having received a letter from the gentleman himself, asking for the hand of my niece, Miss Johnson."

"O Betty, how nice!" cried Rosie with a gleeful laugh, and softly clapping her hands. "When is it to be? I hope before we leave for the North, for I, for one, want to see what a pretty bride you will make, and I dare say Mr. Norris, your favored suitor, feels in as great haste as I."

"I am quite aware that I have no beauty to boast of, coz," laughed Betty, "but I believe it's a conceded point that a woman always looks her best at such a time, and in bridal attire. However that may be, though, I shall want you all present, so I will hurry my preparations in order that the great event may take place while you are here to have a share in it. By the way, I have laid my plans to have three bridesmaids and several maids of honor, and I have planned that they shall be my three young friends, Cousin Rosie Travilla, Evelyn Leland, and Lucilla Raymond," glancing from one to another as she spoke, then adding, "Now don't decline, any one of you, for I shall be mortally offended if you do."

"No danger of that, unless compelled by some one of the older folks," laughed Rosie, turning inquiringly toward her mother, while Evelyn colored and smiled, hesitated momentarily, then said in a noncommittal way, "You are very kind, Betty, but I'll have to think about it a little and ask permission."

Lulu's face grew radiant with delight. "O Betty, how good of you!" she exclaimed. "Papa, may I?" turning a very pleading look upon him and hurrying to his side.

He took her hand in his, smiling affectionately into the eager, entreating eyes. "I think you may, daughter," he said kindly, "since Cousin Betty is so good as to include you in the invitation. I see nothing in the way at present."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" she cried joyously, then turned to listen with eager interest to an animated discussion going on among the ladies in regard to the most suitable and tasteful attire for bride and bridesmaids or maids of honor.

"The bride will, of course, wear white," Violet was saying, "but it would be pretty and in accordance with the fashion for her maids of honor to dress in colors."

"Yes," assented Rosie, "and I propose blue for Eva, delicate straw or canary color for Lu, who has a complexion just to suit, and pink for me. What do you say, girls?" turning to them where they stood side by side.

"I like the idea," replied Evelyn, Lulu adding, "And so do I. Do you approve, papa?" hurrying to his side again.

"Yes, daughter; if it pleases you and meets the approval of the ladies."

"You are so good to me, dear papa!" she exclaimed with a look of gratitude and affection.

But it was growing late, and leaving various matters to be settled in another interview to be held at an early day, the cousins bade good night and departed.

"Papa, I do think I have just the best and kindest father in the whole world!" exclaimed Lulu, seating herself upon his knee and putting her arm about his neck, her lips to his cheek, when he had come to her room for the usual good-night bit of chat.

"Rather strong, isn't it?" he queried laughingly, holding her close and returning her caress with interest.

"Not too strong, you dear, dear papa!" she said, hugging him tighter. "Oh, if ever I'm disobedient or ill tempered again I ought to be severely punished."

"My dear child," he said gravely, smoothing her hair with caressing hand as he spoke, "do not ever again give your father the pain of punishing you. Watch and pray, and try every day to grow into the likeness of the dear Master. It makes me happy that you want to please me, your earthly father, but I would have you care far more about pleasing and honoring Him."

"I do care about that, papa. Oh, I want very much to have Him pleased with me, but next to that I want to please you, because you are such a good, kind father, and I love you so dearly."

"Yes, daughter, and I esteem your love one of the great blessings of my life, while you are dearer to me than words can express: one of God's good gifts for which I am truly thankful. But I must now bid you good-night and leave you to rest, for it is growing late."

"Yes, sir. But I feel as wide-awake as possible -- I'm so excited thinking about Betty's wedding. So I wish you'd stay just a little bit longer. Can't you, papa?"

"No, daughter, I must leave you and you must go to bed at once; try to banish exciting thoughts, and get to sleep."

"I'll try my very best to obey my own dear father," she returned, looking up into his face with eyes full of ardent affection.

He smiled, held her close for a moment, repeating his caresses, saying low and tenderly, "God bless and keep my dear daughter through the silent watches of the night, and wake her in the morning in health and strength, if it be His will." Then releasing her he left the room.

She was soon in the land of dreams; the sun was shining when she awoke again.

The wedding and matters connected with it were the principal topics of discourse at the breakfast table. Betty had expressed an ardent wish to have present at the ceremony all the relatives from the neighborhood of her old home, saying that she and Molly had already despatched invitations which she hoped would be accepted, and now it was settled that Mr. Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie should write at once, urging all to come to Viamede and remain till the summer heats would make it more prudent to return to a cooler climate. There was talk, too, of an entertainment to be given there to the bride and groom, of suitable wedding gifts, and also the attire of maids of honor.

The young girls selected to take part in the ceremony were particularly interested, excitable Lulu especially so; she could hardly think of anything else, even in the school-room, and as a consequence recited so badly that her father looked very grave indeed, and when dismissing the others told her she must remain in the school-room studying, until she could recite each lesson very much more creditably to both herself and her teacher.

"Yes, sir," she said in a low, unwilling tone, casting down her eyes and coloring with mortification; "but I think the lessons were dreadfully hard to-day, papa."

"No, daughter, it is only that your mind is dwelling upon other things. You must learn to exercise better control over your thoughts and concentrate them always upon the business in hand."

"But, papa, I'll never be able to learn the lessons before dinner time, and I am hungry now; are you going to make me fast till I recite perfectly?"

"No, my child: you may eat when the rest of us do, and finish your tasks afterward. You may have a cracker now if you are hungry."

"Oh, may I go and get her some, papa?" asked Grace, who had lingered behind the others, full of concern and sympathy for her sister, and was now standing close at his side.

"Yes, my darling," he said, smiling upon the little girl, and smoothing her hair with softly caressing hand.

"Oh, thank you, sir!" and away she ran, to return in a few moments with a plate of crackers, when she found Lulu alone, bending over a book, apparently studying with great diligence.

"Oh, thank you, Grace!" she exclaimed; "you are ever so good. I was so taken up with the talk about the wedding at breakfast time, that I didn't eat nearly so much as usual. Some folks in papa's place would have made me fast till my lessons were learned; but he's such a good, kind father; isn't he?"

"Yes, indeed!" returned Grace emphatically, setting down the plate as she spoke. "Now I'll run away and let you learn your lesson."

Lulu did not feel fully prepared for her recitations when the dinner bell rang, but, having her father's permission, she went to the table with the others. At the conclusion of the meal he inquired in an aside, his tone kind and pleasant, if she were ready for him.

"No, sir," she replied, "not quite."

"You may take half an hour to digest your dinner, then go back to your tasks," he said.

"Yes, sir, I will," she answered, taking out the pretty little watch, which was one of his gifts, and noting the time. Then, in company with Rosie, Evelyn, and Grace, she went out upon the lawn and sauntered about under the trees, gathering flowers.

She was careful to return to the school-room at the appointed hour. Presently her father followed her. "Are those lessons ready, daughter?" he asked in his usual kindly tones.

"No, sir; not quite," she replied.

"I am sorry," he said, "as if they were, I would hear them at once and you might make one of the party who are going over to Magnolia Hall."

"Papa, I should so like to go along!" she exclaimed, looking up coaxingly into his face.

"And I would be glad to give you the pleasure," he said with a slight sigh; "but you know I cannot do that, having already told you your lessons must be creditably recited before you can be allowed any further recreation."

"They're so long and hard, papa," grumbled Lulu, looking wofully disappointed.

"No, my child; with your usual attention you could easily have learned them before the regular school hours were over," he said. "I am not going with the others and will come for your recitation in another hour or perhaps sooner." So saying he turned and left the room.

"Oh, dear! I do wish I was old enough not to have lessons to learn," sighed Lulu. But seeing there was no escape, she turned to her tasks again, and when her father came in according to his promise, was able to say she was ready for him and to recite in a creditable manner. He gave the accustomed meed of praise, smiling kindly on her as he spoke. "There, daughter," he added, "you see what you can do when you give your mind to your work, and I hope that in future you will do so always at the proper time."

"I hope so, papa; I do really mean to try," she replied, hanging her head and blushing. "Are the ladies and girls all gone?"

"Yes; some time ago," he said. "I am sorry I could not let you go with the others, as I have no doubt you would have enjoyed doing so."

"I hope you didn't stay at home just to hear my lessons, papa?" she said regretfully.

"I might possibly have gone could I have taken my eldest daughter with me," he replied, "though there were other matters calling for my attention. However," he added with a smile, "you need not measure my disappointment by yours, as I am certain it was not nearly so great."

At that moment a servant came to the door to tell the captain that a gentleman had called on business, and was in the library waiting to see him.

"Very well; tell him I will be there presently," replied Captain Raymond. Then turning to Lulu, "You may amuse yourself as you like for an hour, then prepare your lessons for to-morrow."

"Yes, sir," she answered, as he left the room, then put on her hat and taking a parasol wandered out upon the lawn.

The captain had been giving the young people some lessons in botany, and the girls were vieing with each other as to who should gather into her herbarium the largest number of plants and flowers, particularly such as were to be found in that region, but never, or very rarely, in the more northern one they called their home. Lulu had found, and, from time to time, placed in her herbarium, several which she highly prized for both beauty and rarity, and now she went in quest of others.

She had scarcely left the house when, much to her surprise, she met her baby brother and his nurse.

"Why, Neddie dear, I thought you had gone --  -- " but she paused, fearing to set the child to crying for his mother.

"Marse Ned's sleeping when dey goes, Miss Lu; I spec's dey'll be back fo' long," said the nurse; and catching him up in her arms she began a romping play with him, her evident object to ward off thoughts of his absent mother.

Lulu walked on, spent a half hour or more gathering flowers, then returned to the school-room, where she had left her herbarium lying on her desk. But Master Ned, there before her, had pulled it down on the floor, where he sat tearing out the plants which she had prepared and placed in it with so much labor and care.

At that trying sight, Lulu's anger flamed out as it had not in years; not since the sad time when little Elsie was so nearly sacrificed to her eldest sister's lack of self-control.

"You naughty, naughty, naughty boy!" she exclaimed, snatching the herbarium from the floor. "I'd just like to shake you well, and spank you, too. You deserve it richly, for you have no business to be here meddling with my things!"

At that the baby boy set up a wail. Then their father's voice was heard from the veranda outside. "Come here to papa, Neddie boy," and the little fellow, who had now scrambled to his feet, hastened to obey.

Lulu trembled and flushed hotly. "I wish I'd known papa was so near and I'd kept my temper, too," she sighed ruefully to herself, then set to work to repair damages to the best of her ability; but, as her passion cooled, with thoughts dwelling remorsefully upon her unkind treatment of her baby brother, also apprehensively on the consequent displeasure of her dearly loved father. She loved little Ned too, and heartily wished she had been more gentle and forbearing toward him.

But her hour of recreation was past, and with Ned's baby prattle to his father, as he sat on his knee, coming to her ear through the open window, she sat down at her desk, took out her books, and tried to study; but it seemed impossible to fix her thoughts upon the business in hand, and presently hearing the patter of the little fellow's feet as he ran along the veranda, then out into the garden, she sprang up and followed him.

"O Neddie dear," she said, catching him in her arms and giving him a hearty kiss, "sister is ever so sorry she was cross to you. Will you forgive her and love her still?"

"Ess," returned the baby boy with hearty good will, putting his chubby arms about her neck and hugging her tight; then cooing sweetly, "Ned 'oves oo, Lu."

"And Lu loves you, Neddie darling," she returned, kissing him again and again.

Then setting him down, she sped back to the school-room, took up her book, and made another attempt to study; but without success; laying it aside again almost immediately, she went in search of her father.

He had left the veranda, but going on into the library, she found him in an easy chair, with a newspaper in his hand which he seemed to be reading with great attention, for he did not turn his head or eyes toward her as she drew near and stood at his side. She waited longingly for a recognition of her vicinity, but he gave none, seeming too intent upon his paper to be aware of it; and he had taught her that she must not rudely interrupt him or any grown person so engaged, but wait patiently till her presence was noted and inquiry made as to what she wished to say.

The five or ten minutes she stood silently waiting seemed a long time to her impatient temperament. "Oh, would papa never give her an opportunity to speak to him?" At last, however, as he paused in his reading to turn his paper, she ventured a low breathed, "Papa."

"Go instantly to your own room, taking your books with you, Lucilla, and don't venture to leave it till you have my permission," he said in stern, cold accents, and without giving her so much as a glance.

She obeyed in silence. Reaching her own room she again opened her book and tried to study; but found herself so disturbed in mind that it was wellnigh impossible to take in the meaning of the words as she read them over and over. "I can't learn these lessons till I've made it up with papa," she sighed half aloud, and putting down the book opened her writing desk.

In a few minutes she had written a very humble little note, saying how sorry she was for the indulgence of her passion and her unkindness to her darling little brother; but that she had asked and received his forgiveness; then sought her father to beg him to forgive her too, and tell him she was ready to submit to any punishment he thought best to inflict. But oh, might it not be something that would be over before the rest of the family should come home from their drive?

She signed herself "Your penitent little daughter Lulu," folded the note, sealed it up in an envelope, and wrote her father's name on the outside.

She could hear the prattle of her baby brother coming from the lawn. Her window opened upon an upper veranda, and going out there, she called softly, "Ned, Neddie dear!"

The little fellow looked up and laughed. "Lu!" he called; then catching sight of the note in her hand, "What oo dot?" he queried.

"A letter for papa," she replied. "Will you take it to him and ask him to please read it?"

"Ess; fro it down," he said, holding up both hands to catch it. "Me will tate it to papa."

It fell on the grass at his feet, he stooped and picked it up, then trotted away with it in his hand.

Again Lulu took up her book and tried to study, but with no better success than before. "What will papa do and say to me?" she was asking herself. "Oh, I hope he won't keep me long in suspense! I don't believe he will; he never does, and -- ah, yes, I hear his step."

She rose hastily, hurried to the door and opened it. He stood on the threshold. "Papa," she said humbly, "I am very, very sorry I was passionate and cross to dear little Ned."

"As I am," he replied, stepping in, securing the door, then taking her hand, leading her to the side of an easy chair and seating himself therein. "I was deeply grieved to hear my eldest daughter speak in such angry words and passionate tones to her baby brother. It not only gave the dear little fellow pain, but set him a very bad example which I greatly fear he will follow one of these days, so giving me the pain of punishing him and you that of seeing him punished!"

"Papa, I am the one who ought to be punished," she burst out in her vehement way, "and I just hope you will punish me well. But oh, please don't say I shall not go to Cousin Betty's wedding, or not be one of her bridesmaids or maids of honor."

He made no reply at first. There was a moment's silence, then she exclaimed, "Oh, papa, I just can't bear it! I'd even rather have the severest whipping you could give me."

"You are a little too old for that now," he said in moved tones, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "It has always been to me a hard trial to feel called upon to punish my dear child in that way; a sad task to have to do so in any way; and if you are a good girl from now on to the time of the wedding, you may accept Betty's kind invitation."

"Oh, thank you, sir! thank you very much indeed!" she exclaimed. "I don't deserve to be allowed to, but oh, I do fully intend to rule my temper better in future!"

"I hope so indeed; but you will not succeed if you try merely in your own strength. Our sufficiency is of God, and to Him alone must we look for strength to resist temptation and be steadfast in fighting the good fight of faith. Try, my dear child, to be always on your guard! 'Watch and pray,' is the Master's command, repeated again and again. 'Take ye heed, watch and pray.' ... 'Watch ye, therefore.' ... 'And what I say unto you I say unto all, Watch.' ... 'Watch ye and pray lest ye enter into temptation.'"

"Papa, I do really mean to try very hard to rule my own spirit," she said humbly; "I have been trying."

"Yes, dear child, I have not been blind to your efforts," he returned in tender tones. "I know you have tried, and I believe you will try still harder, and will at length come off conqueror. I fear I have not been so patient and forbearing with you to-day as I ought. I think now I should have let you speak when you came to me in the library a while ago. Your father is by no means perfect, and therefore has no right to expect perfection in his children."

"But I had indulged my temper, papa, and did deserve to be punished for it."

"Yes, that is true. But it is all forgiven now, and your father and his eldest daughter are at peace again," he added, giving her a loving embrace.

"And that makes me so happy," she said, lifting her dewy eyes to his. "I am always very far from happy when I know that my dear father is displeased with me."

"You love him, then?"

"Oh, yes, yes, indeed! dearly! dearly!" she exclaimed, putting her arms about his neck and laying her cheek to his.

He held her close for a moment, then saying, "Now I want you to spend an hour over your lessons for to-morrow, after which you and I will have a walk together," he left her.

By tea time the family were all at home again, and their talk at the table was almost exclusively of the preparations for the approaching wedding.

"Mamma," said Rosie at length, "I for one would dearly like to go to New Orleans and select dress and ornaments for myself; also a present for Betty."

"I see no objection, if a proper escort can be provided," was the smiling rejoinder.

"Suppose we make up a party to go there, do the necessary shopping, and visit the battle fields and everything of interest connected with them," suggested Captain Raymond. "We can stay a day or two if necessary, and I think we'll all feel repaid."

The proposal was received with enthusiasm by the younger portion of the family, and even the older ones had nothing to say against it. Lulu was silent, but sent a very wistful, pleading look in her father's direction. It was answered with a nod and smile, and her face grew radiant, for she knew that meant that she would be permitted to take the little trip with the others.

"Dear papa, thank you ever so much," she said, following him into the library as they left the table.

"For what?" he asked jestingly, laying a hand upon her head and smiling down into the happy, eager face.

"Giving me permission to go with you and the rest to New Orleans."

"Ah, did I do that?" he asked, sitting down and drawing her to a seat upon his knee.

"Not in words, papa, but you looked it," she returned with a pleased laugh, putting her arm about his neck and kissing him with ardent affection. "Didn't you, now?"

"I don't deny that I did, yet it depends largely upon the good conduct of my eldest daughter," he said in a graver tone, smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "I hope she will show herself so sweet tempered and obedient that it may not be necessary to leave her behind because she is lacking in those good qualities."

"Papa," she replied low and feelingly, "I will ask God to help me to be patient and good."

"And if you ask for Jesus' sake, pleading his gracious promise, 'If ye ask anything in my name, I will do it,' your petition will be granted."

At that moment the other girls came running in, Rose saying eagerly, "Oh, Brother Levis, we all hope you will be so kind as to go on with your historical stories of doings and happenings at New Orleans. Please treat us to some of them to-night, and let us have all before we visit their scenes, won't you?"

"Certainly, Sister Rose," he replied, adding, "It looks very pleasant on the veranda now. Shall we establish ourselves there?"

"Yes, sir, if you please," she said, dancing away, the others following.

Presently all were quietly seated, the older people almost as eager for the story as were the young, and the captain began.

"While the armies before New Orleans were burying their dead, others of the British troops were trying to secure for themselves the free navigation of the Mississippi below the city by capturing Fort St. Philip, which is in a direct line some seventy or eighty miles lower down the stream, and was considered by both British and Americans as the key of the State of Louisiana.

"The fort was at that time garrisoned by three hundred and sixty-six men under the command of Major Overton of the rifle corps, with the addition of the crew of a gun-boat. Just about the time that the British killed in the battle of New Orleans were being carried by the Americans under Jackson to their comrades for burial, a little squadron of five English vessels appeared before the fort and anchored out of range of its heavy guns, the bomb vessels with their broadsides toward it; and at three o'clock they opened fire on it. Their bombardment went on with scarcely a pause till daybreak of the 18th, when they had sent more than a thousand shells, using for that purpose twenty thousand pounds of powder. They had sent, too, beside the shells, many round and grape shot.

"During those nine days the Americans were in their battery, five of the days without shelter, exposed to cold and rain a part of the time; but only two of them were killed and seven wounded.

"On the 18th, the British gave up the attempt. That same day a general exchange of prisoners took place, and that night the British stole noiselessly away. By morning they had reached Lake Borgne, sixty miles distant from their fleet.

"They could not have felt very comfortable, as the wintry winds to which they were exposed were keen, and the American mounted men under Colonel De la Ronde, following them in their retreat, annoyed them not a little.

"The British remained at Lake Borgne until the 27th, then boarded their fleet, which lay in the deep water between Ship and Cat Islands.

"In the meantime Jackson had been guarding the approach to New Orleans lest they might return and make another effort against it. But on leaving that vicinity they went to Fort Bowyer, at the entrance to Mobile Bay, thirty miles distant from the city of that name, then but a village of less than one thousand inhabitants. The fort is now called Fort Morgan.

"It was but a weak fortress, without bomb-proofs, and mounting only twenty guns, only two of them larger than twelve pounders, some of them less. It was under the command of Major Lawrence.

"The British besieged it for nearly two days, when Lawrence, a gallant officer, was compelled to surrender to a vastly superior force.

"It is altogether likely that the British would then have gone on to attack Mobile, had not news come of the treaty of peace between the United States and Great Britain.

"The news of Jackson's gallant defence of New Orleans caused intense joy all over the Union, while in England it was heard with astonishment and chagrin."

"They didn't know before how Americans could fight," said Walter with a look of exultation, "and they have never attacked us since."

"No," said his mother, "and God grant that we and our kinsmen across the sea may ever henceforward live in peace with each other."

"It seems a great pity that the news of peace had not come in time to prevent that dreadful battle of New Orleans and the after fighting of which you have just been telling us, Captain," remarked Evelyn.

"Yes," he replied; "and yet, perhaps, it may have been of use in preventing another struggle between the two nations; we have had difficulties since, but fortunately they have thus far been settled without a resort to arms."

"I suppose there was an exchange of prisoners?" Walter said inquiringly.

"Yes, though, in regard to some, the Dartmoor captives in especial, it was strangely slow."

"Dartmoor, papa?" Grace said with inquiring look and tone.

"Yes; Dartmoor is a desolate region in Devonshire; its prison, built originally for French prisoners of war, had thirty acres of ground enclosed by double walls, within which were seven distinct prisons.

"At the close of the War of 1812-14 there were about six thousand prisoners there, twenty-five hundred of them impressed American seamen who had refused to fight against their country, having been forced into the British Navy and being still there at the beginning of the struggle. Some of the poor fellows, though, had been in Dartmoor Prison ten or eleven years. Think what an intense longing they must have felt for home and their own dear native land! How unbearable the delay to liberate them must have seemed! They were not even permitted to hear of the treaty of peace till three months after it had been signed. But after hearing of it, they were in daily expectation of being released, and just think how hope deferred must have made their hearts sick. Some of them showed a disposition to attempt an escape, and on the 4th of April they demanded bread, and refused to eat the hard biscuits that were given them instead.

"Two evenings later they very reluctantly obeyed orders to retire to their quarters, some of them showing an inclination to mutiny, passing beyond the limits of their confinement, when, by the orders of Captain Shortland, commander of the prison, they were fired upon; then the firing was repeated by the soldiers without the shadow of an excuse, as was shown by the impartial report of a committee of investigation, the result of which was the killing of five men and the wounding of thirty-three."

"I hope those soldiers were hung for it!" exclaimed Walter, his eyes flashing.

"No," replied the captain, "the British authorities pronounced it 'justifiable homicide'; which excited the hottest indignation on this side of the ocean; but now the memory of it has nearly passed away."

"Now, Brother Levis, if you're not too tired, won't you please go on and tell us all about the taking of New Orleans in the last war?" asked Walter, looking persuasively into the captain's face.

"Certainly, if all wish to hear it," was the pleasant toned reply; and all expressing themselves desirous to do so, he at once began.

"Ship Island was appointed as the place of rendezvous for both land and naval forces, the last named under the command of Captain David G. Farragut, the others led by General Butler.

"Farragut arrived in the harbor of the island, on the 20th of February, 1862, on his flag-ship, the Hartford, in which he sailed on the 2d, from Hampton Roads, Virginia, but sickness had detained him for a time at Key West.

"The vessels of which he had been given the command, taken collectively, were styled the Western Gulf Squadron. Farragut had been informed that a fleet of bomb vessels, under Commander David D. Porter, would be attached to his squadron. Porter was the son of Commodore David Porter, who had adopted Farragut when a little fellow and had him educated for the navy. It was he who commanded the Essex in the War of 1812, and Farragut was with him, though then only in his twelfth year."

"Then he must have been past sixty at the time of the taking of New Orleans," remarked Walter reflectively.

"He and Porter joined forces at Key West," continued the captain. "Porter's fleet had been prepared at the Navy Yard in Brooklyn, exciting much interest and curiosity. There were twenty-one schooners of from two to three hundred tons each; they were made very strong and to draw as little water as possible. Each vessel carried two thirty-two pounder rifled cannon, and was armed besides with mortars of eight and a half tons weight that would throw a fifteen-inch shell which, when filled, weighed two hundred and twelve pounds.

"Farragut's orders were to proceed up the Mississippi, reducing the forts on its banks, take possession of New Orleans, hoist the American flag there, and hold the place till more troops could be sent him.

"An expedition was coming down the river from Cairo, and if that had not arrived he was to take advantage of the panic which his seizure of New Orleans would have caused, and push on up the river, destroying the rebel works. His orders from the Secretary of War were, 'Destroy the armed barriers which these deluded people have raised up against the power of the United States Government, and shoot down those who war against the Union; but cultivate with cordiality the first returning reason which is sure to follow your success.' Farragut, having received these orders, at once began carrying them out, with the aid of the plans of the works on the Mississippi which he had been directed to take, particularly of Fort St. Philip, furnished him by General Barnard, who had built it years before.

"The plan made and carried out was to let Porter's fleet make the attack upon the forts first, while Farragut, with his larger and stronger vessels, should await the result just outside the range of the rebel guns; then, when Porter had succeeded in silencing them, Farragut was to push on up the river, clearing it of Confederate vessels, and cutting off the supplies of the fort. That accomplished, Butler was to land his troops in the rear of Fort St. Philip and try to carry it by assault. Those two forts, St. Philip and Jackson, were about thirty miles from the mouth of the river, Fort Jackson on the right bank, and Fort St. Philip on the left.

"Ship Island, the place of rendezvous, is about one hundred miles northeast of the mouth of the Mississippi. In the last war with England, as I have told you, St. Philip had kept the British in check for nine days, though they threw one thousand shells into it.

"Fort Jackson was a larger fortification, bastioned, built of brick, with casemates and glacis, rising twenty-five feet above the water. Some French and British officers, calling upon Farragut before the attack, having come from among the Confederates, while visiting whom they had seen and examined these forts with their defences, warned him that to attack them would only result in sure defeat; but the brave old hero replied that he had been sent there to try it on and would do so; or words to that effect.

"The forts had one hundred and fifteen guns of various kinds and sizes, mostly smooth-bore thirty-two pounders. Above them lay the Confederate fleet of fifteen vessels, one of them an iron-clad ram, another a large, unfinished floating battery covered with railroad iron. Two hundred Confederate sharp-shooters kept constant watch along the river banks, and several fire-rafts were ready to be sent down among the Federal vessels. Both these and the sharp-shooters were below the forts. Also there were two iron chains stretched across the river, supported upon eight hulks which were anchored abreast.

"Farragut's naval expedition was the largest that had ever sailed under the United States flag, consisting of six sloops of war, twenty-one mortar schooners, sixteen gun-boats, and other vessels, carrying in all two hundred guns.

"But the vessels were built for the sea and were now to work in a much narrower space -- a river with a shifting channel and obstructed by shoals.

"To get the larger vessels over the bar at the southwest pass was a work of time and great labor. They had to be made as light as possible and then dragged through a foot of mud. Two weeks of such labor was required to get the Pensacola over, and the Colorado could not be taken over at all.

"The mortar vessels were towed up stream and began to take their places. Porter disguised them with mud and the branches of trees, so that they could not be readily distinguished from the river banks, being moored under cover of the woods on the bank just below Fort Jackson. The stratagem was successful; his vessels were moored where he wished to have them, the nearest being two thousand eight hundred and fifty yards from Fort Jackson, and three thousand six hundred and eighty from Fort St. Philip.

"On the opposite side of the river, and a little farther from the forts, Porter had his six remaining vessels stationed, screening them also with willows and reeds, and mooring them under cover of the woods to conceal their true character.

"On the 18th of April, before nine o'clock in the morning, the attack was begun by a shot from Fort Jackson, then, as soon as Porter was ready, the Owasco opened fire, and the fourteen mortar boats concealed by the woods, also the six in full sight of the forts, began their bombardment.

"The gun-boats took part in the conflict by running up and firing heavy shells when the mortars needed relief. Porter was on the Harriet Lane, in a position to see what was the effect of the shells, and direct their aim accordingly.

"The fight went on for several days, then Farragut, deeming there was small prospect of reducing the forts, prepared to carry out another part of his instructions by running past them. He called a council of the captains in the cabin of the Hartford, and it was then and there decided that the attempt should be made.

"It was an intensely dark night, the wind blowing fiercely from the north, but Commander Bell with the Winona, the Itasca, Kennebec, Iroquois, and the Pinola ran up to the boom. The Pinola ran to the hulk under the guns of Fort Jackson, and an effort was made to destroy it with a petard, but failed. The Itasca was lashed to the next hulk, but a rocket sent up from the fort showed her to the foe, who immediately opened a heavy fire upon her. But half an hour of active work with chisels, saws, and sledges parted the boom of chains and logs, and the hulk to which she was attached swung round and grounded her in the mud in shallow water. But the Pinola rescued her.

"Two hours later an immense fire-raft came roaring down the stream, but, like those sent before, it was caught by our men and rendered harmless. They would catch such things with grappling-irons, tow them to the shore, and leave them there to burn out harmlessly.

"Day after day the bombardment went on, fire-rafts coming down the river every night, but Fort Jackson still held out, though its citadel had been set on fire by the shells from the mortar boats, and all the commissary stores and the clothing of the men destroyed; also the levee had been broken in scores of places by the exploding shells, so that the waters of the river flooded the parade ground and casemates.

"By sunset on the 23d, Farragut was ready for his forward movement, but Porter, with his mortar boats, was to stay and cover the advance with his fire. Farragut, on board his flag-ship, the Hartford, was to lead the way with it, the Brooklyn, and the Richmond.

"These vessels formed the first division, and were to keep near the right bank of the river, fighting Fort Jackson, while Captain Theodorus Bailey was to keep close to the western bank with his (the second) division, to fight Fort St. Philip. His vessels were the Mississippi, Pensacola, Varuna, Oneida, Katahdin, Kineo, Wissahickon, Portsmouth.

"Captain Bell still commanded the same vessels which I just mentioned as his, and his appointed duty was to attack the Confederate fleet above the forts, to keep the channel of the river, and push right on, paying no attention to the forts themselves.

"In obedience to these orders, the Itasca ran up to the boom, and at eleven o'clock showed a night signal that the channel was clear of obstruction excepting the hulks, which, with care, might be passed safely.

"A heavy fog, and the settling of the smoke from the steamers upon the waters, made the night a very dark one. No sound came from the forts, yet active preparations were going on in them for the approaching struggle, and their fleet was stationed near them in readiness to assist in the effort to prevent the Union vessels from ascending the river.

"At one o'clock every one on the Union ships was called to action, but the fleet remained stationary until two, and at half past three Farragut's and Bailey's divisions were moving up the river, each on its appointed side, and at the rate of four miles an hour.

"Then Porter's mortars, still at their moorings below the forts, opened upon those forts a terrible storm, sending as many as, if not more than, half a dozen shells, with their fiery trails, screaming through the air at the same moment.

"But no sound came from the forts until they discovered Captain Bailey's ship, the Cayuga, just as she had passed the boom, when they brought their heavy guns to bear upon her, and broke the long silence with their roar.

"When she was close under Fort St. Philip she replied with heavy broadsides of grape and canister as she passed on up the river.

"The other vessels of Bailey's division followed closely after, each imitating the Cayuga's example in delivering a broadside as she passed the forts, which they did almost unharmed, with the exception of the Portsmouth, a sailing vessel, which lost her tow, on firing her broadside, and drifted down the river.

"Captain Bell and his division were not quite so fortunate. Three of his vessels passed the forts, but the Itasca received a storm of shot, one of which pierced her boiler, and she drifted helplessly down the river. The Kennebec lost her way among the obstructions and went back to her moorings below; the Winona, too, recoiled from the storm.

"In the meantime, Farragut was in the fore rigging of the Hartford, watching with intense interest, through his night glass, the movements of the vessels under the command of Bailey and Bell, while the vessels he commanded in person were slowly nearing Fort Jackson. He was within a mile and a quarter of it when its heavy guns opened upon him. They were well aimed, and the Hartford was struck several times.

"Farragut replied with two guns which he had placed upon his forecastle, while at the same time he pushed on directly for the fort. When within a half mile of it he sheered off and gave them heavy broadsides of grape and canister; so heavy that they were driven from all their barbette guns. But the casemate guns were kept in full play, and the fight became a very severe one.

"The Richmond soon joined in it; the Brooklyn got entangled with some of the hulks that bore up the chain, and so lagged behind. She had just succeeded in freeing herself from them, when the Confederate ram Manassas came furiously down upon her, and when within about ten feet, fired a heavy bolt at her from its trap-door, aiming for her smoke stack; but fortunately the shot lodged in some sand-bags that protected her steam-drum.

"The next moment the ram butted into the Brooklyn's starboard gangway; but she was so effectually protected by chain armor that the Manassas glanced off and disappeared in the darkness.

"All this time a raking fire from the fort had been pouring upon the Brooklyn, and just as she escaped from the Manassas a large Confederate steamer attacked her. She pushed slowly on in the darkness, after giving the steamer a broadside that set it on fire and speedily destroyed it, and suddenly found herself abreast of Fort St. Philip.

"She was very close to it, and speedily brought all her guns to bear upon it in a tremendous broadside.

"In his report Captain Craven said, 'I had the satisfaction of completely silencing that work before I left it, my men in the tops witnessing, in the flashes of the shrapnel, the enemy running like sheep for more comfortable quarters.'

"While the Brooklyn was going through all this, Farragut was having what he called 'a rough time of it.' While he was battling with the forts, a huge fire-raft, pushed by the Manassas, came suddenly upon him all ablaze, and in trying to avoid it the Hartford got aground, and the incendiary came crashing alongside of her.

"In telling of it Farragut said, 'In a moment the ship was one blaze all along the port side, half way up the main and mizzen tops. But thanks to the good organization of the fire department, by Lieutenant Thornton, the flames were extinguished, and at the same time we backed off and got clear of the raft. All this time we were pouring shells into the forts and they into us; now and then a rebel steamer would get under our fire and receive our salutation of a broadside.' The fleet had not fairly passed the forts when the Confederate ram and gun-boats hastened to take part in the battle.

"The scene was now both grand and awful. Just think of two hundred and sixty great guns and twenty mortars constantly firing, and shells exploding in and around the forts; it 'shook land and water like an earthquake,' Lossing tells us, 'and the surface of the river was strewn with dead and helpless fishes.' Major Bell, of Butler's staff, wrote of it, 'Combine all that you have ever heard of thunder, and add to it all you have ever seen of lightning, and you have, perhaps, a conception of the scene. And,' continues our historian, 'all this destructive energy, the blazing fire-rafts and floating volcanoes sending forth fire and smoke and bolts of death, the thundering forts, and the ponderous rams, were crowded, in the greatest darkness just before dawn, within the space of a narrow river, "too narrow," said Farragut, "for more than two or three vessels to act to advantage. My greatest fear was that we should fire into each other; and Captain Wainwright and myself were hallooing ourselves hoarse at the men not to fire into our ships."'

"The Cayuga met the flotilla of Confederate rams and gun-boats as soon as she passed Fort St. Phillip. For a few minutes there were eighteen Confederate vessels intent upon her destruction."

"Was the Manassas one of the eighteen, sir?" queried Walter.

"Yes," replied the captain, "and the floating battery Louisiana was another. Captain Mitchell was the name of her commander, and he was also commandant of the remaining sixteen vessels of that rebel fleet.

"Captain Bailey could not fight so many at once without some assistance, so used his skill in avoiding the butting of the rams and the efforts to board his vessel. At the same time he was making such good use of his guns that, while saving his own vessels, he compelled three of the Confederate gun-boats to surrender to him before Captain Boggs and Captain Lee, of the Varuna and the Oneida came to his assistance.

"The Cayuga had then been struck forty-two times and a good deal damaged in spars and rigging, but, in accordance with Farragut's orders, she moved up the river as leader of the fleet.

"It was upon the Varuna that the enemy next poured out the vials of his wrath. In his report of the fight Captain Boggs, her commander, said that immediately after passing the forts he found himself 'amid a nest of rebel steamers.' He rushed into their midst, giving each a broadside as he passed. The first of those steamers seemed to be crowded with troops. One of the Varuna's shots exploded her boiler and she drifted ashore. Next a gun-boat and three other vessels were driven ashore in flames, and presently they blew up, one after another.

"Then the Varuna was furiously attacked by the Governor Moore, commanded by Beverly Kennon, one who had left the United States service for that of the rebels. His vessel raked along the Varuna's port, killing four men and wounding nine. Captain Boggs sent a three-inch shell into her, abaft her armor, and several shots from the after rifled gun, which partially disabled her, and she dropped out of action.

"In the meantime, another ram struck the Varuna under water with its iron prow, giving her a heavy blow in the port gangway. The Varuna answered with a shot, but it glanced harmlessly from the armored prow of the rebel ram, and it, backing off a shorting distance, shot forward again, gave the Varuna another blow in the same place, and crushed in her side.

"But the ram had become entangled, and was drawn around to the side of the Varuna, and Captain Boggs gave her five eighteen shells abaft her armor from his port guns. In telling of it afterward he said, 'This settled her and drove her ashore in flames.'

"But his own vessel was sinking; so he ran her into the bank, let go her anchor, and tied her bow up to the trees, but all the time kept his guns at work crippling the Moore.

"He did not cease firing till the water was over the gun-tracks, but then turned his attention to getting his wounded and the crew out of the vessel.

"Just then, Captain Lee, commander of the Oneida, came to his assistance. But Boggs waved him after the Moore, which was then in flames and presently surrendered to the Oneida. Kennon, her commander, had done a cowardly deed in setting her on fire and fleeing, leaving his wounded to the horrible fate of perishing in the flames. The surrender was, therefore, made by her second officer.

"That ended the fight on the Mississippi River; it had been a desperate one, but lasted only an hour and a half, though nearly the whole of the rebel fleet was destroyed. The National loss was thirty killed and not more than one hundred and twenty-five wounded."



Chapter IV.


CAPTAIN RAYMOND paused, seemingly lost in thought. All waited in silence for a moment, then Violet, laying a hand on his arm, for she was seated close at his side, said with a loving smile into his eyes:

"My dear, I fear we have been tiring you."

"Oh no, not at all!" he replied, coming out of his revery and taking possession of the pretty hand with a quiet air of ownership.

"I am sure nobody else is," said Walter; "so please go on, sir, won't you? and tell us all about the taking of the forts and the city."

"I will," replied the captain. "By the way, I want to tell you about a powder boy on board of the Varuna, Oscar Peck, a lad of only thirteen years, who showed coolness and bravery which would have entitled a man to praise.

"Captain Boggs was very much pleased with him, and in his report to Farragut praised him warmly. He said that seeing the lad pass quickly he asked where he was going in such a hurry. 'To get a passing box, sir,' replied the lad; 'the other was smashed by a ball.' When the Varuna went down Oscar disappeared. He had been standing by one of the guns and was thrown into the water by the movement of the vessel. But in a few minutes he was seen swimming toward the wreck. Captain Boggs was standing on a part of the ship that was still above water, when the lad climbed up by his side, gave the usual salute, and said, 'All right, sir, I report myself on board.'"

"Ah," cried Walter exultantly, "he was a plucky American boy! I'm proud of him."

"Yes," said the captain, "and the more men and boys we have of a similar spirit the better for our dear land.

"But to go on with my story. Captain Bailey moved on up the river with his crippled vessel, the Cayuga, leaving the Varuna to continue the fight at the forts.

"A short distance above Fort St. Philip was the Quarantine Station. Opposite to it was a Confederate battery in charge of several companies of sharp-shooters, commanded by Colonel Szymanski, a Pole.

"On perceiving the approach of the Cayuga, they tried to flee, but a volley of canister-shot from her guns called a halt, and they were taken prisoners of war.

"By that time the battle at the forts was over and the remaining twelve ships presently joined the Cayuga. Then the dead were carried ashore and buried."

"And where was Butler all this time, sir?" queried Walter.

"He had been busy preparing for his part of the work while the naval officers were doing theirs," was the reply. "His men were in the transports at the passes and could hear distinctly the booming of the guns and mortars, but the general was at that time on the Saxon, which was following close in the rear of Bailey's division, until the plunging of shot and shell into the water around her warned Butler that he had gone far enough. He then ordered the Saxon to drop a little astern, an order which was by no means disagreeable to her captain and was promptly obeyed, for he had on board eight hundred barrels of gunpowder; a dangerous cargo, indeed, when exposed to the fiery missiles of the enemy."

"Wasn't it?" exclaimed Rosie.

"Where was Porter just then, sir?" asked Walter.

"He and his mortar fleet were still below the forts," replied the captain, "and just as Butler had ordered his vessel away from that dangerous spot, the rebel monitor Manassas came moving down into the midst of his fleet. She had just been terribly pounded by the Mississippi and was a helpless wreck, but that was not perceived at first, and some of the mortars opened fire upon her, but stopped when they saw what was her condition: her hull battered and pierced, her pipes twisted and riddled by shot, smoke pouring from every opening. In a few minutes her only gun went off, flames burst out from stern, trap-door, and bow port, and she went hissing to the bottom of the river.

"Butler now hurried to his transports and took them to Sable Island, twelve miles in the rear of Fort St. Philip. From there they went in small boats, through the narrow and shallow bayous, piloted by Lieutenant Weitzel. It was a most fatiguing journey, the men sometimes having to drag their boats through cold, muddy water waist deep. But the brave, patriotic fellows worked on with a will, and by the night of the 27th they were at the Quarantine, ready to begin the assault on Fort St. Philip the next day, when they were landed under cover of the guns of the Mississippi and the Kineo. Butler sent a small force to the other side of the river above Fort Jackson, which Porter had been pounding terribly with the shells from his mortars. On the 26th, Porter sent a flag of truce with a demand for the surrender of the fort, saying that Farragut had reached New Orleans and taken possession.

"Colonel Higginson, the commander of the fort, replied that he had no official report of that surrender, and that until he should receive such he would not surrender the fort; he could not entertain such a proposition for a moment.

"On the same day, General Duncan, commander of the coast defences, but at that time in Fort Jackson, sent out an address to the soldiers, saying, 'The safety of New Orleans and the cause of the Southern Confederacy, our homes, families, and everything dear to man yet depend upon our exertions. We are just as capable of repelling the enemy to-day as we were before the bombardment.'

"Thus he urged them to fight on. But they did not all agree with the views he expressed. They could see the blackened fragments of vessels and other property strewing the waters of the river as it flowed swiftly by, and the sight convinced them of the truth of the report which had reached them of the fall of New Orleans. They had heard, too, of the arrival of Butler's troops in the rear of Fort St. Philip.

"Doubtless they talked it all over among themselves that night, as a large number of them mutinied, spiked the guns bearing up the river, and the next day went out and surrendered themselves to Butler's pickets on that side of the river, saying they had been impressed, and would not fight the government any longer. Their loss made the surrender of the fort a necessity, and Colonel Higginson accepted the generous terms offered him by Porter. He and Duncan went on board the Harriet Lane and the terms of surrender were reduced to writing.

"While that was going on in her cabin, a dastardly deed was done by the Confederate officer Mitchell, who, as I have said, commanded the battery called the Louisiana. It lay above the forts. He had it towed out into the strong current, set on fire and abandoned, leaving the guns all shotted, expecting she would float down and explode among Porter's mortar fleet; but a good Providence caused the explosion to come before she reached the fleet. It took place when she was abreast of Fort St. Philip, and a soldier, one of its garrison, was killed by a flying fragment. Then she went to the bottom, and the rest of the Confederate steamers surrendered.

"Porter and his mortar fleet were still below the forts, but Farragut had now thirteen of his vessels safely above them and was ready to move upon New Orleans.

"Half an hour after he reached the Quarantine, he sent Captain Boggs to Butler with despatches. Boggs went in a small boat through shallow bayous in the rear of Fort St. Philip, and, as I have already said, the next day Butler and his troops arrived at the Quarantine in readiness to assault the forts.

"Fort St. Philip was as perfect when taken by the Union forces as before the fight, and Fort Jackson was injured only in its interior works.

"The entire loss of the Nationals in all this fighting was 40 killed and 177 wounded. No reliable report was given of the Confederate losses in killed and wounded. The number of prisoners amounted to nearly one thousand.

"General Lovell, who had command of the Confederate troops at New Orleans, had gone down the river in his steamer Doubloon, and arrived just as the National fleet was passing the forts. He was near being captured in the terrible fight that followed, but escaped to the shore and hurried back to New Orleans as fast as courier horses could carry him.

"A rumor of the fight and its results had already reached the city, and when he confirmed it a scene of wild excitement ensued; soldiers hurried to and fro, women were in the street bareheaded, brandishing pistols, and screaming, 'Burn the city! Never mind us! Burn the city!'

"Merchants fled from their stores, and military officers impressed vehicles to carry cotton to the levees to be burned. Four millions of dollars in specie was sent out of the city by railway; foreigners crowded to the consulates to deposit money and other valuables for safety, and Twiggs, the traitor, fled, leaving to the care of a young woman the two swords that had been awarded him for his services in Mexico.

"Lovell believed that he had not a sufficient number of troops to defend the city, and convinced the city authorities that such was the fact. Then he proceeded to disband the conscripts and to send munitions of war, stores of provisions, and other valuable property to the country by railroad and steamboats. Some of the white troops went to Camp Moore, seventy-eight miles distant, by the railroad, but the negro soldiers refused to go.

"The next morning Farragut came on up the river, meeting on the way blazing ships filled with cotton floating down the stream. Then presently he discovered the Chalmette batteries on both sides of the river only a few miles below the city. The river was so full that the waters gave him complete command of those confederate works, and, causing his vessels to move in two lines, he set himself to the task of disabling them.

"Captain Bailey in the Cayuga was pressing gallantly forward and did not notice the signal to the vessels to move in close order. He was so far ahead of the others that the fire of the enemy was for a time concentrated upon his vessel; for twenty minutes she sustained a heavy cross fire alone. But Farragut hastened forward with the Hartford, and, as he passed the Cayuga, he gave the batteries heavy broadsides of grape, shell and shrapnel; so heavy were they that the first discharge drove the Confederates from their guns. The other vessels of the fleet followed the Hartford's example, and in twenty minutes the batteries were silenced and the men running for their lives.

"Oh, what a fearful scene our vessels passed through! The surface of the river was strewn with blazing cotton bales, burning steamers and fire-rafts, all together sending up clouds of dense black smoke. But they were nearing the city, these National vessels, and the news that such was the case had caused another great panic, and, by order of the Governor of Louisiana and General Lovell, the destruction of property went on more rapidly than before. Great quantities of cotton, sugar, and other staple commodities of that region of country, were set on fire, so that for a distance of five miles there seemed to be a continuous sheet of flame accompanied by dense clouds of smoke; for the people, foolishly believed that the Government, like themselves, regarded cotton as king, and that it was one of the chief objects for which the National troops were sent there. So they brought it in huge loads to the levee, piled it up there, and burnt not less than fifteen hundred bales, worth about $1,500,000. For the same reason they burned more than a dozen large ships, some of which were loaded with cotton, as well as many magnificent steamboats, unfinished gun-boats, and other vessels, sending them down the river wrapped in flames; hoping that in addition to destroying the property the Federals were after, they might succeed in setting fire to and destroying their ships and boats.

"But the vessels of Farragut's squadron all escaped that danger, and in the afternoon, during a fierce thunderstorm, they anchored before the city.

"Captain Bailey was sent ashore with a flag and a summons from Farragut for the surrender of the city; also a demand that the Confederate flag should be taken down from the public buildings and replaced by the stars and stripes.

"Escorted by sensible citizens he made his way to the City Hall, through a cursing and hissing crowd. Lovell, who was still there, positively refused to surrender, but seeing that he was powerless to defend the city he said so and, advising the mayor not to surrender or allow the flags to be taken down, he withdrew with his troops.

"The mayor was foolish enough to follow that very foolish advice, and sent to Farragut a silly letter saying that though he and his people could not prevent the occupation of their city by the United States, they would not transfer their allegiance to that government, which they had already deliberately repudiated.

"While this was going on troops from the Pensacola had landed and hoisted the United States flag over the Government Mint; but scarcely had they retired from the spot when the flag was torn down by some young men and dragged through the streets in derision."

"Our flag! the glorious stripes and stars!" exclaimed Lulu, her eyes flashing; "I hope they didn't escape punishment for such an outrage as that?"

"One of them, a gambler, William B. Mumford by name, afterward paid the penalty for that and other crimes, on the scaffold," replied her father. "A few hours after the pulling down of that flag, General Butler arrived and joined Farragut on the Hartford. On the 29th, Butler reported to the Secretary of War, and, referring to the treatment of the flag, said, 'This outrage will be punished in such a manner as in my judgment will caution both the perpetrators and the abettors of the act, so that they shall fear the stripes, if they do not reverence the stars, of our banner.'

"The secessionists expressed much exultation over the treatment of the flag and admiration of the rebellious deed.

"Farragut was very patient with the rebels, particularly the silly mayor; in reply to whose abusive letter he spoke of the insults and indignities to the flag and to his officers, adding, 'All of which go to show that the fire of this fleet may be drawn upon the city at any moment, and in such an event the levee would, in all probability, be cut by the shells and an amount of distress ensue to the innocent population which I have heretofore endeavored to assure you that I desire by all means to avoid. The election therefore is with you; but it becomes me to notify you to remove the women and children, from the city within forty-eight hours, if I have rightly understood your determination.'

"To this the foolish mayor sent a most absurd reply, saying that Farragut wanted to humble and disgrace the people, and talking nonsense about 'murdering women and children.' It was a decidedly insolent epistle; but the commander of a French ship of war, that had just come in, was still more impertinent. He wrote to Farragut that his government had sent him to protect the 30,000 of its subjects in New Orleans. And that he should demand sixty days, instead of forty-eight hours as the time to be given for the evacuation of the city, his letter closed with a threat: 'If it is your resolution to bombard the city, do it; but I wish to state that you will have to account for the barbarous act to the power which I represent.'

"Farragut was much perplexed, and troubled with doubts as to what to do, but was soon greatly relieved by the news of the surrender of the forts below, making it almost certain that Butler would soon be there to relieve him of the care of the city, and with that in prospect he was able to quietly await the arrival of the land forces.

"The people of New Orleans believed it impossible that those forts could be taken, and deemed it safe to indulge in their defiant attitude toward the Federal forces already at their doors; but this unwelcome news convinced them of the folly and danger of further resistance and defiance of the General Government, and a sort of apology was made to Farragut for the pulling down of the flag from the Mint; it was said to have been the unauthorized act of the men who performed it.

"The next day Captain Bell landed with a hundred marines, hauled down the emblems of rebellion on the Mint and Custom House, flung to the breeze the National flag in their places, then locking the Custom House door, carried the key to his vessel.

"There was a military organization in New Orleans, called the European Brigade, composed of British, French, and Spanish aliens, whose ostensible purpose was to aid the authorities in protecting the citizens from unruly members; but now finding their occupation almost at an end, its English members voted at their armory that, as they would have no further use for their weapons and accoutrements, they should be sent to Beauregard's army at Corinth, as 'a slight token of their affection for the Confederate States.'"

"I should say that was but a poor sort of neutrality," remarked Rosie.

"So I think," responded the captain; then went on with his story.

"Only a few hours after Mumford and his mates had pulled down the flag, Butler arrived, joined Farragut on the Hartford, and presently made to the Secretary of War the report of which I have already spoken.

"He hurried back to his troops and made arrangements for their immediate advance up the river. On the first of May he appeared before New Orleans with his transports bearing two thousand men; the general with his wife, his staff, and one thousand four hundred troops, was on the Mississippi, the vessel in which he had sailed from Hampton Roads sixty-five days before.

"At four o'clock on the afternoon of that day the troops began to land: first, a company of the Thirty-first Massachusetts, presently followed by the rest of the regiment, the Fourth Wisconsin, and Everett's battery of heavy field guns.

"They formed in procession, acting as an escort to General Butler and General Williams and his staff, and marched through several streets to the Custom House, their band playing the 'Star-Spangled Banner.' They had been given strict directions not to resent any insults that might be offered by the vast crowd gathered in the streets, unless ordered so to do; if a shot should be fired from any house, they were to halt, arrest the inmates, and destroy the building.

"Their patience was greatly tried during that short march, the crowd constantly growing greater and more boisterous and pouring out upon them volleys of abusive epithets, both vulgar and profane, applying them to the general as well as his troops."

"I think anybody but an American would have ordered his soldiers to fire upon them for that," remarked Walter. "Did they do no fighting at all at the time, sir?"

"No," replied the captain; "they were obedient to the orders of their superior officers and brave enough to endure the undeserved abuse in silence.

"At length their destination was reached, Captain Everett posted his cannon around the Custom House, quarters there were given to the Massachusetts regiment, and the city was comparatively quiet through the night.

"General Butler passed the night on board the Mississippi, and at an early hour in the evening sent out a proclamation to the citizens of New Orleans. It was first sent to the office of the True Delta to be printed; but the proprietor flatly refused to use his types in such an act of submission to Federal rule."

"I hope he wasn't allowed to do as he pleased about it?" growled Walter.

"I think hardly," returned the captain with an amused smile. "Some two hours later a file of soldiers were in his office, half a dozen of whom were printers, and in a very short time the proclamation was sent out in printed form.

"Meanwhile the Federal officers had taken possession of their city quarters. General Butler was at the St. Charles Hotel, and invited the city authorities to a conference with him there. That very foolish mayor, Monroe, told the messenger sent to him that his place of business was at the City Hall. He was answered by a suggestion that such a reply was not likely to prove satisfying to the commanding general, and then prudently decided to go and wait on General Butler at the St. Charles.

"Some of his friends accompanied him; among them Pierre Soulé, who had been a representative to Congress before the war.

"General Butler and these callers had a talk together in regard to the proper relations existing between the General Government and the city of New Orleans, Butler maintaining that the authority of the Government of the United States was and ought to be supreme; it had a right to demand the allegiance of the people, and that no other authority could be allowed to conflict with it in ruling the city.

"The mayor, Soulé, and his friends, on the contrary, insisted that Louisiana was an independent sovereignty and that to her alone the people owed their allegiance. They asserted that the National troops were invaders, the people doing right in treating them with contempt and abhorrence, and that they would be fully justified in driving them away if it were in their power to do so.

"While this hot discussion was going on, a messenger came from General Williams, who had command of the regiment protecting headquarters, saying that he feared he could not control the mob which had collected in the street.

"Butler calmly replied: 'Give my compliments to General Williams, and tell him if he finds he cannot control the mob, to open upon them with artillery.'

"At that the mayor and his friends sprang to their feet, exclaiming excitedly, 'Don't do that, General.' Butler asked, 'Why not?' and went on, 'The mob must be controlled. We can't have a disturbance in the street.'

"At that the mayor stepped out upon the balcony and spoke to the mob, telling them of the general's orders and advising them to disperse.

"At that interview General Butler read to his callers the proclamation he was about to issue. Soulé told him it would give great offence, and that the people would never submit to its demands; for they were not conquered and could not be expected to act as a conquered people would. 'Withdraw your troops and leave the city government to manage its own affairs,' he said. 'If the troops remain there will certainly be trouble.'"

"And Butler, of course, did as he was told," laughed Rosie.

"Not exactly," returned the captain. "'I did not expect to hear from Mr. Soulé a threat on this occasion,' he said. 'I have long been accustomed to hear threats from Southern gentlemen in political conventions, but let me assure the gentlemen present that the time for tactics of that nature has passed, never to return. New Orleans is a conquered city. If not, why are we here? How did we get here? Have you opened your arms and bid us welcome? Are we here by your consent? Would you, or would you not, expel us if you could? New Orleans has been conquered by the forces of the United States, and by the laws of all nations lies subject to the will of the conquerors.'"

"Some of the New Orleans people, especially the women, behaved very badly, did they not, captain?" asked Evelyn.

"Yes; though no man was injured by the troops, who behaved in a perfectly orderly manner; no woman was treated with the slightest disrespect, though the women were very offensive in their manifestations of contempt of the officers, not omitting even the commanding officer himself. They would leave street cars and church pews when a Federal officer entered them; the sidewalks also, going round the gentlemen, turning up their noses and sometimes uttering abusive words; they wore secession colors in their bonnets, sang rebel songs, and turned their backs on passing soldiers, when out on their balconies, and played airs that were used with rebel words; indeed they tried to show in every possible way their contempt and aversion for the Union officers and soldiers. At length a woman of the 'dominant class,' meeting two Union officers on the street, spit in their faces. Then General Butler decided to at once put a stop to such proceedings, and on the 5th of May he issued order No. 28, which had the desired effect."

"What was it, papa? What did he order the people, or the soldiers, to do?" queried Lulu.

"The amount of the order was that every woman who should behave as that one had, insult or show contempt for any officer or soldier of the United States, should be regarded and held liable to be treated as not of good moral character. The mayor made it the subject of another impudent and absurd letter to General Butler, for which he was arrested, but he was soon released again upon making a humble apology."

"Did they let him be mayor again, papa?" asked Grace.

"No; instead General G. F. Sheply of Maine, was appointed Military Governor of New Orleans, and made an excellent one, having the city made cleaner, and in consequence more wholesome, than it had been for years, if ever before. Soon after that William B. Mumford was arrested, tried by a military court for treason in having torn down the flag, found guilty, and hanged."



Chapter V.


THERE was a moment of silence broken by Lulu with an eager exclamation. "Oh, papa, don't you remember that when we were at Saratoga last summer you promised that sometime you would tell us about the fighting in the Revolution near and at Fort Schuyler? and won't you please do so now?"

"I will if the others wish to hear it," he replied, and a general eager assent being given he at once began the story.

"Fort Schuyler," he said, "at first called Fort Stanwix, in honor of the general of that name, who directed the work of its erection, stood at the head of boat navigation on the Mohawk, where the village of Rome now is. It cost the British and Colonial Government two hundred and sixty-six thousand four hundred dollars and was a strong post of resistance to attack from the French in Canada, with whom, as you all know, I think, the colonists were often at war, on their own account or that of the mother country, and a powerful protection to the Indian trade. It commanded the portage between Lake Ontario and the Mohawk valley, the theatre of many stirring events during the War of the Revolution. Indians and Tories kept in terror the people who lived there and were loyal to the cause of their country. There were daylight struggles and stealthy midnight attacks in such numbers that Tryon County came to be spoken of as 'the dark and bloody ground.'

"Congress perceiving the importance of defending the northern and western frontiers of New York from incursions by the British and Indians, sent General Schuyler to strengthen old Fort Stanwix, which had been allowed to fall into a state of decay so that it was little more than a ruin, and, if he found it necessary, to erect other fortifications.

"General Phillip Schuyler was a gentleman of fortune, of military skill, experience, sound judgment, and lofty patriotism. Lossing tells us that, 'for causes quite inexplicable, he was superseded in effect by Gates in March 1777, but reinstated in May, and that no appointment could have been more acceptable to the people of northern New York, who were at that time in a state of great excitement and alarm.'

"In recent campaigns against the French and Indians on Lakes Champlain and George, General Schuyler had done great service to the colony and the people along the northern frontier. That of itself was sufficient cause for attachment to him, besides his many virtues, which had endeared him to all who knew him. And in fighting the British he would be defending his own home and large landed estate.

"In March, 1777, Burgoyne arrived at Quebec, bearing the commission of a lieutenant-general, and by the first of June a force of seven thousand men was collected for him and mustered at St. John's at the foot of Lake Champlain. Also the British Lieutenant-colonel St. Leger, was sent with a force of seven hundred rangers up the St. Lawrence and Lake Ontario to Oswego. He was to gather the Indians, make friends with them, and get them to act as his allies; then to sweep the valley of the Mohawk, with the help of Johnson and his Tories, take Fort Schuyler, and afterward join Burgoyne.

"Colonel Peter Gansevoort was at that time in command of Fort Schuyler. The people of Tryon County, hearing of St. Leger's movement, and that a descent was to be made upon them by the way of Oswego, were greatly alarmed. In June a man from Canada was arrested as a spy and from him the Americans learned that a detachment of British, Canadians, and Indians was coming against them on their way to join Burgoyne at Albany."

"But Burgoyne never got there -- to Albany -- until he went as a prisoner; did he, sir?" asked Walter.

"No, my boy, he was defeated and made prisoner while on his way to the city. The battle of Saratoga was a disastrous one to the invaders of our land.

"The intelligence of which I just spoke as given by the spy was afterward confirmed by Thomas Spencer, a friendly Oneida half breed sachem, who was sent to Canada as a secret emissary and there became acquainted with the plans of Burgoyne.

"For a time the loyal people, the Whigs, who were for their native land and not for the English king who had been showing himself a tyrant and oppressor, were almost paralyzed with alarm. Fort Schuyler was still unfinished and the garrison feeble. But Colonel Gansevoort was hopeful, vigilant, and active. He wrote urgently to General Schuyler for aid, and the general made a like appeal to the Provincial Congress of New York, and the General Congress. But it was too late for them to send him help before the attack would be made.

"On the 2d of August Brant and Lieutenant Bird began the investment of the fort, and on that very day Gansevoort and his little garrison of seven hundred and fifty men received a re-enforcement of two hundred men under Lieutenant-colonel Melon, and two bateaux loaded with provisions and military stores; a most welcome addition to the scant supplies in the fort.

"The next day Colonel St. Leger arrived with the rest of his troops. The siege was begun on the 4th. The Indians, hiding in the bushes, wounded some of our men who were at work on the parapets, and a few bombs were thrown into the fort.

"The next day it was the same; the Indians spread themselves about through the woods encircling the fort, and all through the night tried to intimidate the Americans by their hideous yells.

"On that very day General Herkimer was coming to its aid with more than eight hundred men of the militia of Tryon County. He was near Oriskany, a little village eight miles eastward from the fort; from there he sent a messenger to tell Colonel Gansevoort that he was approaching, and asking to be informed of the man's arrival by the firing of three guns in quick succession, knowing that they could be heard at Oriskany. But unfortunately his messenger did not reach the fort until the next day, and while Herkimer, who though brave was cautious, decided to halt till he should hear the signal or receive re-enforcements, some of his officers and men were impatient to push on.

"Herkimer would not consent, and two of his colonels, Paris and Cox, called him a coward and a Tory. Herkimer replied calmly, 'I am placed over you as a father and guardian and shall not lead you into difficulties from which I may not be able to extricate you.'

"But they continued their taunts and demands till he was stung by them into giving the command, 'March on!'

"St. Leger knew of the advance of Herkimer and his troops and sent a division of Johnston's Greens, under Major Watts, Brant with a strong body of Indians, and Colonel Butler with his rangers, to intercept him and prevent his making an attack upon the entrenchments which he had made about Fort Schuyler.

"Gansevoort noticed the silence in the enemy's camp, and also the movement of his troops down toward the river along the margin of the wood. When the courier came with the message from Herkimer he understood the meaning of it all, and immediately fired the signal guns.

"Herkimer had said in his message that he intended, on hearing the signals, to cut his way through the camp of the enemy to the fort, and asked that a sortie from it should be made at the same time.

"As quickly as possible Gansevoort had it made. A detachment of two hundred men, of his own and Wesson's regiments, with an iron three-pounder, were detailed for the duty; then fifty more were added for the protection of the cannon and to assist in whatever way they could. Colonel Marinus Willett was given the command.

"It rained heavily while the necessary preparations were going on in the fort, but the moment it ceased Willett and his men hastened out and attacked the enemy furiously.

"The advanced guard were driven in, and so sudden and impetuous was the charge that Sir John Johnson had no time to put on his coat. He tried to bring his troops into order, but they were so panic stricken that they fled, and he with them. They crossed the river to St. Leger's camp and the Indians concealed themselves in the deep forest.

"The Americans took much plunder; all Sir John's baggage and his papers, as well as those of other officers, giving valuable information to the garrison of Fort Schuyler; also the British colors, all of which -- there were five -- the Americans presently raised upon their flagstaff, beneath their own rude flag -- fashioned, as I have already told some of you, out of strips of red and white obtained by tearing up men's shirts for the one, and joining bits of scarlet cloth for the other; while a blue cloak belonging to Captain Abraham Swartwout, of Dutchess County, then in the fort, was used to form the ground for the white stars, and the staff upon which all these hung was in full view of the enemy. Then the whole garrison mounted the parapets and made the forest ring with three loud cheers.

"While all this was going on in and around the fort, General Herkimer and his men were coming toward it through the woods. It was a dark, sultry morning. The troops were chiefly militia regiments and marched in an irregular, careless way, neglecting proper precautions.

"Brant and his Tories took advantage of this carelessness, hid themselves in a ravine which crossed Herkimer's path, and had a thick growth of underwood along its margin, which made it easy for them to conceal themselves, and when all except the rear-guard of the unsuspecting Americans had entered the ravine, where the ground was marshy and crossed by a causeway of earth and logs, Brant gave a signal, immediately followed by a warwhoop, and the savages fell upon our poor men with spear, hatchet, and rifle-ball; as Lossing says, 'like hail from the clouds that hovered over them.'

"The rear-guard fled and left the others to their fate, yet perhaps suffered more from the pursuing Indians than they would if they had stood their ground, helping their fellows. The attack had been so sudden that there was great confusion in the ranks; but they presently recovered and fought like veterans; fought bravely for their lives, and for their country."

"And were many of them killed, sir?" asked Walter.

"Yes," replied the captain sighing; "the slaughter was dreadful, and the good general was soon among the wounded. A musket ball passed through his horse, killing it and sadly wounding him, shattering his leg just below the knee. He at once ordered the saddle taken from his horse and placed against a large beech tree near by, and there he sat during the rest of the fight, calmly giving his orders while the enemy's bullets whistled around him like sleet, killing and wounding his men on every side."

"He was no coward after all," exclaimed Walter, his eyes shining. "But did any of our men escape being killed, sir?"

"After a little they formed themselves into circles," continued the captain, "so meeting the enemy at all points, and their fire became so destructive that the Tories and the Johnson Greens charged with the bayonet, and the patriots being equally prompt to defend themselves, it became a terrible hand to hand fight.

"It was at length stopped by the shower that had delayed the sortie from the fort; both parties seeking shelter under the trees. Then, as soon as the shower was over, Colonel Willett made his sally from the fort, attacking Johnson's camp, and the battle at Oriskany was renewed.

"It is said to have been the bloodiest of the war in proportion to the numbers engaged. It is stated that about one-third of the militia fell on the battle ground, and as many more were mortally wounded or carried into captivity. About fifty wounded were carried from the field on litters, General Herkimer among them. He was taken to his own home, where he died ten days afterward."

"But who gained the victory, papa?" asked Lulu.

"The Americans, the others having fled; but they were unable to accomplish the object of the expedition -- the relief of Fort Schuyler. And surrounded as they were by the enemy, the men in the fort could gain no intelligence as to the result of the fight at Oriskany, and St. Leger took advantage of their ignorance to falsely represent the British to have been the victors to the total defeat of the Americans, and announce a victorious advance by Burgoyne.

"Two American officers, Colonel Billenger and Major Frey, who had been taken prisoners, were forced to write a letter to Colonel Gansevoort, containing many misrepresentations and advising him to surrender. This Colonel Butler delivered to Gansevoort and verbally demanded his surrender.

"Gansevoort refused, saying he would not answer such a summons verbally made unless by St. Leger himself.

"The next morning Butler and two other officers drew near the fort carrying a white flag, and asked to be admitted as bearers of a message to the commander of the fort.

"The request was granted, but they were first blindfolded, then conducted to the dining room of the fort, where they were received by Gansevoort, the windows of the room being closed and candles lighted."

"What was that for, papa?" asked Grace.

"To prevent them from seeing what was the condition of things within the fort," replied her father.

"And was Gansevoort alone with them, papa?"

"No; he had with him Colonels Willett and Mellen. Butler and his companions were politely received, and one of them, Major Ancram by name, made a little speech, telling of the humanity of St. Leger's feelings, and his desire to prevent bloodshed; that he found it difficult to keep the Indians in check, and that the only salvation of the garrison was an immediate surrender of the fort and all its stores. Officers and soldiers would be allowed to keep their baggage and other private property, and their personal safety would be guaranteed. He added that he hoped these honorable terms would be immediately accepted, for if not it would not be in St. Leger's power to offer them again."

"So the Americans of course were afraid to reject them?" sniffed Walter.

"Hardly," returned the captain with a smile. "But that was not all Ancram said with a view to inducing them to do so. He went on to say that the Indians were eager to march down the country, laying it waste and killing the inhabitants; that Herkimer's relief corps had been totally destroyed, Burgoyne had possession of Albany, and there was no longer any hope for this garrison."

"What a liar he was, that Ancram!" exclaimed Walter. "Why, Burgoyne had not even got as far as Saratoga then."

"No," responded the captain, "and the bright and plucky officers of Fort Schuyler, to whom he was speaking, were not so easily hood-winked; they saw through his designs, and were not to be deceived by the falsehoods and misrepresentations of his address.

"It was Colonel Willett who, with the approval of Gansevoort, made answer, speaking, as Lossing says, with 'emphasis,' and looking Ancram full in the face.

"'Do I understand you, sir? I think you say that you came from a British colonel, who is commander of the army that invests this fort; and, by your uniform, you appear to be an officer in the British service. You have made a long speech on the occasion of your visit, which, stripped of all its superfluities, amounts to this: that you come from a British colonel to the commandant of this garrison, to tell him that, if he does not deliver up the garrison into the hands of your colonel, he will send his Indians to murder our women and children. You will please to reflect, sir, that their blood will be upon your heads, not upon ours. We are doing our duty; this garrison is committed to our care, and we will take care of it. After you get out of it, you may turn round and look at its outside, but never expect to come in again unless you come a prisoner. I consider the message you have brought a degrading one for a British officer to send, and by no means reputable for a British officer to carry. For my own part, I declare, before I would consent to deliver this garrison to such a murdering set as your army, by your own account, consists of, I would suffer my body to be filled with splinters and set on fire, as you know has at times been practiced by such hordes of women and children killers as belong to your army.'"

"Good!" said Walter; "and the other two American officers, I suppose, agreed with him."

"Yes," Captain Raymond replied, "and they all felt satisfied that they would not be so urgently pressed to surrender at once, and on conditions so favorable, if their prospects were as dark as their besiegers would have them believe."



Chapter VI.


"ST. LEGER made another effort to induce them to do so," continued Captain Raymond. "On the 9th he sent a written demand offering about the same terms as before.

"Gansevoort replied in writing: 'Sir, your letter of this date I have received, in answer to which I say, that it is my determined resolution, with the force under my command, to defend this fort to the last extremity, in behalf of the United States, who have placed me here to defend it against all their enemies.'"

"Did the British give it up then, papa?" asked Grace.

"No; they began digging and making preparations to run a mine under the strongest bastion of the fort, while at the same time they sent out an address to the people of Tryon County, signed by Clause, Johnson, and Butler, urging them to submit to British rule, asserting that they themselves were desirous to have peace, and threatening that in case of refusal all the horrors of Indian cruelty would be visited upon them. Also they called upon the principal men of the valley to come up to Fort Schuyler and compel its garrison to surrender, as they would be forced to do in the end."

"Did the men in the fort give up then, papa?" queried Grace.

"No, no indeed, little daughter!" he replied. "They were brave men, and staunch patriots, and had no intention to surrender so long as they could possibly hold out; but fearing ammunition might give out, their supply of provisions too, they resolved to send word to General Schuyler, who was then at Stillwater, asking for aid from him in their sore extremity.

"Of course it would be a hazardous attempt, but Colonel Willett offered to be the messenger, and one stormy night he and Lieutenant Stockwell left the fort at ten o'clock by the sally-port, each armed with a spear, and crept along the morass on hands and knees, to the river, which they crossed upon a log. Their way lay through a tangled wood and they soon lost it. The bark of a dog presently warned them that they were near an Indian camp, and fearing to either advance or retreat they stood still there for several hours.

"But at length the dawn of day showed them where they were, so that they were able to find the right road and pursue their way. They took a zigzag course, now on land, now through the bed of a stream, to foil any attempt on the part of some possible pursuer to gain upon them by the scent of their footsteps.

"They arrived safely at the German Flats, mounted fleet horses, and sped down the valley to the quarters of General Schuyler. On arriving they learned that he had already heard of the defeat of Herkimer, and was preparing to send succor to the besieged in the fort.

"Meanwhile St. Leger was pressing his siege, and the garrison, hearing nothing of the successful journey of their messengers, or of aid coming to them from any quarter, many of them began to grow despondent and to hint to their commander that it might be best to surrender, as their supply of both provisions and ammunition was getting low.

"But Gansevoort was too brave and hopeful to think of so doing. He told the despondent ones that in case help did not arrive before their supplies were exhausted, they would sally forth in the night and cut their way through the enemy's camp.

"But relief came in an unexpected manner, that always reminds me of that siege of Samaria by the host of the Syrians, in the days of Elisha the prophet of Israel, and the way the Lord took to deliver them, causing 'the Syrians to hear a noise of chariots and a noise of horses, even the noise of a great host; and they said one to another, Lo, the King of Israel hath hired against us the Kings of the Hittites and the Kings of the Egyptians to come upon us. Wherefore they arose and fled in the twilight, and left their tents and their horses, and there asses, even the camp as it was, and fled for their lives.' For suddenly and mysteriously the British, Indians, and Tories besieging Fort Schuyler did the same -- fled, leaving tents, artillery, and camp equipage behind them."

"Why, papa, how very strange!" exclaimed Lulu, "were they really frightened in the same way?"

"Not exactly the same but somewhat like it," replied her father. "General Schuyler, then at the mouth of the Mohawk, had made an appeal to his men for volunteers to go to the relief of Gansevoort and his men, now besieged by the enemy in Fort Schuyler, and Arnold and his troops, most of them Massachusetts men, responded with alacrity and, joined by the First New York regiment, they marched at once.

"Arnold's force was much smaller than that of St. Leger's and he resorted to stratagem as the only means of securing his end. A half idiot, a nephew of General Herkimer, named Hon-Yost Schuyler, a coarse, ignorant fellow, had been taken prisoner along with that Walter Butler who had been arrested while carrying to the people of Tryon County the call for them to force the defenders of Fort Schuyler to surrender, tried and condemned as a spy.

"The same thing had befallen Hon-Yost, but his mother plead for him, and though at first Arnold was inexorable, he at length agreed to release the fellow on condition that he would go to Fort Schuyler and alarm St. Leger with the story that the Americans were coming against him in force to compel the raising of the siege.

"Hon-Yost seemed not at all unwilling, readily gave the required promise, and his mother offered to remain as a hostage for his faithful performance of the duty; but Arnold chose instead Nicholas, the brother of Hon-Yost, as his security.

"Hon-Yost managed the business with great adroitness. Before leaving he had seven bullets shot through his coat, which he showed to the British and Indians on arriving at their encampment as proof of 'a terrible engagement with the enemy.' He was acquainted with many of the Indians, and when he came rushing into the camp almost out of breath with haste and fright, apparently, telling this story, with the added information that the Americans were coming and he had barely escaped with his life, his hearers were very much alarmed.

"They asked what were the numbers of the Americans, and in reply he shook his head mysteriously, pointing as he did so to the leaves on the trees, as if he would say that they were numberless.

"The Indians, who had been uneasy and moody ever since the battle of Oriskany, and were at the moment of Hon-Yost's arrival holding a pow-wow to plead with the 'Great Spirit' to guide and direct them, at once resolved to flee, and told St. Leger of their decision.

"He sent for Hon-Yost, questioned him, and was told that Arnold would be there in twenty-four hours with two thousand men.

"Hon-Yost had come in to the camp alone, he and the Oneida chief having laid their plans before hand, the chief to arrive a little later than the other, so that they would not appear to be in collusion, and just as Hon-Yost finished his story to St. Leger, the chief and two or three straggling Indians of his tribe, who had joined him on his way, came in with the same story of the near approach of a large body of Americans. One told St. Leger that Arnold had three thousand men with him; another that the army of Burgoyne was cut to pieces. They pretended that a bird had brought them news that the valley below was swarming with warriors.

"The savages were now thoroughly alarmed, and all the bribes and promises of St. Leger could not induce them to remain any longer; they suspected foul play and would not touch the strong drink he offered, and when, finding that they would go, he asked them to take the rear in retreating, they indignantly refused, saying, 'You mean to sacrifice us. When you marched down you said there would be no fighting for Indians; we might go down and smoke our pipes; numbers of our warriors have been killed, and you mean to sacrifice us also.'

"The council broke up, the Indians fled, the panic was communicated to the rest of the army, and they fled in terror to their boats on Oneida Lake, the Indians making merry over their flight, hurrying on after them with the warning cry: 'They are coming, they are coming!' So alarmed were the Tories and British troops that they threw away their knapsacks and their arms as they ran. Also the Indians killed or robbed many of them and took their boats, so that St. Leger said, 'they became more formidable than the enemy we had to expect.'"

"And did the Americans chase them that time, sir?" asked Walter.

"Yes; Gansevoort at once sent word to Arnold that the British were retreating, and Arnold sent nine hundred men in pursuit. The next day he himself reached the fort; but he and his men presently marched back to the main army, then at Stillwater, leaving Colonel Willett in command of Fort Schuyler.

"So ended the siege of which Lossing says that 'in its progress were shown the courage, skill, and endurance of the Americans everywhere so remarkable in the revolution.'"

"Yes, sir," said Walter; "but will you please tell what became of Hon-Yost?"

"Yes; he went with the British as far as Wood Creek, then managed to desert and at once carried the news of Arnold's approach to Fort Schuyler. He went back to Fort Dayton, afterward fled with his family and fourteen of his Tory friends, and joined Sir John Johnson. When the war was over he returned to the valley, where he died in 1818."



Chapter VII.


"NOW, papa, if you're not too tired won't you please tell us about the writing of the 'Star-Spangled Banner'?" pleaded Lulu, with a smiling, coaxing look up into her father's face.

"I am not too tired, and if all wish to hear it, will willingly tell the story to the best of my ability," he replied, taking in his and softly patting the hand she had laid on his knee.

"I'm sure we will all be glad to hear it, sir," said Walter. "It happened in the War of 1812, didn't it?"

"Yes. The British had taken Washington, where they had behaved more like vandals than civilized men, burning and destroying both public buildings and private property -- the Capitol, the President's house, the Arsenal, the library of Congress, and barracks for nearly three thousand troops; besides private property -- a large ropewalk, some houses on Capitol Hill, and a tavern; all of which they burned. The light of the fire was seen at Baltimore, and the news of the capture of Washington caused intense excitement there; particularly because it was known that the British were so much exasperated at the Baltimoreans on account of its being the place whence had been sent out many swift clipper-built vessels and expert seamen who had struck heavy blows at British commerce on the high seas.

"Baltimore is on the Patapsco River, ten miles from Chesapeake Bay. The narrow strait connecting harbor and bay is defended by Fort McHenry, which stood there at that time. It was expected that Baltimore would be the next point of attack by the enemy, and there was, of course, great excitement.

"General Samuel Smith, who had been a revolutionary officer, at once exerted himself to prepare both Baltimore and Annapolis for successful defence. He was a fine officer. You all perhaps remember him as commander at Fort Mifflin when attacked by the British and Hessians in the Revolutionary War. He had been active in this war also, ever since the appearance of a British squadron in the Chesapeake, in the spring of the previous year, 1813."

"And this was in the fall of 1814, was it not, captain?" queried Evelyn.

"Yes, early in September. In the spring of 1813 it was rumored that the British were coming to attack the city, and several persons were arrested as traitors and spies. Also five thousand men were quickly in arms ready to defend the city, and companies of militia came pouring in from the country. All this within a few hours.

"Then General Striker's brigade and other military bodies, to the number of five thousand and with forty pieces of artillery, were reviewed. The marine artillery of Baltimore was one hundred and sixty in number, commanded by Captain George Stiles, and composed of masters and master's mates of vessels there. It was a corps celebrated for its gallantry, and was armed with forty-two pounders.

"Finding the city so well prepared to give them a warm reception the British abandoned their intention to attack it, went to sea, and Baltimore enjoyed a season of repose. But, as I have been telling you, they returned after the capture of Washington, and again the people set to work at preparations for defence.

"General Smith was made first in command of all the military force intended to insure the safety of the city. But it is with the attack upon Fort McHenry and its repulse that we are concerned. The fort was garrisoned by about a thousand men under the command of Major George Armistead."

"Regulars, sir?" asked Walter.

"Some were, others volunteers," replied the captain. "There were, besides, four land batteries to assist in the work. But I will not go into particulars in regard to them, as I know they would be rather uninteresting to the greater part of my listeners.

"It was on Sunday evening, September 11, that the British were seen in strong force at the mouth of the Patapsco, preparing to land at North Point, fifteen miles from the city by land, twelve by water. Their fleet anchored off that point, two miles from the shore. It was a beautiful night, a full moon shining in a cloudless sky, and the air balmy.

"Ross intended to take Baltimore by surprise, and had boasted that he would eat his Sunday dinner there. At two o'clock in the morning the boats were lowered from his ships, and seamen and land troops went on shore, protected by several gun brigs anchored very near. The men were armed, of course, and each boat had a carronade ready for action. Admiral Cockburn and General Ross were on shore by about seven o'clock with 5000 land troops, 2000 seamen, and 2000 marines.

"Their intention was to march rapidly upon Baltimore and take it by surprise, therefore they carried as little baggage as possible, and only eighty rounds apiece of ammunition. At the same time a frigate was sent to make soundings in the channel leading to Baltimore, as the navy was intended to take part in the attack upon the city."

"Oh, wasn't everybody terribly frightened, papa?" asked Grace.

"There was a good deal of alarm," replied the captain, "and many of the citizens fled, with their valuables, to places in the interior of the country, filling the hotels for nearly a hundred miles north of the city.

"I will not at present go into the details of the battle of North Point, which immediately followed, but will tell of what was going on upon the water.

"The British frigates, schooners, sloops, and bomb-ketches had passed into the Patapsco early in the morning, while Ross was moving from North Point, and anchored off Fort McHenry, but beyond the reach of its guns. The bomb and rocket vessels were so posted as to act upon Fort McHenry and the fortifications on the hill, commanded by Rodgers. The frigates were stationed farther outward, the water being too shallow to allow them to approach within four or five miles of the city, or two and a half of the fort.

"Besides, the Americans had sunk twenty-four vessels in the narrow channel between Fort McHenry and Lazaretto Point, to prevent the passage of the vessels of the enemy.

"That night was spent by the British fleet in preparations for the morrow's attack upon the fort and the entrenchments on the hill, and on the morning of the 13th their bomb-vessels opened a heavy fire upon the American works, about seven o'clock, and at a distance of two miles. They kept up a heavy bombardment until three o'clock in the afternoon.

"Armistead at once opened the batteries of Fort McHenry upon them, but, after keeping up a brisk fire for some time, discovered that his missiles fell short and were harmless. It was a great disappointment to find that he must endure the tremendous shower of the shells of the enemy without being able to return it in kind, or do anything whatever to check it. But our brave fellows kept at their posts, enduring the storm with great courage and fortitude.

"At length a bomb-shell dismounted one of the twenty-four pounders, killing Lieutenant Claggett and wounding several of his men. That caused some confusion, which Cochrane perceived, and, hoping to profit by it, he ordered three of his bomb-vessels to move up nearer the fort, thinking to thus increase the effectiveness of his guns.

"No movement could have been more acceptable to Armistead, and he quickly took advantage of it, ordering a general cannonade and bombardment from every part of the fort, thus punishing the enemy so severely that in less than half an hour he fell back to his old anchorage.

"One of their rocket vessels was so badly injured that, to save her from being entirely destroyed, a number of small boats had to be sent to tow her out of the reach of Armistead's guns. The garrison gave three cheers and ceased firing.

"The British vessels returned to their former stations and again opened fire, keeping up, with very little intermission, a furious bombardment until past midnight, when it was discovered that they (the British) had sent a pretty large force up the Patapsco to capture Fort Covington, commanded by Lieutenant Newcomb, of the United States Navy, and the City Battery, then attack Fort McHenry in the rear. For this purpose there had been sent one thousand two hundred and fifty men in barges, with scaling ladders and other implements for storming the fort. But providentially their errand was made known to the garrison of Fort McHenry in good season by the throwing up of rockets to examine the shores, and not the fort alone but also two redoubts on the Patapsco immediately opened a heavy fire upon them, and drove them away.

"So heavy was the firing that the houses of Baltimore were shaken to their very foundations. Lossing tells us that Rodgers's men in Fort Covington worked their guns with effect, but to Webster's continuous cannonade with his six gun battery Armistead said he was persuaded the country was much indebted for the final repulse of the enemy. The historian adds that he thinks it not too much to say that Webster's gallant conduct on that occasion saved both Fort McHenry and the city."

"Were any of the British killed, sir?" asked Walter.

"Yes, a large number; also two of their vessels were sunk."

"And did they go on firing at the fort?"

"They did, until seven o'clock in the morning of the 14th, then ceased entirely."

"Oh, papa, you have not told us of the writing of the 'Star-Spangled Banner'!" exclaimed Lulu. "Wasn't it that night it was written?"

"Yes; by Mr. Francis S. Key, a resident of Georgetown in the District of Columbia, who was at that time a volunteer in the light artillery commanded by Major Peter.

"When the British returned to their vessels after the capture of Washington, they carried with them Dr. Beanes, a well known physician of Upper Marlborough. Cockburn carried him away on board the flag-ship of Admiral Cochrane, in spite of the intercession of his friends.

"Then Mr. Key was entreated by the friends to go to Cochrane and intercede for the doctor's release. Key consented, obtained permission of the President, and went under a flag of truce in the cartel ship Minden in company with General Skinner.

"When they reached the British fleet it was at the mouth of the Potomac, preparing to attack Baltimore, and though Cochrane agreed to release Dr. Beanes, he refused to let him or his friends return then. They were placed on board the Surprise and courteously treated. The fleet sailed up to the Patapsco, and they were transferred to their own vessel, but with a guard of marines to prevent them from landing and communicating with their friends and countrymen.

"Their vessel was anchored in sight of Fort McHenry, and from her deck the Americans watched the fight, oh, so anxiously! and though it was, as I have said, over before midnight, those anxious watchers did not know until morning how it had ended -- whether by surrender of the fort, or the abandonment on the part of the enemy of the attempt to take it. It was with very anxious hearts they waited for the coming of the dawn, but at last, in the dim light, as the day began to break, their eyes were gladdened by the sight, through their glasses directed toward Fort McHenry, of the beautiful stars and stripes 'still there,' and to their great joy they soon learned that the attack on Baltimore had failed, that Ross was killed, and the British were returning to their vessels.

"It was while pacing the deck during the bombardment, full of anxiety for the result, that Mr. Key composed that song so dear to the American heart, 'The Star-Spangled Banner.'"

"Oh, let us sing it!" exclaimed Lulu, and with one consent, patriotic enthusiasm swelling in every breast, they did so, the voices of old and young uniting in the soul-stirring words.

"Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming And the rockets' red glare The bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

"On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? Now it catches the gleam Of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected, now shines in the stream; 'Tis the star-spangled banner; oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

"And where are the foes who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war, and the battle's confusion, A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps pollution; No refuge could save The hireling and slave, From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

"Oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation! Then conquer we must When our cause it is just, And this be our motto, 'In God is our trust'; And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!"

A moment of silence followed the dying away of the last strains, then Captain Raymond resumed his narrative:

"The first rough notes of the song were written by Key upon the back of a letter he happened to have in his pocket, and after his arrival in Baltimore he wrote it out in full. The next morning he read it to his uncle, Judge Nicholson, one of the gallant defenders of the fort, asking his opinion of it. The judge was delighted with it, took it to the printing office of Captain Benjamin Edes, and directed copies to be struck off in handbill form. That was done, the handbills were distributed, and it was sung first in the street, in front of Edes' office, by James Lawrenson, a lad but twelve years of age. That was on the second day after the bombardment of Fort McHenry. The song was 'set up,' printed, and distributed by another lad seventeen or eighteen years old, named Samuel Sands. It created intense enthusiasm, was sung nightly at the theater, and everywhere in public and private."

"Papa," asked Lulu, "what became of that very star-spangled banner Mr. Key was looking for when he wrote the song?"

"I presume it is still in existence," replied her father. "Lossing says it was shown him in Baltimore, during the Civil War, by Christopher Hughes Armistead, the son of the gallant defender of the fort, and that it had in it eleven holes made by the shot of the British during the bombardment."

"Had not the British made very sure beforehand of being able to take Baltimore, Captain?" asked Evelyn.

"Yes; and their intention was to make it the base for future operations. As early as the 17th of June a London paper said, 'In the diplomatic circles it is rumored that our naval and military commanders on the American station have no power to conclude any armistice or suspension of arms. They carry with them certain terms which will be offered to the American government at the point of the bayonet. There is reason to believe that America will be left in a much worse situation, as a naval and commercial power, than she was at the commencement of the war."

"Ah, but they crowed too soon -- before they were out of the woods," laughed Walter. "They needed the lesson they got at Baltimore, and the one Jackson gave them some months later at New Orleans."



Chapter VIII.


"CAPTAIN, I fear we have been imposing sadly upon good nature in asking so much history of you in one evening," remarked Grandma Elsie; "and you have been extremely kind in complying with the request."

"It has been a pleasure to me, mother," he returned. "There is hardly a subject more interesting to me than the history of my dear native land, and it is my ardent desire to train and teach my children to be earnestly, intelligently patriotic."

"Including your pupils in the list, I presume, sir?" supplemented Rosie, with a saucy smile up into his face.

"Of course, little sister, and as many others as I can influence," was his pleasant toned rejoinder. "But I am happy to believe that there are few Americans who are not ardent lovers of their own country, considering it the best the sun shines upon."

"As it certainly is, sir!" exclaimed Walter. "I'm more thankful than words can express that God gave me my birth in the United States of America."

"As I have no doubt we all are, little brother," said Violet. "But to change the subject: when shall we take that delightful trip to New Orleans? I suppose the sooner the better, that we may not be too much hurried with the necessary dressmaking?"

"I think so," said her mother, "for both the reason you have given and because the weather will soon become unpleasantly warm for shopping in the city."

"You are going with us, mamma?" queried Rosie.

"I really have not thought of it, and probably it would be more prudent for me to stay quietly where I am, Rosie dear," she replied.

"Oh, mamma, we must have you along if you are able to go!" exclaimed Walter. "Please do say that you will."

"Yes, mamma dear, I think it would do you good," said Violet; and all the young folks joined urgently in the request that she would make one of the party.

"Perhaps you might, Elsie," her father said in reply to an inquiring look directed to him. "I incline to the opinion that such a change, after your long seclusion here, might, probably would be, of benefit."

"Possibly, father," she said, "though I had been thinking my staying at home might make Vi more comfortable in leaving her little ones for a day or two."

"I do not care to go, and will gladly take charge of the babies if Vi and the captain will trust me with them," Grandma Rose hastened to say, and was warmly thanked by both parents, and assured that they would have no hesitation in doing so except on the score of giving her too much care and trouble and missing her pleasant companionship on the contemplated trip.

However, after some further discussion of the matter, it was decided that Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore would remain at Viamede in charge of house and little ones during the short absence of the others on the contemplated trip.

"Papa, dear papa," Lulu said, with tears shining in her eyes, and putting her arms lovingly about his neck when he had come into her room to bid her good-night, as his custom was, "you are so good to me, your own bad, quick-tempered little daughter! Oh, I do want to be good and make you glad that I belong to you."

"I am that, my darling, in spite of all your faults," he said, caressing her tenderly. "You are very dear to your father's heart, and I am not without hope that you will one day gain full control of the temper which causes so much pain to both you and me."

"Oh, I do hope I shall, papa, and I want you to punish me every time I indulge it," she said, "but I'm so glad, so thankful to you that you have said I may go with you and the others to-morrow. I feel that I don't deserve it in the least, but I do intend to try as hard as possible to rule my own spirit in future."

"I am glad to hear it, daughter," the captain responded, imprinting a kiss upon her forehead. "But I must leave you now, for it is growing late and you ought to be in bed, that you may be ready to rise betimes in the morning."

"Yes, sir; but oh, do stay one minute longer; I -- I --  -- " she paused, blushing and a trifle shame faced.

"What is it, daughter?" he asked, smoothing her hair and cheek caressingly. "Never be afraid to tell your father all that is in your heart."

"Yes, sir; I don't think I'm really afraid -- yes, I am a little afraid you might be displeased, and I don't want to do anything to vex or trouble my dear, kind father, but if you're willing, papa, I would like to be allowed to choose for myself what I'm to wear to the wedding."

"Your taste and wishes shall certainly be consulted, daughter," he replied kindly, "yet I am not prepared to promise that you may have in every case exactly what you would prefer; we must take your mamma and Grandma Elsie into our counsels in order to make sure of getting what will be most becoming and appropriate."

"Dear me, I would like to be grown up enough to be considered capable of choosing things for myself!" she exclaimed with rueful look and tone. "But oh, don't be grieved and troubled," as her ear caught the sound of a low breathed sigh; "I'm determined I will be good about it. It certainly would be a very great shame if I were anything else, papa, after all your undeserved goodness to me."

"I do not like to refuse my dear child anything she asks," he said, drawing her into a closer embrace, "but I know too much indulgence would not be for her happiness in the end. And since life is short and uncertain with us all, it may be that she will not be long troubled by being subject to her father's control."

"Oh, papa, please don't talk so!" she exclaimed, sudden tears springing to her eyes. "I can't bear to think of ever losing my own dear, dear father. I hope God may let you live till he is ready to take me too."

"If he sees best I hope we may long be spared to each other," the captain said, holding her close to his heart. "But now about the matter of which we were speaking. Wise as my dear eldest daughter considers herself, her father thinks Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi, by reason of their superior age and knowledge, will be better capable of judging what will be most suitable for her to wear as one of the bride's-maids. And as they are very tasteful in their own dress, and her father is ready to go to any reasonable expense that his dear little girl may be suitably and tastefully attired, also entirely willing to allow her to decide for herself wherever there is a choice between two or more equally suitable articles, do you not think, as he does, that she should be ready and willing to take what the ladies and he deem most suitable in other things which she would perhaps prefer to have somewhat different?"

"Yes, you dear papa," she returned, with a look of ardent affection into his eyes. "I do always find out in the end that you know best; and I'd even rather wear any of the dresses I have now than not have you pleased with me; for I know I'm never the least bit happy when you are displeased with me."

"Neither am I," he sighed; "it troubles me more than I can tell when my dear daughter Lulu is disobedient and wilful. But it is high time you were in bed and resting. God our heavenly Father bless my dear child and keep her safely through the silent watches of the night." And, bestowing upon her another tender embrace, he released her and left the room.

She was quite ready for bed, and as she laid her head on her pillow, "Lulu Raymond," she said to herself, "if you do the least thing to vex or trouble that dear father of yours, no punishment he could possibly inflict would be equal to your deserts."

In another minute she was fast asleep, nor did she move again till awakened by some slight sound to find the sun already shining in at her windows.

Her father had directed her the night before what to wear as most suitable for making the trip to the city and back again, and she now made her toilet in haste, but with the care that he required, and which her own neat taste made desirable. She had just finished when he came in.

"That is right," he said, with an approving smile, and bending down to give her the usual morning caress; "my little girl looks neat and bright, and I hope is quite well."

"Yes, papa," she returned, putting her arms round his neck and her lips to his in an ardent kiss; "and are you and all the rest?"

"All, so far as I know, and all who are to take the little trip with us full of pleasurable excitement. We must now go down to breakfast, which is earlier than usual this morning, for we expect the boat in an hour or so."

He took her hand and led her from the room as he spoke. "The others have nearly all gone down already," he added, "and there is the bell now; so we have no time to lose."

Lulu was full of pleasurable excitement. "Oh, I'm so glad and so thankful to you, papa, that you will let me go!" she exclaimed, lifting to his eyes sparkling with joyous anticipation; "for I know I don't deserve it in the very least. But I do intend to be as pleasant tempered and obedient as possible."

"I don't doubt it, daughter, or expect to have any trouble with you," he said kindly.

But now they had reached the dining room door, morning salutations were exchanged as the different members of the family came flocking in, all quickly took their places at the table, the blessing was asked, and the meal began.

The talk was almost exclusively of what would probably be seen and done during the trip by those who were to take it, suitable gifts for the bride that was to be, and necessary or desirable shopping for themselves and those remaining at home.

Lulu, sitting beside her father, asked in a low aside, "Papa, may I buy a handsome present for Cousin Betty? I've had occasion to spend hardly any pocket-money since we have been here; so I think I've enough to get her something handsome."

"I shall be pleased to have you do so," he replied, with a pleasant smile.

"And I may choose it myself?"

"Yes; but don't you think it would be well to get some assistance from the rest of us in making your choice?"

"Oh, yes, sir; yes indeed. I really would not want to buy anything you and Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi thought unsuitable, or that would not be likely to please Cousin Betty."

"And may I too, papa?" asked Grace, who, seated close to his other side, had overheard the bit of low toned talk.

"Yes, yes indeed, little daughter," he replied, laying a caressing hand upon her head for an instant.

An hour later the little party were all on board the boat steaming away in the direction of the Gulf, and the talk was more of the beautiful country they were passing through than of the history of that portion yet to be visited. Their route grew more interesting to the young people, and indeed to all, as they came upon scenes made memorable by events in the Revolutionary and Civil Wars and that of 1812-14.

As they passed up the river, the captain pointed out Forts St. Philip and Jackson, and other localities connected with the doings and happenings of those times, all gazing upon them as scenes to be indelibly impressed upon the memory of every lover of our dear native land.

The localities about New Orleans connected with the struggle there against British invaders and aggressors, received due attention also, and were regarded with equal interest by the young girls and Walter, to say nothing of the older members of the party.

Lulu and Grace, not to speak of Rosie and Evelyn, who were allowed more latitude in their selection, or of Walter, who was more than willing to trust to "mamma's taste" rather than his own, readily adopted the opinions of papa, Grandma Elsie, and Mamma Vi.

On the evening of their second day in the city they went to their hotel, weary enough, to enjoy a few hours of rest.

"Mamma dear," said Violet, glancing at her mother's face as they entered the lower hall, "you do look so fatigued; let us step into this parlor and rest a little before going to our rooms."

"Perhaps it would be as well to do so," replied Mrs. Travilla, following her daughter into the room and sinking wearily into an easy chair which Violet drew forward for her.

"Oh, dear Grandma Elsie, how tired you do look!" exclaimed Grace; and Walter, speaking at the same instant, said in a tone of deep concern, "Oh, mamma, how pale you are! You must be ill. I wish Cousin Arthur, or some other good doctor, was here to do something to make you feel better."

"Mamma, dear mamma, I fear you are really ill!" exclaimed Rosie in a tone of anxiety, while Lulu ran back into the hall in search of her father, who had stepped aside to the clerk's desk to attend to some business matter; for to her he was a tower of strength to be flown to in every need.

But an elderly lady and gentleman, the only other occupants of the parlor at the moment, hastily rose and drew near the little group, the lady saying in a tone of mingled concern and delight, "It is my Cousin Elsie -- Mrs. Travilla -- I am sure! You know me, dear cousin? Mildred Keith -- Mrs. Dr. Landreth? And this is my husband, the doctor. I think he could do something to relieve you."

"Cousin Mildred! Oh, what a joyful surprise! how glad I am to see you!" exclaimed Mrs. Travilla, the color coming back to her cheek, and the light to her eyes, as she raised herself to a sitting posture and threw her arms about Mildred's neck.

The two held each other in a long, tender embrace, hardly conscious for the moment of the presence of the others, who stood looking on in surprise and delight, Captain Raymond and Lulu having joined the group.

Then mutual introductions and joyous greetings followed, questions about absent dear ones were asked and answered, and each party learned that the other was in the city for but a brief sojourn, purposing to go thence to Viamede or its near vicinity.

And in the meanwhile Mrs. Travilla seemed to have forgotten her weariness and exhaustion, and was looking more than ordinarily young and bright.

Dr. Landreth remarked it with a pleased smile. "I am glad to meet you, Cousin Elsie," he said, "though you seem no longer in need of my services as physician."

"No indeed, Cousin Charlie," she returned brightly; "you are so excellent a doctor that your very presence -- especially when accompanied by that of your wife" -- with a smiling glance at Mildred -- "does one good like a medicine."

"Still, if you will allow it, I will prescribe, were it only to keep my hand in," he said: "an hour's rest on a couch in your own room, to be followed by a good, substantial meal either there or at the table with the rest of us."

"Exactly the prescription I should give were I your physician, mother," said Captain Raymond. "May I not assist you to your room?"

"Yes," she said with a smile. "As I know Dr. Landreth to be an excellent physician I shall follow his advice, confidently expecting to profit by so doing. Doctor," turning to him, "we have a pleasant private parlor where we take our meals and enjoy each other's society in the intervals of sight-seeing, shopping, etc. I hope you and Cousin Mildred will join us at meal-times, and all times when you find it agreeable, making yourselves perfectly at home. Now good-by for the present. I hope to be able, after an hour's rest, to join you all at the tea-table."

With evident pleasure her invitation was accepted; an hour later she made her appearance in the parlor, much refreshed by rest and sleep; a tempting meal was partaken of by all, with evident appetite, the remainder of the evening passed in delightful social intercourse, and all retired early that they might be ready for a long day of interesting and, to the children especially, captivating shopping; for, as Rosie remarked, "Nothing could be more enjoyable than the business of selecting wedding gifts and pretty things to be worn at the wedding festivities."

She was delighted with her own finery and presents for Betty, selected by herself with her mother's assistance, Violet occasionally giving her opinion or advice, Mrs. Landreth and the gentlemen doing the same when asked. They consisted of handsome jewelry and silver.

Walter, too, chose, with his mother's help, a set of gold lined silver spoons for his cousin Betty. Evelyn's gift was a handsome silver pie knife and salt spoons. Lulu, too, and Grace, gave silver, also a pair of beautiful gold bracelets. The captain's own gift was an expensive set of jewelry; Violet's a lovely bridal veil; Grandma Elsie's a beautiful and costly diamond pin, to which she afterward added a check for five thousand dollars. Also Dr. and Mrs. Landreth bought as their gift some very handsome articles of dress and house furnishing.

The shopping and a little sight-seeing filled up the time till Saturday, when they returned to Viamede by the same boat that had brought the captain and his party to the city.

It was a very warm and joyous welcome that awaited them there from Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore, and little Elsie and Ned Raymond, and none the less joyous was the greeting given to Dr. and Mrs. Landreth by their relatives and old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore.

To each of the four it was a delightful reunion, and much of the evening was passed in recalling the events of their intercourse in those early days when Elsie and her cousin Annis were happy children together, these older ones gay, young married folks, the eldest son of each couple but a baby boy, though now each was the head of a young family of his own.

These reminiscences were very interesting to themselves, Grandma Elsie, and the Keiths, who had been invited to Viamede to take tea with these relatives, and who were to go to the parsonage after a short stay with these others.

But after a little the young folks grew tired of listening to the talk, and sought out another part of the veranda where they could converse among themselves without disturbing their elders.

Captain Raymond's eyes followed the movements of his little girls with a look of fond fatherly pride, not without a shade of anxiety as they noted the weariness in Grace's face, and presently he rose and drew near the little group.

"Gracie, my darling, do you not want to go to your bed?" he asked. "I think my little girl is looking tired and would be better for a long night's rest."

"Yes, papa, I am 'most too tired to keep my eyes open," she replied, with a faint smile up into his face.

"Then come, my pet," he said, bending down and taking her in his arms; "I will carry you to your room and bid the others good-night for you when I come down again; you are too tired to wait to do that yourself," and he carried her away.

Lulu sprang up and ran after them. "Shall I go too, papa?" she asked.

"If you, too, feel too tired to stay up for prayers," he answered pleasantly; "otherwise I would not have you absent from that service."

"Yes, sir, I'm not too tired. Good-night, Gracie," she said, and ran back to her mates.

Their tongues were running on the old theme of the wedding so soon to take place, gifts to the bride, and dresses to be worn by her and her attendants. But all of them were pretty well worn out with the shopping and traveling gone through in the last few days, seeing which their elders thought best to hold the evening service a little earlier than usual, then retired to rest.

"Papa, please may I ask a few questions now, before you leave me?" Lulu entreated when he came in to bid her good-night.

"Yes," he replied with an amused look; "that is number one, and how many are to follow?" seating himself and drawing her to his knee.

"Oh, I don't know exactly, sir; it will depend somewhat upon the answers, I think," she returned laughingly, putting an arm round his neck and kissing him with ardent affection.

"Then let me go through the ordeal as soon as possible," he responded, patting her cheek and pressing his lips to hers.

"I hope it won't be a very dreadful ordeal to you, papa," she said, smiling up into his eyes. "Firstly, then, are we to have school as usual between this and the time of the wedding?"

"Yes," was the prompt, decided reply.

"Oh, dear!" she said between a sigh and a laugh, "I 'most wish you were one of the fathers that could be coaxed. But oh, please don't begin to look sorry and grave. I'm determined I will be good about that and everything; just as good as I know how to be; and if I'm not I just hope you'll punish me well, only not by refusing to allow me to act as bridesmaid to Cousin Betty."

"Love to your father and a desire to please him seems to me a far better motive for good behavior than fear of punishment," he said with grave look and tone.

"Yes, sir; and that is my motive; please believe it, my own dear, dear father," she said, lifting dewy eyes to his.

"Then I have strong hope that my pleasure in the coming festivities will not be spoiled by having a naughty, rebellious little daughter to deal with, or an idle one, either. Now what else?"

"Only this, papa: that if you should have letters to write you will let me help you, using my typewriter, you know."

"Thank you, my dear little helpful daughter. Should I find that I have letters you could answer for me in that way, I will call upon you for your offered assistance, as I well know it will be a pleasure to you to render it," he replied, with a smile and another tender caress. "And I hope you feel no doubt that it is not for lack of love for his dear child that your father refuses the holiday you have asked for."

"No indeed, papa. I know you love me dearly. It would break my heart to think you didn't."

"As it would mine to think my little girl did not love me. Now you must go at once to bed. Good-night and pleasant dreams."



Chapter IX.


IT was early morning at Ion, breakfast awaiting the return of Mr. Edward Travilla, who had ridden into the village on some business errand, leaving word that he would be back within the hour to partake of the morning meal with his wife.

Zoe, tastefully attired, was on the veranda, and the twin babies, fresh from their bath, looking, the young mother averred, like little angels in their dainty white robes, were toddling about there, laughing, cooing, and prattling. They were the idols of her heart. She romped and played with them now, but with frequent pauses to listen for the sound of a horse's hoofs or gaze down the avenue, saying in joyous tones to the babies, "Papa is coming, coming soon; dear, dear papa! and mamma and his darlings will be so glad to see him. Ah, there he is at last!" she added at length, as a horseman turned in at the great gates and came at a quick canter up the avenue.

He lifted his hat with a bow and smile to his wife as he drew near; then alighting at the steps, where a servant took the reins and led the horse away, he hastily ascended them, and the next moment was seated with a little one upon each knee.

"Papa's darlings!" he said, caressing them in turn; "papa's dear pets!"

"Tell papa we have been wanting him," said Zoe, standing alongside, smoothing Edward's hair with softly caressing hand, and smiling down fondly into the faces of the three; "tell him he stayed so long we did not know how to wait."

"I must acknowledge I am a trifle late, my dear," Edward said, smiling up into the pretty, rosy face, "detained by business; but here is my atonement," handing her a telegram which he took from his pocket.

Zoe read it aloud. It was an invitation to a wedding (whose it did not say), at Viamede to take place in three weeks from that day.

"Why, who on earth can be going to be married?" she exclaimed in surprise. "Rosie? Evelyn? Lulu? Every one of them is too young." Then with a look into Edward's laughing eyes, "Now you needn't laugh, Ned. I know and acknowledge that Rosie is a little older than I was when we married, but we would not have made such haste except under those peculiar circumstances."

"Quite true, my dear," he responded. "But I suppose you will hardly think it necessary to decline the invitation on that account?"

"Oh, no indeed," was the quick, laughing rejoinder. "I am altogether in favor of accepting -- shall begin my preparations at once. But there's the breakfast bell."

When they had fairly begun their meal the subject was renewed, Edward remarking, "My dear, you will want a new dress. If you like we will drive into the city this morning, make necessary purchases, and at once set Alma or some other dressmaker at work."

"Oh, thank you, dear Ned," she returned, her eyes shining with pleasure; "no woman ever had a more generous husband than mine. But there are so many ways for your money to go, and I have several that would be, with remodelling and retrimming, tasteful, handsome, and becoming as any new one."

"But you must have a new one, my love," Edward replied decidedly. "I can easily afford it, and it is a great pleasure to me to see my little wife well and becomingly dressed."

"A very nice speech, my dear husband," returned Zoe laughingly, "and really I have not the heart to refuse you the pleasure of seeing your wife arrayed in finery just suited to your taste. So I am very glad you are willing to go with me and assist in the selection. Shall we take the babies along?"

"To help with the shopping? I doubt if we would find them of much assistance."

"They are good little things though, and would not be any hindrance," returned the young mother laughingly. "But the trip might interfere with their morning nap, so if you think best we will leave the darlings at home."

"I really think they would have a more comfortable time," Edward said; "we also. Hark! there's the telephone. Excuse me a moment, my dear."

"Certainly, my love, but as I may possibly be the one wanted, I'll go along; by your leave," she added laughingly, running after him as he left the room.

The call proved to be from Mrs. Elsie Leland. A telegram from Viamede had reached them also, and they would be at Ion in the course of an hour to talk over necessary arrangements for the journey, if, as they supposed, Edward and Zoe would like to take it in company with them. They too were invited, of course?

"Yes," Edward answered; "mamma would certainly not neglect her eldest son at such a time. Come over as soon as you like, prepared to drive into the city with us to make necessary purchases before setting the dressmakers at work upon suitable adornments for the ladies of our party."

"Nothing to be bought for the gentlemen, I suppose?" was Elsie's response, accompanied by a low, sweet laugh. "Will be happy to accept your invitation. Good-by till then."

"Now let us go back and finish our breakfast," said Zoe. "If the Lelands are to be here in half an hour we have no time to spare."

They were turning away when the bell rang again.

It was Ella Conly who called this time. The same invitation for herself and brothers had just been received. They knew that Ned and Zoe must of course have shared the summons to Viamede, and, if convenient, they would call at Ion after tea that evening to talk over plans and preparations.

They were cordially urged to do so. Then Edward called to his Uncle Horace at the Oaks, his Aunt Rose at the Laurels, and Aunt Lora Howard at Pinegrove, and learned to his satisfaction that all had received, and would accept the same invitation. But they had not yet settled upon their plans in regard to needed preparations and the time of setting out upon their journey.

Edward suggested that it might be satisfactory for all to meet at Ion that evening and talk the matter over, an invitation which was promptly accepted by all.

"Now let us finish our breakfast," Edward said, leading the way back to the table.

"Yes," said Zoe, "for I am sure that I for one have no time to waste if I'm to be ready to start for the city in an hour."

She was ready, however, when, in less than an hour, the Fairview carriage drove up bringing the Lelands. Elsie declined an invitation to alight. "We have none too much time now," she said, "for shopping cannot always be done in haste, and we are not making a very early start. Just get in here with us, you two, will you not? There is plenty of room, and we can talk over matters and settle plans as we drive."

"A very good idea, and we are much obliged," returned Edward, handing Zoe in and taking a seat by her side.

"Who is to be married, Elsie?" asked Zoe. "Surely it could not be mamma herself?" she added, with a light laugh. "I feel quite sure she would not accept the best and greatest man upon earth."

"And I feel as sure of that as you do," said Mrs. Leland. "She thinks of my father not as lost to her but waiting for her to rejoin him in the better land. I have been trying to think who the coming bride is to be, and suppose it is Betty Johnson."

"But it may be that the groom and not the bride belongs to our family," remarked Lester. "Who more likely than Dick Percival?"

"Why, yes, to be sure!" exclaimed Edward. "It is about time Dick had a wife. And mother would of course be interested and ready to do anything in her power to make it pleasant for him and her."

"Well, I should really like to know something more about it before choosing gifts for her," remarked Zoe.

"I too," said Elsie.

"Then suppose we let that wait for another day, and content ourselves with purchasing what is needed for the adorning of you two ladies," suggested Edward; and that was what, after a little further consultation, was decided upon.

The city was reached in safety, and some hours later they returned, as Zoe said, "Laden with lovely things for their own adornment."

The babies were on the veranda waiting, watching eagerly for papa and mamma, who, their nurse kept telling them, would soon be seen coming up the avenue. When they did appear, alighting from the Fairview carriage, they were recognized with a glad cry, and Zoe, forgetting her weariness, ran to the little ones, embraced first one and then the other, put a toy in the hand of each, spent another minute or two caressing them, then hurried to her own apartments to dress for tea and the family gathering expected in the evening.

Elsie and her husband had driven home, but would return for the informal assembly of the members of the connection.

The guests came early, Ella Conley and her brothers from Roselands being the first. Ella was in high glee. She had long felt an ardent desire to visit Viamede, and now hailed with delight the opportunity to do so. The circumstances of both brothers had greatly improved; they were disposed to be very generous to the only sister remaining at home with them, and had told her she must have a new, handsome dress for the wedding, and everything else she needed to fit her out well for the journey and a sojourn of some weeks at Viamede.

Zoe felt flattered by being consulted in regard to necessary or desirable purchases, and greatly enjoyed exhibiting her own, and describing Elsie's, of that day.

Then the other families, or delegates from them, arrived in rapid succession, and a merry sociable interview ensued. All were quite resolved, should nothing interfere, to accept the invitation to Viamede, but some of them could not yet decide upon the exact time when they would be prepared to leave their homes for that distant point, and for an absence of several weeks. But the Ion, Oaks, Fairview, and Roselands people would all go in two weeks in company.

It was still early, when wheels were heard approaching from the direction of the village, a hack turned in at the gate, drove rapidly up the avenue, halted at the veranda steps, and an old gentleman alighted.

"Cousin Ronald!" exclaimed Elsie Leland, Edward, and Zoe in a breath, and they and the others gathered about him with words of cordial greeting and welcome.

"You have given us a most pleasant surprise, Cousin Ronald," Edward said when the old gentleman was comfortably seated in an easy chair. "You have not been to tea?"

"Yes, laddie, I took that in the village yonder where I alighted frae the cars. But the auld folks seem to be missing here," glancing about in search of them as he spoke. "I dinna see your honored grandsire, his wife, or my sweet Cousin Elsie, your mither. The bairns Rosie and Walter, too, are not here; what's become o' them a', laddie? They're no ill, I hope?"

"They were quite well at last accounts, sir," replied Edward. "They have spent the winter and early spring at Viamede, and will not return for some weeks yet."

"Ah ha! um h'm! ah ha!" murmured the old gentleman reflectively. "It's no the best o' news to me -- an auld mon who has been wearyin' for a sight o' your mother's sweet face."

"Don't say that, cousin, for we are going there ourselves, and shall be glad indeed to take you with us. I know of no one who would be a more welcome guest to my mother."

"Have a care, sir, that ye dinna tempt an auld mon too far," laughed Cousin Ronald.

"Oh, but you must go with us, sir," said Zoe. "What would mamma say if we failed to bring you? Besides, we want your company even if mamma would not be displeased were you not with us."

"Ah ha! um h'm! ah ha! Weel, my bonny leddy, I can no refuse an invitation that holds out so great a prospect of enjoyment."

"No, you must not think of refusing, Cousin Ronald!" exclaimed Edward and his sister Elsie, speaking simultaneously.

"Indeed no," said Mr. Horace Dinsmore; "we can assure you of a hearty welcome, and my sister, as Zoe says, would be by no means pleased should we fail to take you along with us. But since the first division of our company does not start for two weeks, there will be abundance of time to hear from her on the subject."

"Certainly there will, uncle," responded Edward. "I shall write to mamma to-night. Several of us have heard from her to-day by telegraph, Cousin Ronald, and we think we shall surely have letters soon."

Then followed the story of the telegrams received that day, and the guesses and surmises as to whose wedding they were invited to attend.

Mr. Lilburn was evidently much interested and more than willing to yield to their persuasions to accompany them to Viamede.

"Well, friends and cousins," he said, "there is scarce anything I can think of at this moment that would delight me more than to gang with you to see them at that lovely spot -- an earthly paradise, as it may well be called. I am somewhat fatigued the now, but rest for a few days -- the days that must come and go afore you start -- will no doubt supply the needed strength for the new journey; and the wedding festivities to follow will not come amiss even to a man of my ain venerable age."

"No, indeed!" exclaimed Zoe, "I should think not. Surely people of any age may enjoy gay and festive scenes and doings. It has always been a source of regret to me that Edward's and my nuptials were graced by none of them."

"Possibly there may be better luck for you next time, my dear," remarked Edward laughingly.

"Indeed I want no next time," she returned with spirit. "I've no intention of trying a second husband lest I might do worse than I did in taking you."

"It strikes me there might be a possibility of doing very much worse, my dear niece," remarked Mr. Horace Dinsmore pleasantly.

"As it does me," responded Zoe, with a proudly affectionate look into her young husband's eyes.

"I am glad to hear it," was his answering remark, given with a smiling, affectionate glance into the bright, sweet face.

For the next two weeks Zoe and the other ladies of the connection were very delightfully busy with their preparations for the wedding.

Letters had come telling that Betty was, as had been conjectured, the prospective bride; also who was to be the groom, where the ceremony was to take place, the bridal feast to be partaken of, with other interesting particulars. The dresses of bride, bridesmaids, and maids of honor were not described, as they would be seen by all the relatives at, if not before, the wedding.

The journey to New Orleans was made by rail; from there they took a steamboat for Berwick Bay, preferring to make the rest of the journey by water. The party consisted of the Dinsmores, Lelands, Travillas, Conleys, and their Aunt Adelaide, Mrs. Allison of Philadelphia, who had come on from her home shortly before to join these relatives in their trip to Louisiana; for she too had been urgently invited to attend the wedding; and last but not least was Mr. Ronald Lilburn.

They were a cheerful set, the younger ones quite gay and mirthful. There were a few other passengers, among whom was a lady clad in deep mourning -- widow's weeds -- who kept her face carefully concealed by her thick crape veil and sat apart, seeming to studiously avoid all contact with her fellow voyagers; observing which they refrained from making advances toward acquaintanceship. But now and then Dr. Conley turned an observing eye upon her. There was a droop about her figure that struck him as an indication of illness or exhaustion from some other cause.

At length he rose, and stepping to her side, said in a low sympathizing tone, "I fear you are ill, madam. I am a physician, and if I can do anything for you my services are at your command."

She made an inarticulate reply, in tones quivering with emotion, staggered to her feet as she spoke, made one step forward and would have fallen had he not caught her with his arm.

Her head dropped upon his shoulder, and instantly the other members of his party gathered about them with hurried, excited exclamations. "What is the matter?" "Is she ill?" "Do you know her, Art? She has fainted, has she not?" The last exclamation and query came from the lips of Mrs. Elsie Leland.

"Yes; she is quite unconscious," was Arthur's low toned reply "and this thick, heavy veil is smothering her."

The next instant he had succeeded in disentangling it. With a quick movement he threw it back, lifted the seemingly lifeless form, laid it on a settee with the head low, laid his finger on her pulse for an instant, then began compressing the ribs and allowing them to expand again.

"I will have to loosen her clothing," he said, leaning over her to do so; then for the first time catching sight of her face, he started back with a low, pained exclamation: "My sister Virginia! is it possible!"

"Virginia!" exclaimed Adelaide and Calhoun in a breath; for both were standing near; "can it be?" The others exchanged glances of astonishment; then Ella asked in low, terrified tones, "O Art, is she -- is she dead? Poor, poor Virgie!"

"No; it is only a faint," he answered, going on with his efforts to restore consciousness, in which he was presently successful.

Virginia's eyes opened, looked up into his with evident recognition, then closed, while tears stole down her cheeks. He leant over her in brotherly solicitude.

"Virgie, my poor, dear sister," he said in tones tremulous with emotion, "you are with relatives and friends who will gladly do anything and everything in their power for your comfort and happiness. I think you are not well --  -- "

She seemed to be making an effort to speak, and, leaving his sentence unfinished, he bent down over her with his ear almost touching her lips.

"Starving," was the whispered word that came in reply, and he started back aghast, his features working with emotion.

"Can it be possible!" was his half suppressed exclamation.

"What is it?" asked Calhoun; "what does she say?"

"She is faint and ill with hunger," returned his brother in a moved tone. "Get me a glass of hot milk as quickly as you can, Cal," and Calhoun hurried away in quest of it.

In a very few minutes he was back again with a large tumbler of rich, sweet milk, which Virginia drank with avidity. Some more substantial food was then given her, and after a little she was able to exchange greetings with the other relatives on board and to give some account of herself.

"Henry Neuville is dead, and I set out on my journey to beg a home with Isa as soon as I had seen him laid decently away," she said. "I have no means at all -- unfortunate creature that I am -- but perhaps I can make myself useful enough to earn my bread."

"And your brothers will be both able and willing to clothe you," said the doctor, Calhoun adding, "certainly; and to give you a home, too, should Isa and her husband find it inconvenient to do so."

At that tears coursed down Virginia's cheeks.

"You are good, kind brothers," she said; "far better to me than I deserve. But living with a man of the stamp of Henry Neuville has taught me how to appreciate true gentlemen."

"O Virgie, did he die as he had lived?" asked her cousin Elsie.

"I saw no sign of repentance or reformation," returned Virginia; "he died of drink and with curses on his tongue. I can't mourn his loss; how could I? but I'm the most unfortunate woman -- the poorest in the whole connection. I wasn't brought up to support myself either, and can't do it."

"Perhaps you may learn how," said Zoe encouragingly. "There are many avenues to self-support now open to women, you know."

A look of disgust and annoyance was Virginia's only response to that.

A few moments of silence ensued, broken only by the prattle of the little ones, then there was a sudden sound as of some heavy body plunging into the water, and a shrill cry: "Man overboard!"

A great commotion instantly followed, the captain giving his orders to lower a boat and go in search of the man, and at the same time slowing the movements of the steamer.

Our party were much interested and excited, most of them full of concern for the drowning one, who seemed to have strangely disappeared, for not a trace of him could be seen as the boat was rowed hither and thither; and at length, resigning all hope of finding even the lifeless body, the men returned to the larger vessel to report their failure.

The ladies were in tears, and as the captain drew near, Zoe asked in tones tremulous with emotion, "Is there no hope at all of saving the poor fellow, captain?"

"I'm afraid he's gone to the bottom, ma'am, though it's odd he couldn't keep up for the few minutes it took to launch the boat; but I suppose the wheel must have struck him. By the way," he added, as if struck by a sudden thought, "I don't know yet who it was. I must have the crew mustered on deck and see who is missing."

He proceeded to do so at once, when to the surprise of all it was discovered that no one was missing.

"A stowaway, evidently!" growled the captain, "and he's got his desserts; though I wouldn't have let him drown if I could have helped it."

At that instant a light broke upon Edward Travilla and Dr. Conley, and both turned hastily toward their guest, Mr. Ronald Lilburn.

He was sitting near, quietly listening to the talk, his features expressing grave concern, yet they could perceive a sparkle of fun in his eye.

Edward stepped to his side, and, bending down over him, spoke in an undertone close to his ear. "I think you could tell us something of the man, Cousin Ronald."

"I, laddie? What would I ken o' the folk i' this part o' the world?" queried the old gentleman, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise.

"Ah, sir, who is to say he belonged to this part of the world?" laughed Edward. "I must own that I strongly suspect he was a countryman of yours; a Scotchman, at least."

Then going to the side of his wife he said a word or two in an undertone that chased away her tears, while she sent a laughing glance in Cousin Ronald's direction.

But they were drawing near their journey's end, and presently everything else seemed to be forgotten in gazing upon the ever changing beauties of the landscape as they threaded their way through lake and lakelet, past swamp, forest, plain, and plantation. They gazed with delight upon the cool, shady dells carpeted with a rich growth of flowers, miles upon miles of smoothly shaven lawns, velvety green and shaded by magnificent oaks and magnolias, lordly villas peering through groves of orange trees, tall white sugarhouses, and the long rows of cabins of the laborers, forming all together a panorama of surpassing loveliness.

"Oh, it is an earthly paradise, is it not, Ned?" cried Zoe, clasping her hands in an ecstacy of delight.

"Very, very beautiful," he responded, his eyes shining with pleasure. "But you know this is not, like yours, my first sight of it; I spent a very happy winter here in the days when my dear and honored father was with us."

"And I," said his sister Elsie, softly sighing at the thought that that loved parent had left them to return no more. "It will not seem the same without him; yet with so many dear ones left -- especially our dear, dear mother -- our visit can hardly be otherwise than most enjoyable. Ah, Ned, is not that our own orange orchard just coming into view?"

"It is, my dear sister; we will be there in a very few minutes now."

"At home and with mamma!" she exclaimed in joyous tones; then called to her little sons, "Come here, Ned and Eric. We are almost at dear grandmamma's house, and she will soon have you in her arms."

At that the little fellows came running to her with a joyous shout, for they dearly loved their Grandma Elsie, and to their infant minds the time of separation from her had seemed very long.

To their Aunt Adelaide, the Conleys -- Arthur excepted -- and the young Dinsmores the scenes were equally new, and called forth from one and all demonstrations of admiration and delight. Very soon the boat reached and rounded to at the landing, where were gathered all the members of the Viamede, Magnolia Hall, and parsonage families to meet and welcome these dear ones from their own old homes farther to the north.

It was an altogether joyous meeting, Cousin Ronald and Virginia, as well as the rest, receiving most kind and cordial greeting, though the latter was an entirely unexpected guest.

Isadore took her sister in her arms, kissed and wept over her as a near and dear one who had gone through great trials during the years of their separation.

"What a long, long while it is since we parted, and what sore trials you have gone through in the meantime, Virgie!" she sighed. "Ah, I hope the future may have better things in store for you."

"I should say it ought indeed, considering all I've had to suffer in the past," returned Virginia. "I've come to beg a home with you, Isa, as you might have had to of me if I had been the lucky one in the matter of drawing a prize in the matrimonial lottery."

"I will try to do the very best I can for you, Virgie," was Isadore's pleasant toned reply, though it was not with unmingled satisfaction that she saw opening before her the prospect of receiving this selfish, indolent sister into her peaceful, well regulated household as a permanent addition to it.

Zoe was in ecstasies over the beauties of Viamede -- the large, palatial mansion, the beautiful grounds, the lovely scenery.

"Oh, mamma," she exclaimed, pausing on the veranda to take a general survey, "it is just too lovely for anything! It really exceeds my expectations, though they were raised very high by all I have heard of the beauties of Viamede. I wonder you can ever resign yourself to leaving it for a longer time than the hot season, when it is not so healthy as your more northern home."

"Yes, I sometimes wonder at myself," Elsie said with a smile; "and yet both Ion and the Oaks are very dear to me -- so many happy years of my life have been passed in them. Ah, no, I could not give up those dear homes entirely any more than I could this."

"Ah, you are a most fortunate woman, cousin mine," remarked Mr. Lilburn, standing by, "and worthy of it all; no one more so."

"Ah, Cousin Ronald, you, like all the rest of my friends, are only too ready to pass my imperfections by and see only virtues; some of them altogether imaginary, I fear," she returned with a smile. "I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you here again, and I hope you may so greatly enjoy your sojourn among us that you will be pleased to repeat your visit whenever opportunity offers."

"Ah, many thanks, cousin, but have a care lest you should be in danger of seeing me here oftener than will be found agreeable," was his laughing reply.

At that Elsie only shook her head with a playful smile, then turned to baby Lilly, who was reaching out her little arms to grandma, crying, "Take! take, gamma!"

"No, no, mother dear," Edward said, coming up to them and taking his little daughter from the nurse's arms, "I can't have you wearying yourself with her." Then to the child, "Papa is going to carry you upstairs, little pet. Dear grandma has been sick and is not strong enough to carry you about. The friends and relatives will all be here for some time, mother?" turning to her again.

"Yes," she replied; "they will all stay to tea."

"And Zoe and I will join you and them again in a few minutes," he said, moving on through the hall, in the direction of the stairway.

All scattered to their rooms then, but reassembled on the veranda some few minutes before the call to the tea-table. It was a large, merry, informal tea-party, Grandma Elsie having been most hospitably urgent that everyone should stay, partake with her and the others who had been making Viamede their home for months past, and spend the evening.

The approaching wedding and matters connected with it were naturally the principal themes of discourse, and Betty was good-humoredly rallied on the conquest she had made and the pleasant prospect of having a home of her own with at least one loyal subject. Zoe insisted on a description of the trousseau, especially the wedding dress.

"Drive over to Magnolia Hall day after to-morrow and you shall see everything for yourself, Zoe," Betty said, laughing and blushing; "at least all but the gifts which have not yet come in."

"Thank you; I think I'll accept that invitation," returned Zoe. "But I suppose there is something to be seen here?"

"Yes; the dresses of the bridesmaids and maids of honor," said Rosie; "and we who are to wear them think them quite beautiful. Don't we, girls?" turning toward Evelyn and Lulu, who answered with an emphatic, "Yes, indeed!"

"Suppose you come and take a look at them, Zoe," proposed Rosie, as they left the table, and Zoe promptly accepted the invitation, Betty, Elsie Leland, Ella, and Virginia, and the Dinsmore cousins going along.

"Oh, they are lovely!" was the united exclamation at sight of the dresses, Zoe adding, "I can't say which is handsomest."

"That's just how it is with me," laughed Betty; "but I own to thinking the bride's dress a trifle handsomer than any of these."

"Ah, yes; but just think how we may outshine you when our turns come to wear a wedding dress," said Rosie. "I mean to have one that shall be a marvel of beauty and taste. Don't you, Eva and Lu?"

"I very much doubt whether I shall ever have any," replied Evelyn, with her grave, sweet smile.

"If you don't it will be your own fault, I am sure," said Rosie. "And it will be just the same with Lu."

"I'm not going to get married ever!" cried Lulu emphatically. "I wouldn't leave my father for all the rest of the men in all the world."

"Ah, your father is glad to hear it," said a voice close at her side, while a hand was laid affectionately on her shoulder. "But my dear eldest daughter is still quite too young to be even thinking of such things."

"Then I won't think of them if I can help it, papa dear," she said, lifting loving, smiling eyes to his face, "for indeed I do want to obey even your slightest wish."

"I don't doubt it, daughter," he returned, pressing affectionately the hand she had slipped into his.

"Now, Elsie," said Zoe, addressing Mrs. Leland, "let us show our wedding finery. You, Ella Conley, I suppose won't care to open your trunks, as they are to be carried over to the Parsonage."

"They have already gone," said Isadore, she also having joined the party of inspection, "but the finery can be shown there just as well."

"Yes, it can wait," returned Ella, "and will perhaps be all the more appreciated for not being seen along with so many other beauties."

"I am the only one who has no finery to exhibit," remarked Virginia in an ill used tone. But they were already on the way to Mrs. Leland's room and no one seemed to hear or heed the complaint, everybody being too much engrossed with the business in hand to take notice of her ill-humor.

But it was Saturday evening and the Parsonage and Magnolia Hall people returned to their homes at an early hour, taking their guests with them.

"Now, daughter," Captain Raymond said, turning to Lulu as the last carriage disappeared from sight, "go at once to your own room and prepare for bed."

"Yes, sir; and must I say good-night now to you?" she asked in a low tone, close at his ear.

"No," he returned, with a smile, "I will be with you presently for a few minutes."

She looked her thanks, and hastened to obey.

"I am quite ready for bed, papa," she said when he came into her room. "Please mayn't I sit on your knee for five or ten minutes?"

"That is just what I want you to do," he said, taking possession of an easy chair and drawing her to the coveted place. "I must have a little talk with my dear eldest daughter," he continued, smoothing her hair and cheek caressingly.

"What about, papa dear?" she asked, nestling closer in his arms. "I haven't been misbehaving, have I? You are not displeased with me, are you?"

"No, dear child; only afraid that you may be caring too much about dress and finery, and that perhaps I am not altogether blameless in regard to that -- that I may not have guarded my dear little girl against it as I should."

"I am afraid that perhaps I do care too much about it, papa dear," she sighed, hanging her head, while blushes dyed her cheek; "but I'm sure it is all my own fault, not yours at all; so please don't feel badly about it."

He took up her Bible, opened it, and read, "Whose adorning, let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price. For after this manner in the old time the holy women also, who trusted in God, adorned themselves."

"Papa, is it wrong to wear nice, pretty clothes, and to enjoy having them?" she asked, as he closed the book and laid it aside. "Is that what is meant in those verses?"

"I think not," he said; "if I understood it in that way I should feel it wrong to allow a daughter of mine to wear them. I think it means that you are not to care too much about such adornment, but more, much more, for that other and greater adornment, even the hidden man of the heart, the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, remembering that in the sight of God it is of great price, worth infinitely more than any ornament of gold, the richest jewels, or the finest attire. Cultivate that with all diligence, my own darling child, if you desire to please and honor your heavenly Father and make yourself even dearer than you now are to your earthly one, and lovelier in his eyes."

"Oh, I do, papa! I do want to please and honor God, and you too; I want to be just a joy and blessing and comfort to you, my own dear, dear father! I don't think you have any idea how very, very dearly I love you, papa," putting her arms about his neck and kissing him over and over again. "Gracie and I think -- indeed we feel quite sure -- that no other children ever had such a dear, good, kind father as ours. And I know Max thinks the same."

"Well, daughter, I delight in having you and all my children think so, however mistaken you maybe," he said, with a pleased smile, holding her close and returning her caresses; "and it certainly is the earnest desire of my heart to be the best, kindest, and dearest of fathers to the darling children God has given me."

"As I am sure you are, dear papa," she said. "I never have any doubt of it at all, even when you punish me. And, papa," she added, with an effort, "if you think finery bad for me, I am willing to be dressed just as plainly as you think best."

"That is my own dear little girl," he returned, with a gratified look; "but I have not been dressing you better -- more richly, gayly, or tastefully -- than seems to me right and proper; also, I think quite as much sin may be committed by being proud of plainness in dress as proud of wearing finery. What I am aiming at is to have my little daughter look upon dress as a secondary matter, and feel far more anxious to be one who is pleasing in the sight of her heavenly Father than one admired and envied by some earthly creature as the possessor of wealth, and fine or costly raiment. In short, I want you to feel that the style and richness of your attire is a matter of little consequence, while to live in the light of God's countenance, pleasing and honoring him and growing in holiness and conformity to his will, is to be desired and striven for beyond everything else."

"Yes, papa," she said softly, "I will ask God to help me to do so; and you will pray for me too, won't you?"

"Indeed I will, my darling; we will kneel down and ask him now; ask for help to keep from indulging in worldly mindedness and vanity, and that our earnest desire and effort may ever be to serve and honor and glorify him in all our words and ways."

"My own dear father," she said, when they had risen from their knees, "I am sure that if I don't grow up a good Christian the fault will not be yours." Then, glancing at the bed where Grace lay in a profound sleep, "I am so glad and thankful that I am not feeble like poor, dear Gracie, because if I had to go to bed and to sleep so early as she almost always does, I'd miss these nice talks from you. But, fortunately, she doesn't need so much help to be good as I do. Ah, papa, I've given you a great deal more trouble to train me up right than she ever has, or will."

"My darling," he said, "if you only grow up to be a noble, useful Christian woman, such as I hope one day to see you, I shall feel more than repaid for all the anxiety, care, and trouble of your training."



Chapter X.


GUESTS and entertainers, old and young, went to church the next morning, riding, driving, or walking, as best suited the inclination of each.

In the afternoon there was the usual gathering of the house servants and field hands on the lawn, near the veranda, where the family and guests were seated, and Mr. Dinsmore, Dr. Landreth, and Captain Raymond each gave them a little talk suited to their capacities, and the sacredness of the day, and their needs as members of the fallen race of man.

The captain, standing before them with an open Bible in his hand, said, "My friends, I want to talk with you a little, about some of the words spoken by the Apostle Paul when he was taking leave of the elders of the Church at Ephesus. He told them that he had been testifying both to the Jews, and also to the Greeks, repentance toward God and faith toward our Lord Jesus Christ. Now, what is meant by repentance toward God? It is a feeling of true sorrow for our sins against him (and everything wrong we have done, or thought, or felt was a sin against God). And what is it to have faith toward our Lord Jesus Christ? To believe in him as one abundantly able and willing to save us -- to save us from sin, from the love of it, and the punishment due to us for it. We are all sinners; we have all come short of the glory of God, neglecting many things that we ought to have done, and doing very many things that we ought not to have done. We are all born with a sinful nature, and God only can change it, so that we will hate sin and love holiness: he only can give us true faith in his dear Son the Lord Christ.

"'By grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.' We are saved by grace; it is only of God's undeserved goodness, not because we have done or can do anything pleasing in his sight. Paul speaks in this same chapter of the Gospel of the grace of God. Gospel means good news, and what could be better news than that? that God offers us salvation of his free, unmerited grace? What an offer that is! salvation as his free, undeserved gift, without money, and without price. His offer is, 'Come unto me and be ye saved all ye ends of the earth.' No one is left out; this wonderful offer is to each one of us, and to every other inhabitant of this world, so that if any one fails to be saved, the fault will be all his own. For God has said, 'I have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth: wherefore turn yourselves and live ye.' And oh, how plain he has made it that he does love us and would have us live! 'For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"

The service was not a long one, and when it was over the captain repaired to the school-room with Lulu and Grace to hear them recite their Bible verses and catechism.

When that duty had been attended to, "Now, daughters," he said, "if you have anything to say, or questions suitable to the sacredness of the day to ask, I am ready to listen and reply to the best of my ability; but even a child may ask a question that a grown person cannot answer," he added with a smile.

"Indeed, papa," said Grace, putting an arm round his neck and laying her cheek lovingly to his, "I think you do know 'most everything; and I'm oh! so glad God gave you to me for my own father."

"I know you are, Gracie, I'm sure of it; but you can't be gladder than I am that he is my father, too," said Lulu, lifting to his eyes full of filial love and reverence.

"Nor than I am that these two little girls are my very own," responded the captain, holding both in a close embrace. "But now for the questions."

"I have one to ask, papa," said Lulu. "It is, what does the Bible mean by growing in grace?"

"Growing in likeness to Jesus and in conformity to his will; having more and more of the love and fear of God in our hearts; more faith and patience, and more love to our fellow-creatures; for the more we love the Master, the more will we love those whom he died to redeem."

"And the more we love him, the more we will try to be like him?" Lulu said in a tone of mingled assertion and inquiry.

"Yes, my child; and it is the dearest wish of my heart that I may see my children thus growing in grace, and in likeness to the dear Master."

"Papa, I want to," said Grace softly; "oh, I want to, very much!"

"Then ask God to help you, my darling, remembering that he is the hearer and answerer of prayer."

"And you will ask him for both of us, won't you, papa?"

"I will, I do, my darling; there is never a day when I do not pray earnestly for each one of my dear children, that God will make them his own true followers and keep them in every time of trial and temptation, taking them safely to heaven at last. Life in this world is exceedingly short compared with the eternal existence which awaits us all in another -- that life of infinite joy and blessedness at God's right hand, or of everlasting, untold misery, unending, inconceivable anguish, in the blackness of darkness, shut out forever from his presence," he added in moved tones. "God in his infinite goodness and mercy grant that the first and not the last may be the portion of each one of my beloved children!"

"Oh, papa," said Grace softly, "how can any one help loving the dear Saviour who died that we might go to heaven and not to that other awful place!"

"Oh," said Lulu, "I do want to love him more and serve him better! When I think of his wonderful goodness and love to us poor sinners, I'm just as ashamed as I can be that I don't love him at all as I ought, and am so often ill-tempered and selfish and bad. Papa, I do really think it is kind and good in you to punish me when I deserve it, and need it to make me a better girl."

"And I shall be very glad indeed if you never again make it necessary for me to do so," he responded.

"I do hope I won't," she returned. "Papa, I'm very much afraid I'll be thinking and talking to-day about the wedding and what everybody is going to wear at it, and I know I won't be in half so much danger of doing so if I keep close to you; so mayn't I?"

"Yes, daughter; I am always glad to have you near me," he said kindly; "and it pleases me that you are desirous to avoid temptation to do wrong."

"And you are just as willing to let me keep near you, papa?" Grace said inquiringly, and with a wistful, pleading look up into his face.

"Certainly, my dear little daughter. I love you not a whit less than I do your sister," he said, drawing her into a closer embrace. "However, you may both stay here reading your Bibles and Sunday school books for a half hour longer. Then I will come for you and you may spend the rest of the day as close to your father's side as you choose." With that he left them.

"Such a dear, good father as ours is!" exclaimed Lulu, gazing after him with loving, admiring eyes.

"Yes, indeed! I am sure there couldn't be a better or dearer one. Oh, I do love him so!" said Grace, turning over the leaves of her Bible. "Let's read verse about, Lu."

"I'm agreed; and let it be the Book of Esther. I do think that is such a lovely story."

"So it is; and so is Ruth, and that's shorter. I don't believe we'll have time to read all of Esther before papa comes for us."

"Maybe not," assented Lulu; "so we will read Ruth."

They had finished the story and were talking it over together when their father came. It was then nearly tea time.

Sacred music filled up most of the evening, and all the young girls and boys retired early to bed that they might be ready for the pleasures and employments of the coming day. The older people sat somewhat longer upon the veranda, conversing upon topics suited to the sacredness of the day. They were Christians, and loved to speak of the Master and the things concerning his kingdom.

"Then they that feared the Lord spake often one to another: and the Lord hearkened and heard it, and a book of remembrance was written before him for them that feared the Lord and that thought upon his name. And they shall be mine, saith the Lord of hosts, in that day when I make up my jewels; and I will spare them as a man spareth his own son that serveth him."

As usual, Lulu was up early the next morning, and joined her father in a walk under the trees along the bank of the bayou.

"Well, daughter, has the rest of the Sabbath made you ready for work in the school-room again?" he asked, smiling down affectionately into her face, rosy, bright, and happy with health and gay spirits.

"Yes, papa, I feel more like it than I did on Saturday," she answered, lifting to his sparkling eyes, full of affection.

"I rejoice to hear it," he said; "for it is by no means a pleasant task to me when I have to compel a pupil -- whether one of my own children or the child of someone else -- against his or her inclination; though I enjoy teaching when all are happy and interested."

"As we all ought to be when we have such a good, kind, wise teacher, dear papa," she returned. "It will be difficult, very difficult, I'm afraid, to give my mind to lessons when we are all so much taken up with the preparations for the wedding, but I'm determined to try my very best to do so to please my dearest, kindest, best of fathers," lifting his hand to her lips.

"A father who would far rather be obeyed from love than fear," he said, with a tender, loving look down into her face.

"Yes, I know you would, papa, and my love for you is, oh! ever so much stronger than my fear; though I own I am afraid of your displeasure and punishments, for I know you can punish severely when you think it your duty and for my good; but I respect and love you too a great deal more than I would or could if you indulged me in bad behavior."

"I don't doubt it," he said; "and I, as I have often told you, punish you when I deem it needful, because I know you will be the happier in the end for being compelled to try to conquer your faults; happier than you ever could be if allowed to indulge them."

"Yes, papa, I know that is so; I am never at all happy when indulging wrong tempers and feelings," she acknowledged, with another loving look up into his face.

At that moment they were joined by Evelyn and Rosie.

"Brother Levis," said Rosie, "you surely are not going to be so unreasonable and tyrannical as to require lessons of us to-day?"

"I'm afraid I am, little sister," he replied, with a smile, "and I hope you are not going to be so naughty and rebellious as to require any kind of discipline?"

"I don't know," she said, with a pretended pout; "I feel no inclination at all toward lessons, but a very strong one in favor of a ride or drive over to Magnolia Hall."

"Which can be gratified when study and recitations have been duly attended to," returned the captain; "and if in need of an escort you may call upon me for that service."

"Oh, a thousand thanks! that will do very well indeed!" she exclaimed in a tone of relief and pleasure.

"And all the good and industrious little girls may go along," added the captain, with a smiling look into Lulu's eagerly inquiring face.

"Thank you, papa; thank you very much!" she exclaimed joyously. "I do want to go, and intend to be as industrious as possible, and as good and obedient, so that you can take me. And you'll take Gracie too if she wants to go, won't you?"

"Certainly," he said; "Gracie deserves all the indulgences and pleasures I can give her."

"You are very kind indeed, Captain, to spend so much of your time in teaching us to-day; for I feel very sure you would enjoy going to Magnolia Hall with the other gentlemen and the ladies this morning," remarked Evelyn, with a grateful, affectionate look up into his face.

"Thank you, my dear," he replied. "It would be pleasant to me to go, but it is also a pleasure to help my own children, and other appreciative pupils, to climb the hill of science."

Just then Grace and little Elsie came running to meet them, and the next minute the breakfast bell summoned them all to the house.

After breakfast followed family worship, school, play-time, then dinner, and, late in the afternoon, the pleasant drive through the woods to Magnolia Hall. It was only for a call, however, and at tea-time the Viamede family and all their guests gathered about the table there.

From then until the wedding day the young folks were in a state of pleasurable excitement, though the captain kept his pupils steadily at their work, and they found it not impossible to fix their minds upon their studies for a portion of each day. The other relatives invited had arrived, and in a few days the marriage was to take place.

It was Saturday morning. Scarcely two hours had been spent in the school-room when the captain dismissed his pupils, telling them, with his pleasant smile, that they had done very well indeed, and would be allowed a holiday until the wedding festivities were over, an announcement no one was sorry to hear, although he had made the lessons interesting and enjoyable to them as ever since undertaking the work of teaching them. All returned warm thanks, and Rosie, Evelyn, and Walter hastened from the room, which Captain Raymond had already left; but his two little girls lingered there a while longer, putting their desks in perfect order.

"Gracie," said Lulu, "how much money have you left?"

"Not a single cent," was the reply in a rather rueful tone; "and I suppose yours is all gone too?"

"Yes; every cent of it. I feel as poor as a church mouse."

"But we are not wanting to buy anything just now, and papa will be giving us some pocket-money again pretty soon," returned Grace in a determinedly cheerful tone.

"Yes, so he will! Oh, what a dear, good, kind father he is! I really don't believe there are very many girls of our ages that get so much pocket-money every week. And papa gave us so much extra money too, to use in buying our gifts for Cousin Betty."

"Oh, yes, and now I think of it, I don't believe we ought to expect any more pocket-money for a good while. Do you, Lu?"

"No, I don't; for this wedding's costing a good deal -- to papa as well as other folks; and the journey home will cost ever so much, besides all that papa paid to bring us here. Then, too, he's going to see Max again after we get home, and will maybe take one or both of us along -- if we're good."

"Oh, do you think so?" exclaimed Grace. "Oh, I'd love to see Maxie! but if only one of us can go it ought to be you, because you're the oldest, and so well that it wouldn't give papa half so much trouble to take care of you as of me."

"I'm just sure papa doesn't think it any trouble to take care of you, Gracie," returned Lulu in her quick, earnest way. "And you are a better girl than I, therefore more deserving of such indulgences."

"That's a mistake of yours, Lu," said Grace; "you've been good as gold ever since we came to Viamede -- as well as before -- and helped papa with your typewriter, while I haven't done anything but wait on him a little, and try to learn my lessons well, and amuse the little ones sometimes."

Lulu's face had grown very red while Grace was speaking, and she hung her head in a shamefaced, remorseful way.

"No, Gracie," she said in a low, mortified tone, "I haven't been half so good as you think; I displeased papa very much that day when you all went to Magnolia Hall, and I had to stay at home and learn my lessons over. I was very angry and cross with dear little Ned because he meddled with my herbarium, which I had carelessly left lying out on my desk. If papa had punished me very severely it would have been no more than I deserved, but all he did was to send me to my room for a while till I told him how sorry I was and asked forgiveness of him, and Neddie, too."

Grace looked surprised. "No, I never heard a word of it before," she said; "but I'm sure you did all you could when you asked forgiveness of both of them -- papa and Neddie."

The little girls had no idea that their father was within hearing, yet such was the case, and their little talk pleased him greatly.

"The darlings!" he said to himself, "they shall not be long penniless, for their father thinks them very worthy to be trusted with pocket-money. Two more unselfish children I am sure it would be hard to find."

With that he rose and went to the library, to which they presently followed him, asking if there were anything he wanted them to do.

"Why, it is your play-time, daughters," he returned, with a loving smile into the bright young faces.

"But we'd like to do something to help you, dear papa," Grace said, laying her small, white hand on his arm, and looking lovingly up into his face.

"Yes, indeed we would, papa," said Lulu, standing on his other side, and putting her arm round his neck. "Please, if you have letters to answer, mayn't I write them for you on my typewriter?"

"Does my dear eldest daughter deem that a privilege?" he asked, smiling down into her beseeching eyes, while he put one arm round her, the other about Grace's waist, and drew both in between his knees, kissing first one and then the other.

"Indeed I do, papa," Lulu answered in an earnest tone; "it's very sweet to me to feel that I am of even a little use to my dear, dear father, who does so much for me, taking so much trouble to teach me, and gives me so many, many nice things to eat, to wear, to read, and to amuse myself with -- so many that it would take quite a long while to count them all up."

"Ah, that reminds me," he said, taking out his pocket-book, "I shouldn't wonder if my little girls had about emptied their purses in buying gifts for the bride that is to be, and so forth. Get them out and let me see what can be done toward replenishing them."

He noted with pleasure that as he spoke each young face grew very bright.

"We've left them upstairs, papa," said Lulu, "and though you're ever so kind," hugging and kissing him again, "we don't want to take any more now when you have to spend so very much on the wedding, and to take us all home to Woodburn."

"No, indeed we don't, you dear, dear papa," chimed in Grace, nestling closer to him and patting his cheek lovingly.

"My precious darlings!" he said, holding them close, "your father can spare it without denying himself or anybody else anything at all needful; and he feels very sure that he could not get more enjoyment out of it in any other way. So get your purses and bring them here to me," he concluded, releasing them from his embrace.

They ran joyfully to do his bidding, and on their return each found a little pile of money waiting for her -- two clean, fresh one dollar bills, two silver half dollars, four quarters, and ten dimes; all looking as if just issued from the mint.

"Oh! oh! oh!" they cried, "how much! and all so bright and new!" Lulu adding, "Papa, are you quite, quite sure you can really spare all this without being -- embarrassed?"

"Yes, quite sure," he returned, regarding her with a twinkle of fun in his eyes; "I really think I should not be greatly embarrassed if called upon for twice as much."

At that Lulu drew a long breath of relief, while Grace threw her arms about his neck, saying, "You dear, dear papa! I don't believe any other children ever had such a good, kind father as ours."

"Well, now, I really hope there are a great many other fathers quite as good and kind as yours," he said, with a smile, pinching the round, rosy cheek, kissing the ruby lips, and fondly stroking the soft, shining curls of her pretty head.

"I hope so," said Lulu, "but I'm just sure there's not another one I could love so, so dearly as ours. I do think God was very good to me in making me yours, papa. Your very own little daughter."

"And me too," said Grace.

"Yes; good to me as well as to you," responded the captain, "for my darlings seem to me the dearest, most lovable children in the world. Well, Lulu daughter, you may help me with your machine for a half hour, if you wish."

"Oh, yes, papa; yes, indeed! I'll be glad to!" she exclaimed, hastening to uncover it, put in the paper, and seat herself before it, while her father took up a letter, glanced over the contents, then began his dictation.

It was a business note and had no interest for Grace, who presently wandered out upon the veranda with her well filled purse in her hand.

Grandma Elsie sat there alone, reading. "What a bright, happy face, my little Gracie," she said, glancing up from her book as the child drew near. "Has some special good come to you, dear?"

"Yes, ma'am; see!" exclaimed the little girl, displaying her well filled purse; "it was empty, and my dear papa has just filled it. You see, Grandma Elsie," drawing near and lowering her voice, "I was wanting to buy a few things for good-by presents to some of the poor old colored folks, but I'd spent every cent of my money and thought I'd have to give it up; and I'm oh, so glad that I won't have to now. And -- Oh, Grandma Elsie, you and mamma will help me to think what will be best to get for them, won't you?"

"I will be very glad to do anything I can to help you, dear child," replied Grandma Elsie in her low, sweet tones, and softly stroking the golden curls as the little girl stood close at her side. "Suppose you get a pencil and paper from the school-room and make out a list of those to whom you wish to give, and opposite to each name the gift that seems most suitable."

Grace's reply was a joyful assent, and she hurried away in search of the required articles.

She was not gone more than a very few minutes, but on her return found that her Mamma Vi, Rosie, and Evelyn had joined Grandma Elsie on the veranda, had been told by her what was the business in hand, and were desirous to have a share in it.

They had a pleasant time over their lists, each making out one for herself, while Lulu finished the work she had undertaken for her father. They decided to write to the city for what was wanted, and that anyone else who wished could send at the same time; so that matter was satisfactorily disposed of.

"Oh!" exclaimed Grace, struck by a sudden thought, "suppose I run to the library and tell papa and Lu about it, and get him to tell her what to say, and let her write on the typewriter for the things?"

Everyone thought it an excellent idea, and Grace immediately carried it out.

"I quite approve," her father said, when she had told her story and made her request.

"I too," said Lulu, "and I'll join you if papa will help me to decide what to buy. I'll write the letter too, if he will tell me what to say."

"I am entirely willing to do both, daughter," he said. "Let us set to work at once, as it will soon be dinner-time, and I want to take my little girls out for a drive this afternoon."

"Oh, thank you, papa, thank you very much!" they cried in joyous tones.

"Is anybody else going, papa?" asked Lulu.

"Your Grandma Elsie, Mamma Vi, and our little ones, in our carriage; as many more as may wish to go either in other carriages or on horseback. Perhaps you would prefer to ride your pony?"

"No, sir; not if you are to be in the carriage I may ride in."

"Ah, you are very fond of being with your father," he said, with a pleased smile.

"Yes, sir; yes, indeed! just as close as I can get," stroking and patting his cheek, then pressing her lips to it in an ardent kiss.

"And it's exactly the same with me, you dear, darling papa!" exclaimed Grace, putting an arm round his neck. "And it's exactly the same with every one of your children from big Maxie down to baby Ned."

"I believe it is, and it makes me very happy to think so," he replied. "But now, my dears, we must to work on our list of articles."



Chapter XI.


IT was a large party that set out from Viamede shortly after leaving the dinner-table. Most of the young people -- among them Chester, Frank, Maud, and Sydney Dinsmore, Evelyn Leland, Rosie and Walter Travilla -- preferred riding.

These, having swifter steeds, presently distanced the rest of the riders, as well as those who were driving, and in passing a plantation, which was the home of Nettie Vance, an old school-mate of the Viamede young folks at the time, several years before, of their attendance at Oakdale Academy, they were joined by her and a young man whom she introduced as her brother, both well mounted and looking merry and happy.

"Bob and I were just starting out for a ride," she said, "and consider ourselves fortunate in meeting with such good company. May I take my place alongside of you, Miss Leland? I have a bit of news to tell which I think will interest you and Miss Travilla. It is that Signor Foresti, who, as you will doubtless remember, was a teacher of music -- anything but an agreeable one, by the way -- at Oakdale Academy when we were there together, is quite ill, partly from an accident, partly from drink, and extremely poor. I must say I hardly pity him very much for that last, but I do feel sorry for his wife and children."

"I too," said Evelyn. "I wish it were in my power to relieve them, but my purse is about empty just at present. However, I will report the matter at Viamede, and I am sure the kind friends there will see that something is done toward supplying their pressing needs."

"Yes," returned Nettie, "I have heard a great deal of the kindness and benevolence of Mrs. Travilla and her father; of Captain Raymond's also; though I for one could hardly blame him if he utterly refused to give any assistance to a man who had abused his daughter as Foresti did Lulu."

"Nor I," said Evelyn; "yet I feel almost certain that he will assist Foresti. He would not let the wife and children suffer for the man's ill deeds, nor indeed the man himself, unless I am greatly mistaken; for the captain is a truly Christian gentleman."

"Indeed he is," said Rosie, "and very benevolent; exceedingly kind to the poor; to anyone who is in distress of any kind. I am very proud of that brother-in-law of mine, Nettie, and don't care who knows it."

"I do not wonder at that," returned Nettie. "I certainly should be if he were mine; it is very plain from the way in which Lulu and Gracie look at him that they are both fond and proud of their father."

"Nor do I wonder at it," said Robert Vance, joining in the conversation. "Nettie pointed him out to me at church last Sunday, and I remarked then that he was as fine looking a man as ever I saw; tall, straight, handsome in feature, and of most noble countenance."

"Thank you," Rosie said, with a smile and a bow. "I think him all that, and as noble in character as in looks. It is my opinion that my sister Violet drew a prize in the matrimonial lottery; and the captain also, for Vi is in every way worthy of him."

"Surely," returned the young man, "one glance at her is sufficient to assure one of that."

Rosie and Evelyn then asked where the Forestis were to be found, and what were their most pressing needs, and having learned those particulars, promised that someone from Viamede would call to see and relieve them, Rosie adding, with a smile, "We, as you probably know, are busy with preparations for a wedding in the family, yet I have no doubt some one or more among us could find time to attend to this call for help."

"Yes," said Walter, who had been quietly listening to the talk, "mamma will be sure to find time for such an act of kindness; she always does."

"I am sure of it," responded Nettie heartily, "from her sweet looks and all I have heard of her. And so your cousin, Miss Johnson, is going to be married?" she added, looking at Rosie. "We received our invitations yesterday, and are busy with our preparations. It must be delightful to have such a thing coming off in the family; particularly to be the bride; for I hear it is to be quite a grand affair and the match an excellent one."

"Yes," returned Rosie, "we are all much pleased with what we have heard of the gentleman, and I hope they are going to be very happy together."

"I hope so, indeed," responded Nettie. "I am but slightly acquainted with Miss Johnson, but have always liked her looks."

It was near tea-time when the Viamede party reached home again; the ladies and little girls had barely time to dress for the evening before the summons to the table.

It was while all where seated about it that Rosie and Evelyn told of the news learned from Nettie Vance in regard to Signor Foresti and his family.

"Ah, poor things! we must do something for them," Grandma Elsie said, when the story was finished. "Papa, shall we stop there to-morrow on our way to or from church? It would be a work of mercy suited to the day, I think. Do not you?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Dinsmore; "and it might be well to carry a basket of provisions with us."

Lulu had listened in silence while the others were talking, and all through the evening she had but little to say, seeming much of the time lost in thought, though usually she was quite talkative, unless, as occasionally happened, checked by a slight reminder from her father that it would be more becoming in a child of her age to show herself a quiet listener to older people.

The captain noticed her abstraction, but, guessing at the cause, said nothing about it till they were alone together in her bedroom; then, drawing her to his knee, "My little girl has been unusually silent this evening," he said. "Is anything wrong with her?"

She drew a long sigh. "I have been trying to decide a question of duty, papa," she said, "and, please -- I'd like you to tell me what to do."

"In regard to what, daughter?"

"Giving a part of my money -- the money you put into my purse this morning -- to -- to the Forestis."

"I think it would be right and kind for you to do so. Do not you?"

"Yes, sir; and I will do it," she said with sudden determination. "It will be returning good for evil, as the Bible bids us; won't it, papa?"

"Yes; and I think will help you to forgive the man for his ill treatment of my dear little daughter," drawing her closer and kissing her fondly.

"Yes, sir; even the resolve has made me feel more kindly toward him. How much ought I to give, papa? I hardly think I'll have very much left after I've paid for the presents I've sent for, for the servants here."

"No, not a very great deal, I presume; but you are not likely to need much before there will be more pocket-money coming to you."

"Oh, no, sir, I'll not, of course, because my dear, dear father provides everything I need to eat or wear, and pays my travelling expenses too, so that I'm not really obliged to spend anything on myself," she said, putting an arm about his neck and laying her cheek lovingly to his. "Papa, do you think a dollar will be enough for me to give the Forestis?"

"You may decide that question for yourself, my darling," he said, patting her cheek and stroking her hair; "I leave it entirely to you to give much, little, or nothing, as conscience and inclination dictate."

"Thank you, papa; you are very kind to say that; but please tell me if you think a dollar will be enough for me?"

"Yes, I do," was his reply, and Lulu looked satisfied and relieved.

"I'm glad, papa," she said, "for I really do not know that I shall have more than that left after paying for the presents for the servants; and of course I can't give more than I have."

"Quite true," he returned, with a slight smile. "I would have you make it a rule never to go into debt for your own gratification or for any other object. 'Out of debt, out of danger,' is an old and wise saying. Now, daughter, it is time to say good-night; but first let me remind you that to-morrow is the Lord's day, and to be kept holy. Try not to think of the exciting events expected in the coming week, but to spend the time in the worship of God and the study of his word, that you may grow in grace and conformity to his will, thus becoming 'meet for the inheritance of the saints in light,' and ready, when he shall call you away from earth, to dwell forever with him in that holy, happy land where sin and sorrow are unknown. We will kneel down together now for a moment and ask him to help us both to do so, 'running with patience the race set before us, ever looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith.'"

Sunday was passed by the Viamede family in the usual quiet way, most of its hours filled up with divine service in the sanctuary or at home, and all retired to rest at an early hour, to rise the next morning in renewed health and strength, the children rejoicing in their holiday and the near approach of the wedding festivities.

Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore had the day before, on their way to church, called upon the Italian music teacher, taking with them delicacies for the sick man, and other articles of food for the rest of the family; some money also, in which was included Lulu's dollar; and finding the services of a physician were needed, had engaged to send one.

Dr. Dick Percival undertook the errand, made a professional call, and on his return reported the man quite ill, but likely to recover with good and competent nursing. He went over again on Monday morning, but called first at Viamede to report to his uncle Dinsmore and the captain.

Lulu was present at the interview and heard with interest all that Cousin Dick had to tell about the signor and his family.

"There are three children," said Dick -- "forlorn looking little creatures, with apparently no playthings except a few broken bits of china, and for doll babies, some corn cobs wrapped in rags."

"Oh, papa," exclaimed little Elsie, seated upon her father's knee, "mayn't I send dem some of my dollies?"

"Yes, if you want to do so," he replied, smiling upon her, and smoothing her curls caressingly with his hand.

"And I will hunt up some playthings for them too, if I may, papa," said Lulu.

"Certainly," he said; "you may do so at once, and we three and Gracie will drive over there in the carriage, which I will order immediately; that is, if Cousin Dick does not object to our company?"

"Not by any means, Captain; I shall be delighted to have it," said Dr. Percival. "And will you drive over with me, Art?" turning to Dr. Conley.

"With pleasure, Dick," was the reply, and in a short time all were on their way, the children well laden with toys and sweets for the little Forestis.

Violet had been invited to accompany her husband, but declined because of some preparations still to be made for the wedding. Little Ned, however, had no such excuse, and gladly made one of the merry little party in his father's carriage.

Dr. Percival, having other patients needing his attention, said he intended to make but a short call upon the Italian, and the captain did not think it worth while for his children to alight; but from the carriage they witnessed with delight the pleasure conferred upon the little Forestis by their gifts.

Captain Raymond left them for a few moments while he went in to see the sick man, to whom he spoke with the utmost kindness, condoling with him on his sufferings, and inquiring if they were very great.

"De bains ish ver bad, sare," replied the man, with a heavy sigh. Then, with an earnest look into the captain's face, his own flushing hotly, "You, sare, ish de fader off Mees Lu Raymond?" he said inquiringly.

"I am, sir," replied the captain with some sternness of look and tone.

"Mees Lu, she bees one goot leetle girl for send me that monish yesterday," continued Foresti; "dot make me ver sorry I haf so leetle batience mit her dat time she sthrike me mit de music book."

"Yes," said Captain Raymond, "and I trust that when you are again able to teach you will try to be more patient and forbearing with your pupils. It will be better for both you and them."

"Yes, sare, I vill try dat blan; but mine batience bees sorely dried mit de mishtakes off dose careless bupils I haf to teach."

"I dare say that is true," said the captain, "but one who finds it impossible to have patience with pupils, should try some other way of making a livelihood than by teaching."

In another minute or two the captain left -- not waiting for the doctors, who were, as he knew, going in another direction -- re-entered his carriage, and started on the return trip to Viamede.

"Papa," asked Lulu, "can't we take a little different route going home?"

"Yes," he replied in an indulgent tone, and gave the necessary directions to the driver.

It was a pleasant, shady road into which they presently turned, and the children chatted and laughed right merrily, receiving no rebuke from their father and fearing none.

They had not gone far on that road when they espied two horsemen approaching from the opposite direction.

"Oh," cried little Elsie, "here come Cousin Ronald and Uncle Horace."

"An unexpected meeting, Captain," Mr. Dinsmore remarked, with a bow and smile as they drew near.

"But none the less pleasant," returned Captain Raymond.

"Very true, sir," said Mr. Lilburn, bowing and smiling in his turn.

"For the captain and you young folks, no doubt, but a trifle less delightful for us who have the load to carry," seemed to come from the mouth of one of the horses as he tossed his head to shake off a fly.

"True enough, Selim. You doubtless envy me with only this gentleman to carry; and I pity you from the bottom of my heart; only that it must be good fun to hear those little folks chatting and laughing," was the answering remark apparently made by the horse ridden by Mr. Lilburn, speaking as they passed the captain's carriage.

Lulu and Grace clapped their hands, laughing merrily, while baby Ned exclaimed, with a look of astonishment, "Me didn't fink horsey could talk like udder folks!"

"Oh, yes! but why did they never do it before?" cried little Elsie. "Papa, did you know they could talk?"

"I never heard them do so before, daughter," the captain said, with an amused smile down into the earnest, surprised little face, "and I suspect that it is only when Cousin Ronald is about that they can."



Chapter XII.


RIDES, drives, sports of various kinds, and preparations for the wedding, made the time pass very rapidly and pleasantly to the young folks at Viamede, Magnolia Hall, and the Parsonage, until at length all was in readiness for the expected festivities.

The ceremony was to be performed at the church, the Rev. Cyril Keith officiating, and to be immediately succeeded by a wedding breakfast on the lawn at Magnolia Hall. That was to be about noon, so did not interfere with the usual morning meal and family devotions at Viamede.

When these had been attended to, the ladies and young girls scattered to their rooms to dress for the important occasion.

It had been arranged that Grace Raymond and Rose Lacy were to act as flower girls, dressed in white tarlatan, and white hats trimmed with white ribbon, and each carrying a basket filled with white roses, white japonicas, and smilax. Rose Travilla, Evelyn Leland, and Lulu Raymond, dressed as had been planned at the first, were to act as bridesmaids, while Lora Howard, Maud and Sydney Dinsmore, were to be maids of honor, dressed in white, and carrying bouquets of white flowers.

Betty's own dress was a rich white silk, trimmed with elegant and costly lace -- the gift of her brother-in-law, Mr. Embury -- and a tulle veil, fastened to her head with a wreath of orange blossoms. Her bouquet was of bride roses and smilax. The Dinsmore and Howard cousins were to act as ushers and groomsmen.

All this had been satisfactorily arranged, and rehearsals gone through with several times at Magnolia Hall and Viamede, that each one might be perfect in his or her part; otherwise timid little Gracie could not have been induced to undertake her share in the ceremony.

When she and Lulu were dressed for the occasion they went in search of their father to ask his opinion of their appearance and attire. He scanned each daintily attired, graceful little figure with a look of proud, fond affection, clasped them in his arms and kissed them tenderly.

"My darlings look very sweet in their father's eyes," he said; "but do not be too proud of your appearance, for fathers are apt to see their own children through rose-colored glasses; and it is not very likely that you will attract particular attention among so many attendants upon the bride, who will doubtless be gazed upon more admiringly and critically than anyone else."

"I'm ever so glad of that, papa," Gracie said, with a sigh of relief; "because I don't like to be viewed with a critic's eye," she concluded with a merry, though slightly disturbed little laugh.

"Well, dear child, just try to forget yourself, and I have no doubt everything will go right," he said, drawing both her and Lulu closer into his arms for a little more petting and caressing.

That was interrupted by the entrance of their mamma Vi, coming upon the same errand that had brought them.

"Will I do, my dear?" she asked, with a bright, winsome smile.

"Ah, my Violet, my sweet and beautiful flower," he returned, regarding her with ardently admiring eyes, "I fear you will outshine the bride. You look very like one yourself, except a most becoming air of maturity; scarcely older and certainly not less beautiful than when you gave yourself to me."

"And accepted you in return; deeds which I have never yet for a moment regretted," she said, with a coquettish smile up into his face; for he had put his little girls gently aside and risen to take a critical survey of his young and beautiful wife.

"And never shall if in my power to prevent it, my love, my darling," he said low and tenderly, laying a hand upon her shoulder, and bending down to press a fond kiss upon her lips.

They were in the library, whither the captain had gone, after arraying himself for the wedding festival, to wait for the ladies and damsels who were to go under his care.

"Ah, Brother Levis, I have caught you in the very act," laughed Rosie, dancing into the room, already in bridesmaid's attire, and looking but little less attractive than Violet herself.

"Ah! and what of that, little sister?" he asked. "Who has a better right than her husband to bestow caresses upon a beautiful and attractive woman?"

"Captain Raymond, being my teacher, has an undoubted right to question me in the school-room," laughed Rosie, with an arch look up into his face, "but -- I don't know that he has here and now. Now please let me have your candid opinion of my dress and appearance."

"You will do very well, little sister; there is no fault to be found with your appearance, so far as I can see," he answered in a non-committal tone, and with a mischievous twinkle of fun in his eye.

At that Rosie pretended to pout. "You keep all your compliments for Vi," she said. "But -- ah, here comes Eva, and I wonder if you can afford one to her. She is certainly worthy of it."

Evelyn did indeed look sweet and fair in a becoming white chip hat and her pretty dress of pale blue silk trimmed with lovely lace.

Rosie's own dress was a delicate pink; Lulu's canary color; all of the same material.

"That she is, in my opinion," returned the captain, bestowing a fatherly caress upon the young orphan girl, then offering the same to Rosie.

"Well, now, you are a nice brother -- my big, big brother, you remember," she laughed, "so I won't repulse you; help yourself and let us have it over."

Just at that moment her mother came in, dressed for the wedding in a beautiful pearl-colored silk and point lace, a knot of white roses at her throat and in her belt, her lovely and abundant golden brown hair simply and tastefully arranged.

"Mamma!" exclaimed Violet, "you are the most beautiful and tastefully attired one among us!"

"In the partial eyes of my daughter Violet," was the smiling rejoinder. "But to me her youthful beauty far exceeds her mother's fading charms."

"I incline to the opinion that the fading is perceptible to no eyes but your own, mother," remarked the captain gallantly.

"I also," said Violet; "a richer, riper bloom is all that I can see."

"Or that anybody else can," added Walter, who, ready dressed for the wedding, had entered the room just in time to catch Violet's first exclamation.

Then the other members of the family and the guests came flocking in, the carriages were announced as waiting for their living freight, and presently all were seated in them and on their way to the church, which they found crowded with invited guests and other spectators.

The ceremony was short, but impressive. Bride, bridesmaids, flower girls, and maids of honor were all looking their best, and behaved admirably; groom, groomsmen, and ushers also, among whom were a brother and an intimate friend of the bridegroom, the young cousins Arthur and Walter Howard, Chester and Frank Dinsmore, and little Walter Travilla.

Old Mr. Dinsmore, the uncle and guardian of the bride, gave her away, and was the first to salute, and call her by her new name on the completion of the ceremony, the first to congratulate the groom, and wish them a great deal of happiness.

Other affectionate greetings and best wishes followed in quick succession; then the carriages were re-entered, and all drove to Magnolia Hall to partake of the wedding breakfast.

The place was looking its very loveliest: the grass on the lawn like a velvet carpet of emerald green, spangled with many flowers of varied hues, which filled the air with delicious perfume, and there, scattered about underneath the magnolia, orange, and other beautiful shade trees, were many small tables resplendent with the finest napery, shining silver, cut glass, and delicate china, and loaded with delicate and delicious viands.

Presently every table was surrounded by a merry group quite disposed to do justice to the tempting fare, and the air filled with the pleasant hum of happy voices and low, gleeful laughter.

The bride and groom, with their attendants, were seated about two tables not many feet apart, while the older members of the Viamede family and Cousin Ronald occupied another, quite near to both; and Mr. Embury and his Molly, with the Parsonage family, Virginia and the older Embury children, filled a third, not far from either of the others, when presently Nero, a great big Newfoundland dog belonging to Mr. Embury, showed himself at his master's side, looking up wistfully into his face.

"I'm hungry, good master," were the words that seemed to come from his lips, "and surely your faithful dog might have a taste of this feast."

At that some of the guests looked startled and astounded, too much surprised to speak, but Mr. Embury, who was not ignorant of Cousin Ronald's talents, though a little startled at first, recovered his wits instantly, and replying, "Certainly, certainly, Nero; that's only fair," handed the dog a generous bit of chicken, and bade him carry it to a distance and eat it. An order which was promptly obeyed.

"Ah ha, ah ha, um h'm! that's a bright and capable dog, Mr. Embury," remarked Cousin Ronald, elevating his eyebrows in mock surprise. "What would you take for him, sir?"

"He is not for sale, Mr. Lilburn," was Mr. Embury's grave rejoinder. "You must surely see for yourself, sir, that he is no ordinary dog, but an uncommonly valuable animal. There are not many of his race who can speak so plainly."

"Ah ha, ah ha, um h'm! that is very true, sir. I don't wonder you are not inclined to part with him, for it is no easy matter to find a dog that can speak such good English, nor for that matter any other language."

"No, sir, they are scarce indeed," said Mr. Embury, "and I had no idea Nero was one of them until he spoke just now."

"Ah, I'm afraid the power of speech will be lost by him as suddenly as it was found," remarked Mrs. Embury with a low, gleeful laugh.

"There must certainly be a ventriloquist among us," remarked the groom, with a searching look at Cousin Ronald.

"Ah, do you really think so, sir?" inquired Mr. Lilburn gravely, "and would you do me the favor to point him out?"

"Well, sir, I cannot say that I am absolutely certain, but strongly incline to the opinion that he sits in the chair occupied by yourself."

"Indeed, sir, I didna think I filled the place so ill that room could be found in it for another mon!" exclaimed Mr. Lilburn, again raising his eyebrows like one astonished, then sending a downward glance over his own portly person, and assuming so comical an expression of countenance that no one could see it without smiling or laughing outright.

So fully was he absorbing the attention of all that no one noticed the return of Nero until words were again heard apparently issuing from his lips.

"That was a nice morsel, master, but not enough to satisfy the appetite of a dog of my size; so another bit, sir, if you please."

"Yes, sir, you shall have it, since you ask so politely," returned Mr. Embury, handing him another and larger piece of the chicken, "but carry it off where there will be no danger of contact with wedding finery."

Nero obeyed, and as he trotted away, a voice that seemed to come from behind Mr. Embury, said whiningly:

"I'm hungry too, sir, and surely a human creature should be treated at least as well as a dog."

At that Mr. Embury turned suddenly round as if to see the speaker, nearly everyone else doing likewise, but no beggar was in sight.

"Well, sir," he said, "I cannot give to an invisible suppliant; show yourself if you want anything."

"Sir," replied the voice, now seeming to come from a clump of bushes near at hand, "I'm not used to begging, and don't want to be seen. Can you not send a servant here with a plateful of your most toothsome viands?"

"Quite a modest request, sir," returned Mr. Embury, laughing. "But I think you will have to wait till the servants have more leisure; at present they are all fully occupied in waiting upon my guests."

"But then you'll let him have something to eat, won't you, papa?" pleaded little Mary Embury. "You never do turn anybody away hungry."

"Certainly not, little daughter; if he could be found he should be fed."

"But shan't I drive him out, sir?" queried a servant man; "we doan' want no beggahs 'bout yar. Dey mout help deirselfs to some o' de silvah when nobody aint lookin'."

"Well, Bill, you might drive him out; he's perhaps a tramp watching his opportunity to help himself."

Bill, well pleased with the errand, set down with alacrity the dish he carried, and hurried toward the clump of bushes that apparently concealed the tramp. "Ki, you ole tief you!" he cried, "git long out ob dis; nobody doan' want yo' hyar! I'se break yo' skull fo' yo' ef ye doan be gone putty quick!"

He pulled apart the bushes as he spoke, but instantly started back in astonishment and terror as he perceived that no one was concealed there.

"Whar dat fellah dun gone?" he exclaimed. "Dis chile doan' see nobody dar nohow 'tall!"

"Ha, ha! you don't look in the right place," cried the same voice that had begged for food a moment before, the speaker seeming to be directly behind him; and Bill wheeled about with unusual alacrity with the intention of seizing his tormentor, but turned almost white with terror on perceiving that no one was there.

"Wha -- wha -- wha dat raskil done gone?" he exclaimed, "t'ot he right dar, an' he aint nowhar 'bout."

"Never mind, Bill; it seems he has saved you the trouble of driving him off," said Mr. Embury, "and you may come back to your duties. More coffee is wanted here."

Bill obeyed, but on his return with the coffee kept glancing apprehensively in the direction of the bushes.

"I wonder where the man did go!" exclaimed little Mary presently. "I've been watching, and don't know how he could get away without being seen."

"Beggars are sometimes very quick at hiding, little lassie," remarked Mr. Lilburn.

"Ha, ha! so they are!" cried the voice of the beggar, sounding as though he stood just behind her chair.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, with a start and a backward glance. "Why, where is he? I don't see him at all."

"Don't be frightened, daughter," Mr. Embury said in an encouraging tone.

"No, bit lassie, he's not dangerous," remarked Mr. Lilburn, with a reassuring smile.

"Oh, do you know him, sir?" she asked, looking up inquiringly into his face.

"I didna see him," replied the old gentleman laughingly, "but judging by his voice I think I know who he is -- a quiet, inoffensive countrymon o' me ain."

"Ah, yes, a rather intimate acquaintance of yours, sir, is he not?" queried Norton, with a searching look into the face of the old gentleman and a half mocking smile.

"I think I may have heard the voice before, sir," Mr. Lilburn replied with unmoved countenance. "It is not unusual for beggars to accost one who is by no means o' the same class as themselves. In fact, as ony body can see, it would be useless to ask alms o' those no richer than themselves."

"Ah, true enough, sir!" was the reply.

Meanwhile, many mirthful glances had been exchanged by those -- particularly the young folks -- acquainted with the secret of Cousin Ronald's peculiar talent, and the guests at more distant tables were looking on with a good deal of curiosity. Bill was presently questioned as he passed them on his way to and from the kitchen. "What was it you saw yonder in that bush, Bill?"

"Nothin' 'tall, sah."

"But you seemed frightened; you looked scared."

"Dat's de reason, sah; somebody talkin' an' nobody dare."

"Why, how was that, Bill?" queried another voice.

"Dunno, sah; maybe witches roun'; 'spect dat de splanation ob de mattah."

"Oh, of course," laughed the gentleman; "but one hardly expects such company at a wedding."

Questions were put to Mr. and Mrs. Embury and others as the guests drew together again upon the conclusion of the meal, but no satisfactory answers were elicited.

A reception occupied some hours after that, then all returned to their homes, to meet again at Viamede in the evening, where a beautiful and bountiful entertainment awaited them.

The next evening a smaller party was given at the Parsonage, and on the following afternoon the bride and groom took their departure for a little trip northward, expecting to settle down in their own home upon their return.



Chapter XIII.


IT was only the next day after the departure of Betty and her husband that a letter was received by Mrs. Cyril Keith, informing her of the death of her aunt Delaford, leaving the bulk of her large fortune to her, and a fat legacy to each of the Conley brothers -- Calhoun, Arthur, Walter, and Ralph -- and the sisters Virginia and Ella.

Isadore was well satisfied with the provisions of the will, as were the others also, with the exception of Virginia, who frowned and grumbled audibly that she herself might have been made to share equally with Isadore, who had a good home and husband already, therefore really needed less than herself, "lone and lorn, and poor as a church mouse."

"But you have no children, Virgie," said her cousin Elsie, in whose presence the remark was made, "no one to support but yourself; and the interest of this money will be sufficient for your comfortable maintenance."

"Possibly, if I had a home, as Isa has; but not without," returned Virginia in a pettish tone, while her eyes flashed angrily.

Elsie bore patiently with the rebuff, and said no more at that time, but considered the matter earnestly, carefully, and prayerfully, in the privacy of her own room, then had a talk about it with her father, without whose approval she seldom took a step of any great importance.

Finding him alone on the veranda, "Papa," she said, taking a seat by his side, "I want a few minutes' chat with you before we are joined by anyone else. You heard Virginia's complaint of yesterday -- that she had no home of her own. I have been thinking it over, also of the fact that Dick and Bob are in the same condition, and it has occurred to me that I might invite them to take possession here while we are absent at our more northern home, giving employment to the servants, keeping the house in repair, and the grounds in order; that is, merely overseeing the work and looking to me for the means necessary to cover the expense, I to retain my present satisfactory overseer, and pay his wages out of the returns from the crops; also those of the laborers."

"You mean that you would simply give a home here to your cousins?" returned Mr. Dinsmore interrogatively.

"Yes, sir; a home without expense -- except, perhaps, some small increase of the wages of the servants in consideration of the additional work made for them, and a share of the fruits, vegetables, fowls, and so forth, raised upon the plantation."

"A share? meaning all they might want to use? the 'and so forth' I suppose, meaning milk, cream, butter, and eggs?"

"Yes, sir."

"I should call it a very generous offer, and I have no objection to bring it forward, seeing that you are well able to afford it, if it is your pleasure so to do."

"I am glad my project meets with your approval," she said, with a smile, "for otherwise, as I think you know, papa, it would never be carried out. Ah, how thankful I should be, and I hope I am, that I have been given the financial ability to do such kindness to others!"

"Yes," he said, with an affectionate smile into the soft brown eyes looking into his; "I know of no one who enjoys doing kindness more than my dear eldest daughter.

"What a delightful winter and early spring we have had here," he continued after a pause; "but it is now growing so warm that I think we must soon be moving northward."

"Yes, sir; when the last arrivals have had a week or more of the enjoyment to be found in this lovely region of country."

"Yes; they are enjoying it," he said, with a pleased smile; "the younger ones especially, the children of your brother and sister not less than the others. And by the way, daughter, I think you will be doing no little kindness to your cousins Cyril and Isadore by giving Virginia a home here."

"Yes, I think their home life will be more peaceful," she said in assent. "Poor Virgie seems to be not of -- the happiest or most contented disposition."

"No, she never was," said Mr. Dinsmore; "a discontented, fretful, complaining creature she has always been since I have known her, and she was a very little child when our acquaintance began."

In the course of that day Elsie's plans were made known to the Keiths, Virginia, and her cousins Dick Percival and his half-brother Bob Johnson, joyfully accepted by the two gentlemen, and half ungraciously by Virginia, who said complainingly, that "Viamede was a pretty enough place, to be sure, but would be dreadfully lonesome for her when the boys were away."

"Then you can amuse yourself with a book from the library, a ride or drive, as the horses and carriages will be left here for your use and that of Dick and Bob," Elsie answered pleasantly, while Isadore, blushing vividly for her sister, exclaimed, "O Virgie, you could not have a lovelier, sweeter home, and I think Cousin Elsie is wonderfully kind to offer it!"

"Of course, I'm greatly obliged to her," Virginia said, coloring slightly as though a trifle ashamed of her want of appreciation of the kind offer "and I'll not damage anything, so that the house will be none the worse for my occupancy, but possibly a little better."

"Yes, perhaps it may," Elsie said pleasantly, "though the servants usually left in charge are careful about airing it and keeping everything neat and clean. I really think you will have no trouble with your housekeeping, Virgie."

"That seems a pleasant prospect, for I never liked housekeeping," returned Virginia, "and I really am much obliged to you, Cousin Elsie."

"You are very welcome, and I hope will be happy here," was the kindly reply.

Another fortnight of constant intercourse between the three places -- Viamede, Magnolia Hall, and the Parsonage -- of rides, drives, walks, sailing or rowing about on the lagoon, and every other pleasure and entertainment that could be devised, then the party began to break up, those from the north returning to their homes, most of them by rail, as the speediest and the most convenient mode of travel. However, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, Evelyn, Grandma Elsie and her youngest two, Cousin Ronald and the Woodburn family, returned together by sea, making use of the captain's yacht, which he had ordered to be sent to him in season for the trip by the Gulf and ocean.

There was no urgent need of haste, and the captain did not deny that he was conscious of a longing to be, for a time, again in command of a vessel sailing over the briny deep; besides, it would be less fatiguing for the little ones, to say nothing of their elders.

The little girls were full of delight at the prospect of both the voyage and the return to their lovely homes, yet could not leave beautiful Viamede without deep regret.

It was the last evening but one of their stay; all were gathered upon the veranda looking out upon the lagoon sparkling in the moonlight, and the velvety flower-bespangled lawn, with its many grand and beautiful old trees. The little ones had already gone to their nests, but Evelyn, Lulu, and Grace were sitting with the older people, Grace on her father's knee, the other two together close at hand.

There had been some cheerful chat, followed by a silence of several minutes. It was broken by a slight scuffling sound, as of a negro's footstep, in the rear of Elsie's chair, then a voice said in mournful accents, "Scuse de in'truption, missus, but dis chile want to 'spress to you uns dat we uns all a'most heart-broke t'inkin' how you's gwine 'way an' p'r'arps won't be comin' heah no mo' till de ol'est ob us done gone foreber out dis wicked worl'."

Before the sentence was completed every eye had turned in the direction of the sounds; but nothing was to be seen of the speaker.

"Oh, that was you, Cousin Ronald," laughed Rosie, recovering from the momentary start given her by the seemingly mysterious disappearance of the speaker.

"Ah, Rosie, my bonnie lassie, how can you treat your auld kinsman so ill as to suspect him of murdering the king's English in that style?" queried the old gentleman in hurt, indignant tones.

"Because, my poor abused cousin, I am utterly unable to account in any other way for the phenomenon of an invisible speaker so close at hand."

Cousin Ronald made no reply, for at that instant there came a sound of bitter sobbing, apparently from behind a tree a few feet from the veranda's edge, then a wailing cry, "Oh, Miss Elsie, Massa Dinsmore, and de res' ob you dar, doan' go for to leab dis po' chile! She cayn't stan' it nohow 'tall! her ole heart like to break! Doan' go way, massa an' missus; stay hyah wid de niggahs dat lubs you so!"

"Oh, Cousin Ronald, don't!" Elsie said in half tremulous tones. "It seems too real, and almost breaks my heart; for I am greatly attached to many of these poor old men and women."

"Then I think they will not distress you with any more complaints and entreaties to-night, sweet cousin," returned the old gentleman in pleasant, though half regretful tones.



Chapter XIV.


THE next day the servants were gathered on the lawn and presented with the parting gifts procured for them by the ladies and little girls, which they received with many thanks and demonstrations of delight. But the following morning, when the time of parting had really come, there were some tears shed by the old retainers, yet they were greatly cheered by the assurances of their loved mistress, her father, and Captain Raymond, that in all probability it would not be very long before the family would be there again for a season.

The feelings of the departing ones were of a mingled character -- regret at leaving lovely Viamede, and joy in the prospect of soon being again in their own sweet homes farther north.

The weather was delightful, light fleecy clouds tempering the heat of the sun; the fields and plantations clothed in the richest verdure of spring; the air filled with the perfume of flowers and vocal with the songs of birds; then on reaching Bayou Teche they found their own yacht, the Dolphin, awaiting them.

The young folks of the party greeted her with a clapping of hands and many another demonstration of delight, and soon all were on board, and she was steaming out through the bay, into the Gulf beyond, her passengers, from Grandpa Dinsmore down to baby Ned, grouped together on deck underneath an awning.

"We are in the Gulf now, aren't we, sir?" asked Walter at length, addressing the captain.

"Yes, my boy," was the pleasant toned reply; "and are there any places along its coast that you or any of the others would particularly like to see?"

"Oh, yes, sir; yes, indeed!" exclaimed Walter with enthusiasm. "I for one would like greatly to see Mobile Bay with its fort. Morgan is the name?"

"Yes; Fort Morgan is at the extremity of Mobile Point, where Fort Bowyer stood in the War of 1812-14. You remember what happened there at that time?"

"It was attacked by the British, wasn't it, sir?"

"Yes; in September, 1814, by a British squadron of two brigs and two sloops of war, aided by a land force of one hundred and thirty marines and six hundred Indians, led by Captain Woodbine, who had been trying to drill them at Pensacola.

"Florida did not belong to us at that time; the Spaniards had made a settlement at Pensacola in 1696, were still there at the time of our last war with England, and favored the British, who there, as well as in other parts of Florida, organized expeditions against the United States, the Spanish governor, though professing neutrality, evidently siding with and giving them aid and comfort."

"And when then did we get possession of Florida, sir?" asked Walter.

"In July of 1821," answered the captain.

"Didn't Jackson capture Pensacola at one time during that war with England, Captain?" asked Evelyn.

"Yes; in the attack about which Walter was just asking, before Lafitte forwarded to New Orleans those documents showing how the British were trying to get him into their service, Jackson had perceived that the Spaniards were, as I have said, secretly siding with the British, and now, with the positive proof furnished by those papers before him, he squarely accused Manrequez, the Spanish governor at Pensacola, of bad faith.

"Then followed a spicy correspondence, which Jackson closed by writing to the governor, 'In future I beg you to withhold your insulting charges against my government for one more inclined to listen to slander than I am; nor consider me any more a diplomatic character unless so proclaimed from the mouth of my cannon.'

"Then he set to work to raise troops, and in a very short time had two thousand sturdy young Tennesseeans ready for the field.

"But before these reached Mobile, hostilities had begun. Jackson himself went there early in August, and on his arrival perceived that an attempt would be made by the British to seize it as soon as their talked of great expedition should be ready to move.

"Fort Bowyer was but a small and weak fortification; had no bomb-proofs, and but twenty guns, only two of them larger than twelve pounders, some still smaller in size.

"Yet small and weak as was the fort, it was the chief defence of Mobile; so Jackson threw into it a hundred and thirty of his Second Regular Infantry, under Major William Lawrence, who was as gallant an officer as any in the service.

"Lawrence at once made every preparation in his power to resist the expected attack. But before he could complete his work, on the morning of the 12th of September, the British Lieutenant-colonel Nichols appeared on the peninsula back of the fort, with, as I have said, his marines and Indians, the latter under the command of Captain Woodbine, who had been drilling them at Pensacola.

"Later in the evening of the same day the four British vessels of which I spoke appeared in sight, and anchored within six miles of Mobile Point. They were a part of a squadron of nine vessels in Pensacola Bay, under the command of Captain Percy.

"Our little garrison slept upon their arms that night. The next morning Nichols caused a howitzer to be dragged to a sheltered point within seven hundred yards of the fort, and threw some shells and solid shot from it, but without doing much damage."

"And our fellows fired back at him, of course?" exclaimed Walter excitedly.

"Yes, but their fire was equally harmless; but later in the day Lawrence's guns quickly dispersed some of Percy's men who were attempting to cast up intrenchments, and in the same way several light boats, whose men were engaged in sounding the channel nearest the fort.

"The next day was occupied in very much the same way, but on the third the garrison perceived that an assault was to be made from both land and water. At two o'clock the vessels were seen approaching, and Lawrence called a council of officers.

"All were determined to resist to the last, and if finally compelled to surrender, to do so only on condition that officers and privates should retain their arms and private property, be treated as prisoners of war, and protected from the savages.

"The words adopted as the signal for the day were, 'don't give up the fort.'

"At half past four the battle began, the four vessels opening fire simultaneously, and pouring broadside after broadside upon the fort, which returned a fearful fire from its circular battery.

"While this was going on in front, Captain Woodbine was assailing our men in the rear, from behind his sand-dune, with a howitzer and a twelve-pounder.

"So the battle raged for an hour; then the flag of the Hermes was shot away, and Lawrence stopped firing to learn if she had surrendered; but the Caron fired another broadside, and the fight went on with renewed vigor. Soon a shot cut the cable of the Hermes, and she floated away with the current, her head toward the fort, and her decks swept of men and everything by a raking fire from the fort.

"Then the fort's flag-staff was shot away and her ensign fell, but the British, instead of following Lawrence's humane example, redoubled their fire. At the same time, Woodbine, supposing that the fort had surrendered, hastened toward it with his Indians, but they were driven back by a storm of grape-shot, and almost immediately the flag was seen again floating over the fort at the end of the staff to which Major Lawrence had nailed it."

"And was that the end of the fight, papa?" asked Lulu.

"Very nearly, if not quite," he replied. "Two of the attacking vessels presently withdrew, leaving the helpless Hermes behind; she finally grounded upon a sand-bank, when Percy fired and abandoned her. Near midnight her magazine exploded."

"I should think that was a great victory; was it not, Brother Levis?" queried Walter.

"I think it was," the captain said. "The result was very mortifying to the British. It was entirely unexpected, and Percy had said that he would allow the garrison only twenty minutes to capitulate. It is not surprising that he expected to take the weak little fort, with its feeble garrison of one hundred and thirty, when he brought against it over thirteen hundred men and ninety-two pieces of artillery.

"The Americans lost only eight men, one-half of whom were killed. The assailants lost two hundred and thirty-two, one hundred and sixty-two of them killed.

"One result of that fight was that the Indians lost faith in the invincibility of the British, and many of them deserted, and sought safety from the anger of Jackson by concealing themselves in the interior of their broad country."

"Papa," said Grace earnestly, "did not God help our cause because we were in the right?"

"No doubt of it, daughter," replied the captain; "ours was a righteous cause, a resistance to intolerable oppression and wrong, as our poor sailors felt it to be when a British man-of-war would stop our merchantmen on the high seas and force into their service any man whom they choose to say was an Englishman.

"But I need not enlarge upon that subject to my present audience, as I am convinced that you all know of and appreciate that bitter wrong.

"To resume. The Americans were highly gratified with the result of the conflict at Fort Bowyer, and their zeal was greatly quickened for volunteering for the defence of New Orleans, whose citizens testified their appreciation of Major Lawrence's achievement by resolving to present him with an elegant sword in the name of their city."

"Was there not a second attack by the British upon Fort Bowyer, Captain?" asked Evelyn.

"Yes; after their defeat at New Orleans. That, you will remember, was on the 8th of January, 1815. They reached their fleet, lying in the deep water between Ship and Cat Islands, on the 29th of that month, Fort Bowyer on the 9th of February, and besieged it for nearly two days, when Major Lawrence found himself compelled to surrender to a superior force. That left Mobile at the mercy of the foe, but just then came the news of peace, concluded at Ghent nearly two months before."

"But wasn't there some fighting done there or at Mobile in the Civil War, sir?" asked Walter.

"Yes; on August 5, 1864, the government forces under Farragut attacked the Confederate defences there, consisting principally of the two forts, Morgan on the eastern side of the bay, and Gaines on the western, about three miles apart.

"A line of piles and a double one of torpedoes stretched nearly across from Fort Gaines to Fort Morgan, leaving only a narrow channel between that fort and the point of termination. It was through that channel, indicated by a red buoy, that blockade runners passed in and out, and inside of these defences lay the Confederate ironclad Tennessee, and three wooden gun-boats. It was early in the morning of that August day that Farragut's signal was given, for the advance of his seven sloops of war. The firing was heavy and destructive on both sides. But I will not go into particulars at this time, only saying that the result was in favor of the Federals; but the victory cost many lives -- of Federals 335 men, of whom 113 were drowned in the Tecumseh -- the leading monitor, which had struck a torpedo and gone down -- and 52 killed by shot, while the Confederate loss was 10 killed, 16 wounded, and 280 prisoners, besides the loss in the forts, which is unknown."

Just at this point a passing vessel attracted the attention of the captain and his listeners, and the conversation was not renewed until after dinner.



Chapter XV.


IT was Mrs. Travilla, or Grandma Elsie, as Lulu and Grace called her, who that afternoon started the captain upon the historical sketches so greatly enjoyed by the younger part of the company, to say nothing of the older ones.

"We will pass near enough to Forts Gaines and Morgan to get a view of them -- the outside at least -- will we not, Captain?" she asked, with a smile.

"Yes, mother," he replied. "Pensacola also, whither, as I have said, the British went after their fruitless attack upon Fort Bowyer -- now Fort Morgan -- then occupied by the Spaniards under Manrequez, and where they were publicly received as friends and allies.

"All that, and the revelations of Jean Lafitte concerning their attempt to engage him and his outlaws to help them in their contemplated attack upon New Orleans, kindled the hottest indignation in the minds of Jackson and the people of the Southwest. The general issued a proclamation in retort for one sent out by the British officer Nichols shortly before, in which he had made inflammatory appeals to the French, who were prejudiced against the Americans, and the Kentuckians, who were discontented because of a seeming neglect by their government -- a state of things largely owing to the arts of ambitious politicians.

"Nichols had also sent out Indian runners to excite their fellows against the Americans, and in that way he gathered nearly a thousand Creeks and Seminoles at Pensacola, where they were supplied with abundance of arms and ammunition.

"Jackson, in his proclamation -- told of all this the conduct of the British, and the perfidy of the Spaniards -- and called upon the people of Louisiana to 'arouse for the defence of their threatened country.'"

"And did they do it, sir?" queried Walter.

"Yes; they were thoroughly roused and much excited by the threatening aspect of affairs, and at once set vigorously to work to prepare for determined resistance to the threatened invasion of their country and their homes.

"Jackson was impatient to march on Pensacola and break up that rendezvous of the enemies of the United States, but it was slow work to get his troops together, and November had come before he had his forces ready for the attack.

"At last, however, he had four thousand men gathered at Fort Montgomery, due north from Pensacola, and on the 3d of the month they marched for that place, some Mississippi dragoons leading the way.

"On the evening of the 6th, Jackson, with his whole army, encamped within two miles of their destination. Major Pierre was sent to the Spanish governor with a flag of truce, and a message from his general saying that he had not come to injure the town, or make war upon a neutral power, but to deprive the enemies of the republic of a place of refuge. Pierre was also told to demand the surrender of the forts.

"The British, however, were in possession of Fort St. Michael, over which their's and the Spanish flags had been waving together until the day before, and as soon as the American flag of truce was seen approaching, it was fired upon from the fort by a twelve-pounder.

"Pierre returned to Jackson and reported these facts; then Jackson sent to the governor a Spaniard whom he had captured on the way, demanding an explanation.

"The governor asserted that he knew nothing of the outrage, and promised that another flag should be respected.

"At midnight Pierre, sent again by Jackson, called once more upon the governor with a proposal that American garrisons should be allowed to take possession of the forts until Manrequez could man them with a sufficient number of Spanish troops to enable him to maintain the neutrality of his government against violations of it by the British, who had taken possession of the fortresses, it seemed, in spite of the Spanish governor's protests, the American troops to be withdrawn as soon as the additional Spanish ones arrived.

"The governor rejected the propositions and before dawn three thousand of the Americans were marching upon Pensacola. They passed along the beach, but the sand was so deep that they could not drag their cannon through it. Then the centre of their column charged gallantly into the town, but on reaching the principal street they were met by a shower of musketry from the gardens and houses, while a two-gun battery opened upon them with balls and grape-shot.

"But Captain Laval and his company charged and captured the battery, when the governor quickly showed himself with a flag, and promised to comply with any terms offered if Jackson would spare the town."

"I hope Jackson wasn't too good to him," laughed Rosie.

"The surrender of all the forts was what Jackson demanded and received," replied the captain. "But one, six miles away, called Fort Barancas, and commanding the harbor, in which the British vessels lay, was still in the hands of the enemy. Jackson determined to march suddenly upon it the next morning, seize it, turn its guns on the British vessels, and capture or injure them before they could escape.

"But before morning the British squadron had gone, carrying with it Colonel Nichols, Captain Woodbine, the Spanish commandant of the fort, and about four hundred men, besides a considerable number of Indians; and before leaving they had blown up the fort.

"Jackson suspected that they had gone to make another attack upon Fort Bowyer and the town of Mobile, so hurried away in that direction, leaving Manrequez angry and indignant at this treatment of himself by the British, and the Indians filled with the idea that it would be very imprudent for them to again defy the wrath of Andrew Jackson; much dejected and alarmed, they scattered themselves through the forests.

"As for Jackson, when he reached Mobile, on the 11th of November, he received messages urging him to hasten to the defence of New Orleans.

"He left that place on the 21st, reached it on the 2d of December -- but of what he accomplished there I have already told you."

"Yes, papa," said Lulu; "I'll never forget that interesting story. But do tell me, will we pass near enough to Mobile to see those forts?"

"Yes," he said; then turning to Grandma Elsie, asked, "Mother, would you like to stop and visit the forts?"

"I am willing if the rest wish it," she replied; "but otherwise would prefer to press on toward home, my Ion home, which, now that we have left Viamede fairly behind, I begin to long to see again."

"That being the case I am sure no one of us will wish to stop," returned the captain gallantly, a sentiment at once re-echoed by Mr. Dinsmore and all present.

"We are nearing there now, are we not, my dear?" asked Violet.

"Yes; we are moving rapidly, and if all goes well may expect to see the forts early this evening."

There was an exclamation of pleasure from several of the young people; then Lulu asked, "Papa, are there not some other historical places we shall have to pass while we are in the Gulf or after we reach the ocean?"

"Quite a number, daughter, but we will not delay our voyage in order to visit them at this time."

"Perhaps some other day, then?" she returned inquiringly, smiling up into his face as she spoke.

"Very possibly," he returned, smoothing her hair with caressing hand; for she was, as usual, close at his side.

A pause in the talk was at length broken by a remark from Cousin Ronald.

"You had some great men among your Union officers, Captain, in both army and navy, in the days of that terrible Civil War."

"We had indeed, sir," was the hearty response; "a number of them in both arms of the service, and none more worthy of respect and admiration than Farragut, who did such splendid service at both New Orleans and Mobile Bay, to say nothing of other places. The city of Mobile could not be captured as New Orleans had been, by reason of shoal water and obstructions in the channel, but the passage of blockade runners, carrying supplies to the Confederacy, was stopped, which was the main object of the expedition."

"Yes, he did good service to his country," returned Mr. Lilburn, "although, if I mistake not, he was a Southerner."

"He was born in Tennessee," replied Captain Raymond. "In the winter of 1860-61 he was on waiting orders at Norfolk, Virginia, where he watched with intense interest the movements of the Southern States, and especially the effort to carry Virginia out of the Union into the Confederacy; and when that was accomplished he remarked that 'the State had been dragooned out of the Union.'

"He talked very freely on the subject, and was told that a person with such sentiments as his 'could not live in Norfolk.' 'Well, then,' he replied, 'I can live somewhere else,' and that very evening left the place, with his wife and son. That was the 18th of April, 1861. He went first to Baltimore, but afterward took a cottage at Hastings-on-the-Hudson.

"The next December he was summoned to Washington, and on the 2d of February sailed from Hampton Roads for New Orleans."

"Where he certainly did splendid service to his country," remarked Mr. Lilburn. "I hope she appreciated it."

"I think she did," returned the captain; "he received many marks of the people's appreciation, among them a purse of $50,000, which was presented him for the purchase of a home in New York City."

"Did he live to see the end of the war, sir?" asked Walter.

"Yes; he was on the James River with General Gordon when Richmond was taken, and on hearing the news the two rode there post-haste, reaching the city a little ahead of President Lincoln. A few days after that the naval and military officers at Norfolk, with some of the citizens who had remained true to the Union, gave him a public reception.

"Farragut was one of the speakers, and in the course of his remarks said: 'This meeting recalls to me the most momentous events of my life, when I listened in this place till the small hours of the morning, and returned home with the feeling that Virginia was safe and firm in her place in the Union. Our Union members of the convention were elected by an overwhelming majority, and we believed that every thing was right. Judge, then, of our astonishment in finding, a few days later, that the State had been voted out by a miserable minority, for want of firmness and resolution on the part of those whom we trusted to represent us there, and that Virginia had been dragooned out of the Union. I was told by a brother officer that the State had seceded, and that I must either resign and turn traitor to the government which had supported me from childhood, or I must leave this place.

"'Thank God, I was not long in making my decision. I have spent half my life in revolutionary countries, and I know the horrors of civil war; and I told the people what I had seen and what they would experience. They laughed at me, and called me "granny," and "croaker"; and I said, "I cannot live here, and will seek some other place where I can live." I suppose they said I left my country for my country's good, and I thank God I did.'"

"A countryman to be proud of," remarked Mr. Lilburn.

"Oh, I wish I could have seen him!" exclaimed Grace. "Papa, wasn't he a Christian man?"

"I think so, daughter," replied the captain. "He is said to have had a strong religious nature and a firm reliance upon Providence, believing in God's constant guidance."

"Do you remember," said Grandma Elsie, "those lines of Oliver Wendell Holmes' written in honor of Admiral Farragut, and read at a dinner given him, in which this passage occurs?

"Fast, fast are lessening in the light The names of high renown, Van Tromp's proud besom pales from sight, Old Benbow's half hull down.

"Scarce one tall frigate walks the sea, Or skirts the safer shores, Of all that bore to victory Our stout old commodores.

"Hull, Bainbridge, Porter -- where are they? The answering billows roll, Still bright in memory's sunset ray, God rest each gallant soul!

"A brighter name must dim their light, With more than noontide ray: The Viking of the river fight, The Conqueror of the bay.

"I give the name that fits him best --  Ay, better than his own --  The Sea-King of the sovereign West, Who made his mast a throne."

"A fine poem indeed, and with a subject worthy of all its praise," remarked Cousin Ronald, as Mrs. Travilla ceased. "No wonder you are proud of him, cousins, for he was, as I said a moment since, one to be proud of; I should be proud indeed of him were he a countryman of mine."

"As each one of us -- his countrymen and women -- certainly is," said Mr. Dinsmore.

There was a silence of a few moments, presently broken by the captain.

"Yes," he said, "I think there are few, if any, of his countrymen, who are not proud of our grand naval hero, Farragut; and there were others among our naval heroes of that day, almost, if not quite, as worthy of our affectionate admiration. Captain, afterward Admiral, Bailey, for instance, who was second in command at the taking of New Orleans, leading, in the Cayuga, the right column of the fleet of government vessels in the passage of Forts St. Philip and Jackson, the capture of the Chalmette batteries and the city.

"As you probably remember, he passed up ahead of the fleet, through the fire of the forts, the Confederate vessels, the rams, fire-rafts, blazing cotton bales, and dense clouds of smoke, meeting the attacks of all unaided.

"Also it was he who was sent by Farragut in company with only one other man, Lieutenant George H. Perkins, to demand the surrender of the city, the taking down of the Confederate flag, and the hoisting in its stead of the Stars and Stripes.

"It certainly required no small amount of courage to pass through those city streets surrounded by a hooting, yelling, cursing crowd, threatening them with drawn pistols and other weapons.

"And who can fail to admire the words of Bailey, in his official report of the victory: 'It was a contest of iron hearts in wooden ships against iron-clads with iron beaks -- and the iron hearts won?'

"And not less admirable was his modest behavior at a dinner given him at the Astor House, when called upon to reply to the toast of 'The Navy.'"

"Ah, what was that, sir?" asked Mr. Lilburn, pricking up his ears.

"I was reading an account of it only the other day," pursued Captain Raymond. "The old hero straightened himself up, and began, 'Mr. President and gentlemen -- hem -- thank ye.' Then made a long pause, glancing up and down the table. 'Well, I suppose you want to hear about that New Orleans affair?' he continued. At that there were cries of 'Yes! yes!' and a great stamping of feet. So Bailey went on; 'Well, d'ye see, this was the way of it. We were lying down the river below the forts, and Farragut, he -- he signalled us to go in and take 'em. Being as we were already hove short, it didn't take much time to get under way, so that wasn't so much of a job as ye seem to think. And then the engineers, they ran the ships, so all we had to do was to blaze away when we got up to the forts, and take 'em, according to orders. That's just all there was about it.' And he sat down amid thunders of applause."

"Ah ha, um h'm, ah ha! a nice, modest fellow he must have been," remarked Cousin Ronald, nodding reflectively, over his cane.

The call to tea interrupted the conversation, but on leaving the table all gathered upon the deck again to watch the sunset, the rising of the moon, and for the forts, Morgan and Gaines, which they were now rapidly nearing, and upon which all gazed with interest as the captain pointed them out and the vessel steamed slowly past.

"Ah, what a terrible thing is war!" sighed Grandma Elsie. "God forbid that this dear land should ever again be visited with that fearful scourge!"

"Ah, I can say amen to that!" Mrs. Dinsmore exclaimed, low and tremulously, thinking of the dear young brothers who had fallen victims in that unnatural strife. "We cannot be thankful enough for the peace and prosperity that now bless our native land."

"No; and may it ever continue," added her husband. "Her growth and prosperity since that fearful struggle ended have been something wonderful."

A few moments of silence followed, the vessel moving swiftly on her way, and a gentle breeze fanning the cheeks of her passengers as they sat there placidly gazing out over the moonlit waters, then the quiet was suddenly broken in upon by a loud guffaw, followed by a drunken shout.

"Aint I fooled ye nice, now? Ye didn't know I was aboard, capting, nor any o' the rest o' ye. Ye didn't guess ye'd got a free passenger aboard 'sides that old Scotch feller a-settin' yander a-looking like he feels hisself as good 's any o' the rest, ef he don't pay nothin' fer his trip."

Everyone started and turned in the direction of the sounds.

"A stowaway!" exclaimed Captain Raymond. "The voice seems to come from the hold. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen; I must see to his case, and that we are secured from the danger of a visit from him, as he is evidently a drunken wretch," and with the words he hastened away in the direction of the sounds.

"Ha, ha! I hear ye, capting!" shouted the voice; "but drunken wretch or not, I wouldn't harm a hair o' any o' yer heads. All I'm a-wantin' is a free passage up furder north, where I come from."

"Oh, mamma, I'm so frightened! so 'fraid the bad man will hurt my dear papa," cried little Elsie, clinging to her mother, while tears filled her sweet blue eyes.

"No, papa will whip de naughty mans," said Ned, shaking his baby fist in the direction of the sounds.

"Ah ha, ah ha, um h'm! little laddie; I have no doubt your papa is bigger and stronger than the naughty mans," said Cousin Ronald, "and if he catches the good-for-nothing scamp, can whip him within an inch of his life."

At that Walter burst into a laugh. "Now, Cousin Ronald," he said, "I'd not be a bit surprised to learn that you are well acquainted with that scamp. However, I'll run after Brother Levis to see the fun, if there is any, but I'm sure nobody need be one bit afraid," and with that away he ran.

"Ah, Cousin Ronald," began Violet, laughing, the others joining in with her, and all entirely occupied in looking at the old gentleman, whose face, however, could be but indistinctly seen, as he had so placed himself that the moonlight did not fall fully upon it, "confess that --  -- "

But she got no further. A shout of drunken laughter from the other side of the vessel again startled them.

"Ha, ha! the capting's gone in the wrong direction to catch this customer. But he needn't to hunt me up. I'm a real harmless kind o' chap, an' wouldn't hurt a hair o' any o' your heads."

Again every head was turned in the direction of the sounds, but seeing no one they all burst into gleeful laughter, in which the captain presently joined, having returned from his bootless search, fully convinced that it need be carried no farther.



Chapter XVI.


IT was a bright, sweet May morning. Reveille sounded at the Naval Academy at Annapolis, and with the first tap of the drum Max woke and sprang from his bed. He glanced from the window as he hurried on his clothes, and a low exclamation of surprise and delight burst from his lips.

"What now, Raymond?" queried Hunt, who was dressing with equal expedition.

"The Dolphin! the Dolphin!" cried Max, in a joyful, exultant tone. "She lies at anchor down yonder, and I haven't a doubt that I shall see my father and all the rest presently."

"Possible? What a fortunate fellow you are, Raymond," returned Hunt, hurrying to the window to take a hasty peep. "Sure enough! and what a beauty she is, that Dolphin! and the captain will be here presently getting you leave to spend the day on board; and it being Saturday, and he and the commandant old friends, there'll be no trouble in managing it. Accept my most hearty congratulations, old fellow."

"Thank you," said Max, vainly trying to suppress his excitement, for his affectionate, boyish heart was bounding with joy at the thought of presently seeing all his loved ones; most of all, the father who was to him the personification of all that was good, honorable, brave, noble, and true; the father to whom, he knew beyond a doubt, he himself was an object of strong parental affection and pride.

"And it's fortunate for you that I'm the fellow to set the room to rights on this memorable occasion," continued Hunt. "I say, Raymond, I think you must have been born under a lucky star."

"Ah, yes, old fellow," laughed Max, "I rather suspect that's what's the matter. But hark! what's that?" as approaching footsteps were heard in the hall without.

A rap quickly followed. Max flew to the door and threw it open, to find a messenger there from the commandant requiring his presence immediately in the grounds below.

Little doubting what awaited him, Max obeyed the summons with joyful alacrity, running down one flight of stairs after another till the lowest hall was reached, then out into the grounds, sending an eagerly inquiring look from side to side.

Ah, yes, in the shade of a tree, yonder, a few yards from the door-way, stood the commandant in earnest conversation with another gentleman, not in uniform, but of decidedly soldierly bearing. Max recognized the face and form on the instant, and flew to meet him.

Both gentlemen turned at the sound of the approaching footsteps.

Max hastily saluted his superior officer, saying half breathlessly, "I am here, sir."

"So I see, Raymond," was the smiling rejoinder, "and for the present I resign you to this gentleman's care," turning toward the captain.

Max's hand was instantly clasped in that of his father, who held it fast and, bending down, kissed his son with ardent affection, saying, with emotion, and in low, earnest tones, "My boy, my dear, dear boy!"

"Papa, papa!" cried Max, his voice, too, trembling with feeling and excitement, "I never was gladder in my life!"

"I am very glad for you, Max," said the commandant, in kindly sympathizing tones. "And Raymond, let me assure you that the lad is worthy of every indulgence that could be afforded him; a more industrious or better behaved cadet I have never had under my care. Hoping to see you again in the course of the day, I bid you good-morning. You also, Max," and with a bow and smile he left father and son alone together.

"So good a report of his eldest son makes your father a very happy man, Max," the captain said, pressing the hand he held, and gazing into the rosy, boyish face with eyes brimful of fatherly love and pride.

"Thank you for saying it, papa," returned Max, flushing with joy; "but with such a father I ought to be a better and brighter boy than I am. But I do try, papa, and I mean always to try to honor you by being and doing all I know you would wish."

"I haven't a doubt of it, my son," the captain said, again affectionately pressing the lad's hand, then letting it go; "but now I must return to the Dolphin, taking my eldest son with me if he wishes me to do so."

"Yes, indeed, papa!" cried the boy, ready to dance with delight; "but may I go back to my room for a moment first? I'm afraid that in my hurry to obey the summons of the commandant, I haven't left everything quite in ship shape."

"Yes, go, son," replied his father; "and if your morning devotions have not been attended to, do not neglect them any longer. I will wait for you here under the trees. By the way, I am to hear your recitations for this morning, so you may bring the needed books with you."

"Yes, sir," returned Max, and hurried away, his father looking after him with proudly beaming eyes till the lithe, graceful young figure disappeared within the door-way, then taking a morning paper from his pocket, he seated himself on a bench beneath a tree to await the lad's return.

He had not long to wait; in a few minutes Max was again at his side, and the two were wending their way toward the row-boat that was to take them to the Dolphin, anchored some distance out in the stream.

All was so still and quiet in and about the vessel that morning that her passengers slept later than usual, but Lulu, as generally happened, was one of the earliest risers, and had not been up long before she hastened to the deck to exchange the accustomed morning greeting with her father. But, to her surprise and disappointment, a hasty glance about the deck showed her that he was not there.

"Why, what is the matter?" she said to herself. "I'm afraid papa must be sick, for I do not know what else would keep him in his stateroom till this time of day. But," with another sweeping glance from side to side, "we're certainly anchored; and where? Why, it looks like -- yes, it is Annapolis!" hearing the splash of oars and catching sight of a row-boat with several persons in it, "for there's papa, and Max with him. Oh, oh, oh, how glad I am!" and with the words she ran to the side of the vessel and the next minute was in Max's arms.

It was a very hearty embrace on the part of both, their father standing by and watching them with shining eyes.

"O Maxie, how you have grown!" exclaimed Lulu, gently withdrawing herself from his embrace and scanning him with keen scrutiny from head to foot; "you look every inch a naval cadet."

"Do I?" he queried laughingly. "Thank you, for I consider it a decided compliment. And you too have changed; you are taller, and look more than ever like papa."

"O Max, you could not say anything that would please me better than that," she exclaimed, flushing with pleasure; "and I can return the compliment with interest. I think you will look exactly like our dear father when you are his age," turning toward the captain, and lifting her eyes to his full of ardent filial affection; for he was standing there regarding both with fatherly tenderness, and pride in their youthful comeliness of form and feature.

"My dear, dear children!" he said, bending down to give Lulu the usual morning caress, "your mutual love makes me very happy. May it never be less than it is now!"

At that moment Violet, Grace, and the two little ones joined them, and more hearty, loving embraces followed, all, except Violet, being as much taken by surprise at the sight of Max as Lulu had been.

Grace almost cried with joy as Max caught her in his arms and hugged her close, kissing her sweet lips again and again.

"I doubt," he said laughingly, as he let her go, "if there is another fellow at the Academy who has such sisters as mine, or such a young, pretty mamma, or darling baby brother and sister," kissing each in turn; "and," looking up into his father's face, a telltale moisture gathering in his eyes, "I'm perfectly certain there's not one can show a father to be so proud of."

"Ah, my dear boy, Love is blind to defects and very keen-sighted as regards good and admirable qualities in those she favors," was the captain's answering remark.

"What a surprise you have given us, papa!" exclaimed Lulu; "me at least, for I hadn't the least idea we were coming here."

"No, but some of the rest of us knew," said Violet, with a merry little laugh; "your father told me of his intentions last night -- as a secret, however, for he wanted to give you and Gracie a pleasant surprise."

"And it was certainly a pleasant one to me," said Max. "Papa, thank you ever so much."

"Did you get leave for him to stay all day, papa?" asked Lulu in a tone that seemed to say she hoped so with all her heart.

"He will be with us through the day, except during the two hours of drill, which we will all go to see; also all day to-morrow," was the captain's reply to that, and it seemed to give pleasure to all who heard it: all the passengers on board, for by that time the others had come up to the deck, and one after another gave Max a pleased and hearty greeting -- the older people as one they had expected to see, the younger with joyful surprise. They gathered about him, some of them -- Walter in especial -- with many questions in regard to the daily routine of life at the Academy, all of which Max answered readily and to the best of his ability.

"Haven't you lessons to say to-day?" queried Walter.

"Yes, but I'm to recite them to papa," Max replied, with a pleased, smiling glance into his father's face.

"You may well look pleased, Max, for he's an excellent teacher, as all his Viamede pupils can testify," remarked Rosie demurely.

"Oh, yes, I remember now that he has been teaching you all while you were down there," said Max. "Well, I never saw a better teacher, though perhaps, being his son and very fond of him, it's possible I may be a partial judge."

"Quite possible, my boy," laughed his father, "and I think no one of my pupils is disposed to view me with a critic's eye."

"You need not say the rest of it, papa," said Lulu, "for I'm sure you haven't any imperfections to be passed by."

"Quite right, Lu," laughed Violet.

But at that moment came the call to breakfast, a summons everyone was ready to obey with alacrity. They had a pleasant, social time about the table; the fare was excellent, appetites were of the best, and everyone was in fine spirits and high good-humor.

Max was called upon to answer so many questions with regard to life at the Naval Academy, and his replies were listened to with so much deference, that the captain began to fear his boy might become insufferably conceited. Disturbed by that fear, he watched him so closely and with so grave an air that at length Max noticed it, and was much disturbed with the fear that he had unwittingly done or said something to hurt or displease his dearly loved father.

He took the first opportunity -- following the captain about the vessel, after breakfast and family prayers were over, till they found themselves alone together for a moment -- to inquire, in a tone of much concern, if it were so.

"No, my son, not at all," was the kindly reply, "but I felt a little anxious lest my boy should be spoiled and made conceited by being applied to by older people for so much information."

"I hope not, papa; I know very well it was only because I've been living there and they haven't; and that every one of them knows far more than I do about many another thing."

"Quite true, my son," the captain said, with a smile, adding, "and now you may get out your books and look over those lessons, as I shall soon be ready to hear them."

"Yes, sir; it will be really a great treat to recite to my old tutor once more," returned the lad, with a look of relief and pleasure. "I am very glad indeed that he is not displeased with me as I feared."

"Very far from it, my dear boy," was the captain's kindly rejoinder; "the account given me to-day by the commandant, of your conduct and attention to your studies, was most gratifying to my pride in my eldest son."

Those words, and also the warm praise bestowed upon his recitations when they had been heard, filled the boy's heart with happiness. His father returned to the Academy with him at the hour for drill, but the others witnessed it from the deck of the Dolphin. At its conclusion, Captain Raymond and his son returned to the yacht, Max having permission to remain there until near ten o'clock on Sunday night.

A trip up the river had been planned for the afternoon, and anchor was weighed and the yacht started as soon as her commander and his son had come aboard.

All were seated upon the deck under an awning, greatly enjoying a delicious breeze, the dancing and sparkling of the water, and the distant view of the shore arrayed in the lovely verdure of spring.

Mrs. Dinsmore, Mrs. Travilla, and Mrs. Raymond sat together, busy with fancy work and chatting cheerily, while the younger ones had their drawing materials or books -- except Grace, who was dressing a doll for little Elsie. Few of them, however, were accomplishing a great deal, there being so small necessity for the employment and so many things to withdraw their attention from it.

Max speedily made his way to Mrs. Travilla's side. She looked up from her work, and greeted him with her sweet smile. "It is quite delightful to have you among us again, my dear boy," she said, taking his hand and pressing it affectionately in hers.

"Thank you, dear Grandma Elsie," he returned, his eyes sparkling; "it is a great pleasure to hear you say so, though I don't know how to believe that you can enjoy it half so much as I do."

"I am glad to hear that you do, laddie," she said brightly. "Now suppose we have a bit of chat together. Take that camp chair by your grandmother's side and tell her how you enjoy that artillery exercise you have just been going through."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Max laughingly, as he took the seat indicated. "It's really delightful to be treated as a relative by so dear and sweet a lady, but you do look so young that it seems almost ridiculous for a great fellow like me to call you grandma."

"Does it? Why, your father calls me mother, and to be so related to him surely must make me your grandmother."

"But you are not really old enough to be his mother, and I am his oldest child."

"And begin to feel yourself something of a man, since you are not called Max, but Mr. Raymond at the Academy yonder?" she returned in a playfully interrogative tone.

Max seemed to consider a moment, then smiling, but blushing vividly, "I'm afraid I must plead guilty to that charge, Grandma Elsie," he said with some hesitation.

"What is that, Max?" asked his father, drawing near just in time to catch the last words.

"That I begin to feel that -- as if I'm a -- at least almost -- a man, sir," answered the lad, stammering and coloring with mortification.

"Ah, that's not so very bad, my boy," laughed his father. "I believe that at your age I was more certain of being one than you are -- really feeling rather more fully convinced of my wisdom and consequence than I am now."

"Were you indeed, papa? then there is hope for me," returned the lad, with a pleased look. "I was really afraid you would think me abominably conceited."

"No, dear boy, none of us think you that," said Mrs. Travilla, again smiling sweetly upon him. "But you have not yet answered my query as to how you enjoyed the artillery exercise we have just seen you go through."

"Oh, I like it!" returned Max, his eyes sparkling. "And I don't think I shall ever regret my choice of a profession if I succeed in passing, and become as good an officer as my father has been," looking up into the captain's face with a smile full of affection and proud appreciation.

"Now I fear my boy is talking of something that he knows very little about," said the captain, a twinkle of fun in his eye. "Who told you, Max, that your father had been a good officer?"

"My commandant, sir, who knows all about it, or at least thinks he does."

At that instant there was a sound like the splashing of oars on the farther side of the vessel, and a boyish voice called out, "Ahoy there, Raymond! A message from the commandant!"

"Oh, I hope it isn't to call you back, Maxie!" exclaimed Lulu, springing up and following Max and her father as they hastened to that side of the vessel, expecting to see a row-boat there with a messenger from the Academy.

But no boat of that kind was in sight. Could it have passed around the vessel? Max hurried to the other side to make sure but no boat was there.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, with a merry laugh, "it was Mr. Lilburn," and he turned a smiling, amused face toward the old gentleman, who had followed, and now stood close at his side.

"Eh, laddie! what was Mr. Lilburn?" queried the accused. "That I'm no down there in a boat is surely evident to all who can see me standing here. Are ye no ashamed to so falsely accuse an auld friend who wad never do harm to you or yours?"

Then a voice seemed to come from a distant part of the vessel. "Ah, sir, ye ken that ye're known to be up to such tricks. All only to make fun for your friends, though, not to cause fright or harm to anyone -- unless it might be a gambler or some other rascal."

"Hear that, now, cousin!" cried Mr. Lilburn. "Somebody seems ready to do justice to the auld man our fine young cadet here is so ready to suspect and accuse."

By this time all the other passengers had joined them, everybody but the very little ones understood the joke, and it was received with merry peals of laughter.

To Max the afternoon and evening seemed to pass very quickly, so delightful was it to be once more surrounded by his dear ones, not the least pleasant part being a half hour spent alone with his father after the others had retired; he had so many little confidences that he would not willingly have shared with anyone else, and they were heard with so much evident interest, such hearty sympathy, and replied to with such good and kindly advice. Max was even more firmly convinced than ever before that such another dear, kind, and lovable father as his was nowhere to be found.

And, by the way, the captain was almost equally sure that no other man had a son quite so bright, handsome, intelligent, noble, industrious, and in every way worthy to be the pride of his father's heart, as this dear lad who was his own.

"God, even the God of his fathers, keep my dear boy in every hour of trial and temptation, and help him to walk steadily in the strait and narrow way that leads to everlasting life," he said with emotion when bidding his son goodnight. "Keep close to the dear Master, my son, ever striving to serve and honor him in all your words and ways, and all will be well with you at the last."



Chapter XVII.


THE captain, Max, and Lulu were all three early on deck the next morning -- as lovely a May morning as ever was seen. The sun had but just showed his face above the horizon when Lulu mounted the companion-way to the deck, but she found her father and brother already there, sitting side by side, both looking very happy and content.

"Good-morning, papa and Max," she said, hurrying toward them.

The salutation was returned by both in cheery, pleasant tones.

"I thought I'd be the very first on deck; but here you both are before me," she added as she gained her father's side.

"But pleased to have you join us," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "A sweet Sabbath morning, is it not? And how did my little girl sleep?"

"As well as possible, thank you, papa. It is much cooler here than at Viamede now, and a delightful breeze came in at the window. But I almost always sleep well, and that is something to be thankful for, isn't it?"

"It is, indeed," he responded. "May my dear eldest daughter never be kept awake by the reproaches of a guilty conscience, cares and anxieties, or physical distress; though that last I can hardly hope she will escape always until she reaches that blessed land where 'the inhabitant shall not say, I am sick.'"

"Yes, sir," she said, "I ought to be very thankful that I am so healthy; I hope I am; but any kind of physical pain I have ever been tried with is far easier for me to bear than the reproaches of a guilty conscience. I can never forget how hard they were to endure after I had hurt dear little Elsie so because I was in a passion."

"I can't bear to think of that time," said Max; "so let us talk of something else. The view here is lovely, is it not, papa?"

"Oh," cried Lu in surprise, "we are at anchor again in the river at Annapolis, aren't we, papa?"

"Yes; I brought you all back here in the night, to spend the Sabbath. I think we will go into the city to church this morning, and have some religious exercises on the vessel this afternoon and evening."

"Oh, I like that plan, papa," said Max, "especially the afternoon part, for I am really hungry for one of those interesting Bible lessons with you for my teacher."

"Yes, Maxie, I pity you that you can't share them with Gracie and me every Sunday," said Lulu. "Papa, won't you give us -- Max and Gracie and me -- a private Bible lesson all to ourselves after the service for the grown folks, sailors and all, has been held, just as you used to do when we were all at home at Woodburn?"

"Quite willingly, if my children wish it; indeed, it is what I had contemplated doing," replied the captain; "for we cannot better employ the hours of the holy Sabbath than in the study of God's Word, which he has given us to be a 'lamp to our feet and a light to our path' that we may journey safely to that happy land where sin and sorrow are unknown.

"Never forget, my children, that we are but strangers and pilgrims upon this earth, only passing through it on our way to an eternal home of either everlasting blessedness or never ending woe -- a home where all is holiness, joy, peace, and love, or to that other world of unending remorse and anguish, 'the blackness of darkness forever.'"

"It is very difficult to keep that always in mind, papa," said Max. "I hope you will often ask God to help us -- me especially -- to remember it constantly, and live, not for time, but for eternity."

"I do, my dear boy; there is never a day when I do not ask my heavenly Father to guard and guide each one of my dear children and give them a home with him at last. But we must all strive to enter in at the strait gate, remembering the warning of Jesus, 'Strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.'"

Violet joined them at that moment, then the rest of the party, one after another. Then came the call to breakfast; and soon after leaving the table, and the holding of the regular morning service on the vessel, nearly everyone went ashore and to church.

At the close of the exercises there, they returned to the Dolphin, dined, a little later assembled under the awning on the deck, and being presently joined by the greater part of the crew, another short service, consisting of the reading of the Scriptures, with explanatory remarks, prayer, and the singing of hymns, followed.

After that, the captain took his three older children aside and gave them, as in the dear old times at Woodburn, a Bible lesson, in which they were free to ask of him as many questions as they would.

"Papa," said Grace, "I was reading in Isaiah this morning this verse, 'Therefore, thus saith the Lord God, Behold I lay in Zion for a foundation, a stone, a tried stone, a precious corner-stone, a sure foundation.' Does it mean the dear Lord Jesus, papa?"

"Yes, daughter; in both the Old and New Testaments Christ Jesus is called a Foundation. The foundation of a building is the part that supports all the rest; and that Jesus is to all his Church, his people. He is the foundation of all the comforts, hopes, happiness of the Christian; the foundation of the covenant God has made with his Church; the foundation of all the sweet and precious promises of God's Word; a sure foundation on which his people may securely rest, knowing that he will never deceive, fail, or forsake anyone who trusts in him. He is the only Saviour, the head of the Church, the only Mediator between God and man.

"We are not to look too much to our feelings, doings, prayers, or even our faith, but on the finished work of Christ. We can have assurance of hope, but must attain to it by resting upon God's word of promise, remembering that it is Christ's righteousness which God accepts, not ours, so imperfect, so unworthy of mention.

"In that way only can we have peace and safety, for our own righteousness is but as filthy rags, exceedingly offensive in the sight of God, who is 'of purer eyes than to behold sin, and cannot look upon iniquity,' so utterly abhorrent is it to his holy nature.

"The Bible tells us, 'He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life; he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him.'"

"Papa," said Grace, low and feelingly, "those are dreadful words, 'the wrath of God abideth on him.'"

"They are indeed," he said. "The one great question is, 'Do you believe on the Son of God?' There in Egypt, when God sent those plagues upon Pharaoh and his people, it was not the feelings of the Israelites that saved them, but the blood on the door-posts, symbolizing the blood of Christ, which would in future ages be offered to satisfy the demands of God's broken law; and it was when he saw that blood that the angel passed over, harming them not.

"The scape-goat too, was a type of Christ bearing the sins of the people away into the wilderness; if our sins are laid on Jesus they will come no more into remembrance before our righteous Judge, but covered with the beautiful robe of his righteousness, God will treat us as if it were our very own. Ah, my beloved children, it is the dearest wish of your father's heart that each one of you may have that righteousness put upon you!"

A slight pause; then Grace said in low, clear, and joyous tones, "Papa, I think we have. I feel that I do love Jesus and trust in him, and so do Max and Lulu, I believe."

"I do," said Max with feeling. "I know I am very, very far from perfect, but I do desire above everything else to be a follower of Jesus, and known as such; to live near him, and honor him in all my words and ways."

"My boy, nothing could have made me happier than that confession from your lips," his father said with emotion. "And it is no less a joy of heart to me to know that my dear little Grace is a follower of Jesus." He drew her nearer as he spoke, then turned loving, questioning eyes upon Lulu.

"Papa," she said in tremulous tones, "I -- I feel that I am not worthy to be called one of Jesus' disciples, but I do love him, and long to grow in likeness to him. I do ask him very, very often to take away all the evil that is in me, and make me just what he would have me to be."

"And he will hear your prayer, he will grant your petition," her father replied in moved tones. "Oh, my dear children, your father's heart is full of thankfulness that he has reason to hope and believe that you are all true followers of the blessed Master, and that we may all live and love together, not in this world only, but also in the next."

To Max that delightful day and evening seemed very short. He was surprised when his father, glancing at his watch, said, "It is half past nine, my son. Say good-night and good-by to your friends here, for we must go back to the Academy. It need not be a very sad parting," he added, with a smile, "as you may expect to see some, if not all, of us next month, at the time of the commencement exercises."

"Thank you, papa; that is good news," said the lad, his countenance brightening very much, "for it is the greatest treat to a fellow to see home folks once in a while."

"I know that, my boy. I haven't forgotten the feelings of a cadet, which are pretty much like those of other lads."

The farewells were quickly spoken, father and son entered the waiting row-boat, and in a few minutes were at the Academy.

Captain Raymond bade his son good-by at the door, reminding him in cheerful tones that he might hope to see him, and perhaps the entire Woodburn family, again in a few weeks.

With that pleasant prospect in view, Max went to his room in excellent spirits. He found Hunt already there.

"Hello, Max! glad to see you back again," he exclaimed in a tone of hearty good-will. "Had a royal time of it, I suppose?"

"Delightful!" cried Max gayly; "and the best of it is that my father holds out the prospect of another visit from our whole family at the time of the June commencement, which you know is not so very far off."

"Well, I must say you're a lucky dog, Raymond," returned Hunt. "I wish I had the same prospect of seeing my folks; but they're too far off, and money's too scarce."

Violet was alone on deck when her husband returned to the yacht, the others having retired to the cabin or their state-rooms.

"Waiting for me, love?" he asked, as he stepped to her side and passed an arm round her waist.

"Yes," she said; "the air is so pleasant here, and I thought it would be really delightful for us two to have the deck entirely to ourselves for a while."

"Nothing could be pleasanter to me, dearest," he said, giving her his arm and beginning a leisurely promenade.

"And you have left Max at the Academy again?" she said interrogatively. "How manly he grows, the dear fellow! and so handsome; he's a son to be proud of, Levis."

"So his father thinks," returned the captain, with a low, happy little laugh. "My dear boy is one of God's good gifts to me."

"And how evidently he admires and loves his father -- as he well may, I think. He grows more and more like you in looks, too, Levis. I can imagine that at his age you were just what he is now."

"No, my dear; if I am not much mistaken he is both a handsomer and a better lad than his father was at the same age."

"Doubtless not half so conceited and vain as his father was then or is now," she returned, with her low, sweet silvery laugh. "There must have been a vast improvement, however, before I had the happiness of making his acquaintance."

"Max's?" he queried with mock gravity.

"The acquaintance of Max's father, sir," she replied demurely. "I have known the captain now for five years, and can truly say I have never seen him show such vanity and conceit as you are pleased to charge him with, or at least to say were once among his attributes; and I will not have him slandered, even by you."

"Very well, then, let us change the subject of discourse."

"Agreed. How soon do we leave Annapolis to pursue our homeward way?"

"A little after midnight, if that plan suits my wife's wishes."

"Entirely. But you are not going to remain on deck till then?"

"Probably. I feel no inclination for sleep at present, and the air outside here is, as you remarked a moment since, delightful."

"Especially when enjoyed in such good company, I presume?"

"Yes, that makes a vast difference, of course, yet I can hardly ask you to stay very long with me; cannot have the cruelty to rob my heart's best treasure -- my young and lovely wife -- of her beauty sleep."

"What a gallant speech!" she laughed; "it surely deserves the reward of at least another half hour of her delectable society. Ah, my best and dearest of husbands," she added in a more serious tone, "there is nothing else in the world I so keenly enjoy as these rare times when I can have you all to myself."

"Yet I cannot believe they are ever more enjoyable to you than to me, my love," he returned; "sweet as your society was to me in the days of our courtship, it is, I think, even sweeter now. And I hope mine is not less enjoyable to you."

"Indeed, no," she said earnestly; "you seem to grow dearer and more lovable every day that we live together; a blessing far, far beyond my deserts. Oh, I can never cease to marvel that I have won so great a prize in the matrimonial lottery."

"It is wondrous strange," he returned, with a happy laugh, "that a young, beautiful girl, belonging to one of the very best families in the land, and who might have had her pick and choice among its most desirable matches, should have been able to secure a middle-aged widower with three children. You may well wonder at so great good fortune falling to your lot, lady mine," with a strong emphasis upon that last word.

"Ah, my husband, you could hardly bestow upon me a sweeter name than that," she said softly, and with a bright, winsome look up into his face. "It is so sweet to belong to you, and to have you belong to me. And then our darling children are such treasures."

"Yes; our two dear babies."

"Ah, yes; but I meant to include the others also; for I surely may claim now that even Lulu loves me, not as a mother exactly, but as a dear older sister."

"Yes, I am certain of it, dearest," he said in tones expressing heart-felt happiness; "she shows it in many ways, and however many and serious her faults may be, hypocrisy and deceit are not among them."

"No, indeed! I never knew anyone more perfectly free from those faults -- so perfectly open and candid. I am sure that if her life were in peril she would not be deceitful or untrue in order to save it."

"Thank you, my love," he said with emotion. "I share that belief, and it has been a great consolation to me when sorely distressed by her very serious faults."

"But she is overcoming those under her father's wise and affectionate training."

"I think she is," he said; "she is certainly struggling hard against them, though the training you speak of, has, I fear, been far from faultless."

"Ah, you have not so much confidence in her father's wisdom as I have," returned Violet, with a smile and a look up into his face which expressed a world of loving appreciation.

The conversation then turned upon other themes not unsuited to the sacredness of the day; they seated themselves and sang a hymn or two together, then Violet went below and sought her berth, to be followed an hour later by her husband.



Chapter XVIII.


THE next morning the Dolphin's passengers, on awaking, found her speeding on her homeward way. No one regretted it, for all were full of joy at the thought of seeing home again, delightful as had been their sojourn at lovely Viamede and on the vessel.

It was still early in the day when they reached their wharf, but carriages from Ion, Fairview, and Woodburn were in waiting, conveyances for the luggage also, and in a very short time they had left the city behind, and were whirling rapidly over the familiar road toward the loved homes they had left some months before -- a happy company, the younger ones full of mirth and gayety.

The grounds belonging to each estate were looking their loveliest, and the returning travelers were greeted with the warmest of welcomes. Zoe and Edward had reached Ion some days in advance of the others, and seen to it that everything there was in perfect order, while at Woodburn such matters had received careful attention from Christine and Alma.

"Welcome home, my love," the captain said to his wife as the carriage turned in at the great gates. "And you too, my darlings," addressing his children. "Is it almost as lovely here as at Viamede?"

"Oh, yes; yes, indeed, papa!" they responded, baby Ned adding, "Oh, me so blad to det home adain."

Then a joyous bark was heard, and Prince, Max's dog, came bounding to meet them.

"Oh, dere our big doggie Prince!" cried Ned, with a joyous laugh, and clapping his chubby hands. "Maxie dere too, papa?"

"No, Neddie boy; we have left Brother Maxie behind at Annapolis," answered his father; then as the carriage came to a standstill, he threw open the door, exclaiming, "Home at last!" sprang to the ground, and proceeded to hand out wife and children.

"Yes," said Violet, who, as well as the children, had been gazing with delight upon the grounds from the carriage window, "and I for one am as glad as I was to see Viamede on our arrival there. How very lovely everything is looking! Ah, Christine and Alma," as the two came hurrying out to greet the returned travellers, "I hope you are well? What good care you have taken of everything in our absence."

"Thanks, Mrs. Raymond; it is very kind in you to notice it; and we are delighted to see you all at home again," the two women returned, smiling with pleasure over the arrival and Violet's appreciative words, to which the captain added his hearty commendation, and the children glad, warm greetings.

Prince's actions, in the meantime, told the same story of his feelings; he was fawning upon one and another, capering about and wagging his tail with many a joyous bark that seemed to say, "I am very glad, very happy to see you all here again," and receiving much loving stroking and patting in return.

The servants, too, came crowding about, with smiling faces and exclamations of joy and thankfulness. "Bress de Lawd yous all safe home agin!" "We's pow'ful glad to see you, cap'n, Miss Wi'let, an' all ob de chillens!"

"Dis chile 'specs yo's pow'ful hungry, Miss Wi'let an' de res'; but de dinnah's 'mos' ready fo' to dish up," remarked the cook.

"Oh, we are not starving, by any means, Aunt Judy," returned Violet. "We had an excellent and abundant breakfast on board the Dolphin, and it is hardly the regular dinner hour yet."

"And oh, papa, mayn't we run about everywhere and look at everything?" asked Lulu and Grace half breathlessly.

"Certainly, daughters," he replied, smiling affectionately into the eager upturned faces, "though as dinner is so nearly ready, I think it might be well to first take off your hats and make yourselves neat for the table; then keep within doors until after the meal."

"Oh, yes, sir," cried Lulu, "and there is no place we want to see more than our own rooms. So come, Gracie, let's hurry up there. Hark! there's my Polly screaming 'Lu! Lu!' She seems to know I've got home. Who can have told her? And where's your kitten?"

"Here," returned Gracie; "don't you see I've got her in my arms? and I do believe she's glad to see me. Oh, you pretty pet! I often wanted to see you while I was away."

They were hurrying up the stairs while they talked, and presently reached their own little sitting room. "Oh!" they cried in a breath, "how sweet and lovely it does look!" Then they made a hasty circuit of Lulu's bedroom and the little tower room opening into it, exclaiming again and again at the beauty of the furnishings, as though they had never seen them before, and the extreme neatness which attested the good housekeeping of Christine.

Last of all they entered Grace's bedroom, to find its appearance quite as inviting as that of the others.

"How sweet it does look, Lu!" exclaimed Grace. "Oh, I do think we have just the sweetest home, as well as the dearest, kindest father in the whole world!"

"Of course we have," returned Lulu. "I'd a thousand times rather be his child than any king's daughter."

"Would you, indeed, my dear child?" asked a familiar voice close behind her, while a kind hand was laid upon each shoulder. "Well, my darlings, contentment is better than wealth, and most assuredly your father would not exchange you for any king's daughters, or the children of any other man."

As he spoke he bent down to press a fatherly kiss upon Lulu's lips, then putting an arm round Grace, caressed her in like manner.

"Now make yourselves neat for the dinner-table, daughters," he said, "and after the meal, if you wish you may spend the whole afternoon in going over the house and grounds."

"Oh, thank you, papa," they exclaimed, looking full of delight.

"Lu! Lu!" called Polly from the sitting room, "what you 'bout? Polly wants a cracker."

"O Polly, I beg your pardon; but you have been so quiet ever since I came in that I really forgot all about you," laughed Lulu, running toward the cage, followed by her father and Grace. "So you want a cracker, do you?"

"You shall have it, Polly," the captain said, opening the door of a small cupboard where things of that sort were wont to be kept. "Yes, here is a paper of them," taking one out and handing it to the parrot, who promptly took it in one claw, and, standing on the other foot, began biting off bits and disposing of them with a comically serious air and evident enjoyment.

Just then the little ones came running in, eager to see Polly and hear her talk. But she was too much absorbed with her cracker to vouchsafe them a single word.

"Is mamma ready for dinner, Elsie?" the captain asked presently.

"Yes, sir," answered Violet's own voice from the doorway; "and there is the bell."

"Then we will go down at once," said the captain, picking up Elsie and Ned, and following his wife down the stairs, Lulu and Grace bringing up the rear.

The diningroom looked very attractive as they entered it; there was perfect neatness and order, vases of freshly cut flowers stood here and there, delighting the senses with their beauty and fragrance, and forming a lovely decoration for the table, which presented a most inviting appearance thus ornamented and set out with delicate china, snowy damask, and glittering cut glass and silver ware.

Everyone regarded it with evident satisfaction, Violet saying gayly, "After all, my dear, can any lovelier or better place be found than this -- our own sweet home?"

"There is no dearer spot on earth to me, my love," he answered, with a smile that spoke fond affection, and delight in her appreciation of his efforts for her happiness and enjoyment.

"I think no place on earth could be more beautiful than Viamede," remarked Lulu; "but this is more charming because it is our very own."

"Yes," chimed in Grace, "papa's and mamma's and ours. It is ever so good in you, papa, to let us own it too."

"Ah?" he returned laughingly, "but that is because I own you, you know."

He had lifted baby Ned to his high chair, and now all seated themselves and the blessing was asked.

They were a lively, happy little dinner-party, the children allowed a share in the conversation.

"Papa," asked Grace at length, "are we to begin lessons to-morrow?"

"No," he replied, "I will give you two days to run about and see everything here, at Ion, Fairview, the Oaks, and so forth. Then you must settle down to work and be very good and industrious if you want to be of the Annapolis party in June."

"Oh, that will be so delightful, papa, and we do intend to be as good and industrious as possible!" she exclaimed, Lulu adding, "I am sure I do, and if I should deserve punishment, papa," she went on in an undertone hardly audible to anyone but him, for as usual she was seated close at his right hand, "please do make it something else than being left at home."

"I have little fear of being compelled to punish you in that way or any other, daughter," he replied, giving her a loving look.

"Thank you, dear papa; it is so kind in you to say that; and Gracie and I do just love to belong to you," raising her voice a little, "Don't we, Gracie?"

"I do, I'm sure," returned Grace, with a loving smile up into her father's face.

"Well, what shall we do this afternoon?" queried Violet. "I for one feel inclined to go all over the house and grounds, to look at every dear, familiar spot."

"Well, my dear, then that is what we will do," responded her husband; "and the children may go with us or refrain, as they please," with a smiling glance from Lulu to Grace, which both answered with an eagerly expressed desire to accompany him and Violet; Grace adding, "But I do want to see Elf and Fairy more than anything else."

"Well, dear child," said her father, "they are disporting themselves out yonder in the meadow, and you may run out to look at and pet them as soon as we leave the table, if you wish."

"Oh, thank you, papa, that is just what I'd like to do!" she replied.

"And I think all the rest of us will be glad to go with you," said Violet.

Ned, however, presently began to nod, and had to be carried away to his crib before the others were quite ready to leave the table.

"I think Elsie, too, looks as if she would enjoy a nap more than anything else," remarked the captain, with a kind look at his youngest daughter, who seemed to be very nearly nodding over her plate.

"Oh, no, papa!" she said straightening up and opening her eyes very wide; "please, I want to see the ponies first."

"Very well, so you shall, and the nap can come afterward," he returned in an indulgent tone.

"Then, as we are all done eating, shall we not go at once, my dear?" asked Violet.

"I think it would be well to do so," he returned. "Put on your hats, children, and we will go."

Elf and Fairy seemed glad to see their young mistresses, who stroked, patted, and fed them with bits of sugar. The next thing was to explore every nook and corner of the grounds, which to them all looked lovelier than ever.

Then they returned to the house, little Elsie willingly submitted to being laid in her crib, for she was very sleepy, and the captain, Violet, Lulu, and Grace went over the whole house, finding it in beautiful order, and saying to each other that it seemed a sweeter home than ever.

By that time there were callers from Ion, the Oaks, Roselands, and the Laurels, those from Ion bringing the news that Grandma Elsie invited all to a family reunion to be held at her home on the afternoon and evening of the next day. An invitation that every member of the Woodburn family was glad to accept.

"Ah, Brother Levis," said Rosie coaxingly, "you surely will not be so unkind as to require lessons of us to-morrow?"

"No, little sister, to-morrow and the next day may be given up to amusement; but after that I shall hope and expect to have some very industrious pupils."

"As you certainly shall," she replied, with a grave, emphatic nod; "I am glad of the promised holiday; duly grateful for it, too, as I presume all your scholars are."

"Yes, yes, indeed we are, sir!" was the hearty response from Evelyn and Walter, Lulu and Grace adding, "And so are we, papa."

The callers left early, declining an invitation to stay to tea; the family partook of their evening meal; Grace and the little ones, wearied with their journey, the excitement of the homecoming, and seeing so much company, went early to bed; an errand took the captain into the village for a short season, and Violet and Lulu were left for an hour or more to each other's society.

They were on the veranda together, pacing slowly back and forth, each with an arm about the other's waist.

"Oh, Mamma Vi, isn't it just delightful to be at home again?" exclaimed Lulu.

"Yes, indeed! when the home is such an one as ours, and with such a man as your father at the head of affairs," returned Violet. "Lu dear, I'm so glad that you and all his children love him as you do, though really I do not see how any one of you could help it."

"Nor do I, Mamma Vi; and I'm very glad that you love him so too; that makes me love you even better than I could if you didn't appreciate him so highly. But we can't love him so dearly without loving one another; can we?"

"No, certainly not; I am very fond of all five of his children as well as of their father," Violet replied, with her low, sweet laugh.

<eob>

Over The Top With The 25Th: Chronicle Of Events At Vimy Ridge And Courcellette

By

Lieut R. Lewis, M.M.



Chapter One


The end of August, 1914, found me following my usual employment as second mate on a small steamboat plying between St. John's, Newfoundland, and various stations on the coast of Labrador. The news from the front aroused my patriotism, and though my captain, who was a Britisher through and through, strongly urged me to remain with him because of the great difficulty of securing another man, I was fully made up in my mind that my clear, plain duty was to enlist. On my return trip to St. John's I found, greatly to my disappointment, that it was all too late to enroll my name in the already organized Newfoundland regiment. There was nothing for it but to cross to Canada and try my luck at enlisting there. Arriving at Sydney, and making enquiries, I discovered that the second division was not going to be formed up for some little time, and I therefore enlisted in the 94th Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders. With them I remained in Sydney until October of the same year when the 25th Battalion was organized -- a battalion which has since covered itself with glory and earned the legitimately proud title of "The Fighting Twenty-Fifth."

Although I was one of them myself, I do not hesitate to assert that a finer bunch of men never left the shores of Nova Scotia to take up arms for Britain in the fields of France and Flanders than the gallant boys of the splendid Twenty-fifth. The general public does not appear to know very much of the achievements of this battalion and this perhaps may be due to the fact that we left Canada in May of 1915, and that we had been in France some nineteen months before any other Nova Scotia Battalion went into action as a unit. This story is not being penned with the slightest idea of seeking in any way to disparage the Nova Scotia Highlanders; that intrepid body of superb fighters have fought splendidly and well and their glorious record is fresh in the minds of all.


It has been my privilege to be with the Twenty-Fifth right from the day of its organization until the 23rd of April, 1917, and now, from records and diaries which I have kept from the beginning, I am attempting to relate the true story of the wonderful work accomplished by this battalion.


As previously intimated, we organized in the October of 1914, and at that time I was a private under Major MacRae. Since then, to quote the words of Kipling,

"Things 'ave transpired which made me learn The size and meanin' of the game. I did no more than others did, I don't know where the change began; I started as an average kid, I finished as a thinkin' man."

In those early days following upon enlistment we enjoyed some real good times in Halifax and the old boys will always recall with genuine appreciation the many kindnesses shown us by the citizens. Taking all the various circumstances into consideration we were well looked after by the military authorities; of course, our one burning eagerness was to get over to France and plunge into the thick of things as speedily as possible, and when it was rumored that we were going to be put on home duty feeling ran pretty high among the men and some quite lively times were experienced! The rumor, however, came to nothing and we settled down to the routine of our daily drill. By this time I had transferred to the Machine Gun Section and became linked up with "B" Co. with Lieutenant Medcalfe second in command. I shall not waste space in telling you about the time we strutted about, proud of our khaki uniforms, hugging the fond thought that we were real soldiers, even as not a few who today, still at home, wearing the uniform, are victims of the same absurd delusion. At last the great day came -- the day of our embarkation; we were going to say our farewell to the land of our birth, sail away over the ocean and begin our great adventure, taking our place among the soldiers of the King and Empire in the greatest fight for liberty and right which the world has ever witnessed.


Eager and keen, and with spirits high, we stepped aboard the old "Saxonia" along with the 22nd French-Canadian regiment, and sailed on the 20th of May, 1915, arriving in England after a pleasant but uneventful voyage. We found the training in England far more thorough than anything we had before experienced. We had to work, and real hard, too, but undoubtedly the process made us better men and tended to increase our confidence as soldiers.


Chapter Two


It is obvious that to relate to my readers the truth concerning the Twenty-Fifth it is necessary to be somewhat critical, and I shall endeavor to be absolutely impartial. To begin with, let it be said, and said with perfect candor, that the credit of handling our battalion in England which eventually helped us to go across to France must be given to our own officers.


For the most part we greatly enjoyed our stay in England. We had a splendid time in Folkestone, a beautiful sea-side place; and for company we had about 50,000 Canadians in addition to some English cavalry. After a little more than three months' training the welcome news arrived that the next item on the program was France and the firing line. This information was received with the utmost enthusiasm, for the boys were getting somewhat "fed up" with training and were anxious for a crack at the Hun. On going over, we had to leave some of our officers behind, as they were "extra" to the establishment. Among them were Will Cameron, Charlie MacAloney and others. They came out later and proved their worth as fighters. Arthur Weston, who was second in command, refused to stay behind and accompanied us to France as quartermaster, thus setting a fine example to a good many majors and captains who would rather hang on to a job in England than cross to France and fight. Weston was not of this type. He was a soldier and a man.


We landed in France on the 15th of September, 1915, and I will never forget that first march, heavily accoutred, over a big hill to our first camp. You could easily have picked out our train by reason of the boots etc., strewn along the line of march, and followed us without difficulty from the day we left Boulogne till we finally arrived at a little village in Flanders called  --  -- . Here, within sound of the guns, we bivouacked for the night, some of the officers going ahead to look over the trenches we were so soon to occupy. The next night, under cover of darkness, two platoons from each company went up to the trenches. I well remember that night, the long march up the rough shell-torn road, and then along the communication trenches where we were received by the Imperial troops who, during the next few days, showed us all around and taught us what to do. Two nights later the remainder of our own boys came in, and the English soldiers went south to take part in the battle of Loos. It was about this time that Major Jones, as fine a soldier as ever went overseas, suffered a breakdown in his health. The heavy responsibilities thrown upon him proved too much.


After spending eight days in the trenches we came out for a well-earned rest. My particular company was stationed at a farmhouse which was situated quite close to the firing line. The owner was generally considered to be pro-German, his father, according to rumor, having previously been shot as a spy. The farmer had a dog which had been tied up for about nine months, and our sentries had strict orders that if any of the civilians left the house we were to halt them, and if they did not halt on the word of command we were to shoot. But I think at that time it would have been a case of "shoot first," for we were imagining all sorts of things. As it happened somebody let the dog loose, and as the sentries felt sure he was going over to the German lines with despatches, they just shot him dead. Major MacKenzie had to pay 30 francs for him to satisfy the farmer and to prevent headquarters hearing of the matter.


At the termination of our six days' rest we went back to the trenches and relieved the 24th Battalion. "B" Company, to which I belonged, occupied H 3, J 3, 4, 5 and H 4. Every little while Fritz would "strafe" us with rifle grenades, and there was some mining reported in H 4. This was a small salient; and was held by about forty men under Capt. Medcalfe.


On the evening of October 8th about six p.m. we were all chatting together, some papers from home had been received by some of the boys and we were discussing the names of the newly formed 36th Battery, when all of a sudden there was quite an explosion on our right. The Germans had blown up several small mines. Capt. Medcalfe at once gave the order to "stand to," but before I had time to get my rifle and equipment, the ground trembled and rocked beneath us and everything went up into the air. The explosion took away fully half of H 4 trench, and left a crater about 10 feet deep. Those of us who were lucky enough to escape without being wounded managed, I don't know how, to make our way into H 3 trench. Fortunately for us the enemy was very erratic in his artillery fire. It was all going between our second and third line trenches and consequently did no damage. This was our first real bombardment, and quite naturally we all felt more or less "shaky" -- I know I said my prayers that night as I never said them before! The papers had it that the Germans got into our trenches and that we drove them out again. Such a thing never happened. They made an attack on us, but our artillery, rifle and machine gun fire caught them in "No Man's Land." By a happy coincidence the West Lancashire Artillery was just relieving the 7th Battery of Artillery and we had the support of both of them, and, believe me, they sure did some wonderful work.


Our front line officers, such as MacRae, Logan, MacKenzie, Tupper, Roberts, Johnson and others, were all out on the job; unfortunately the same cannot be said of headquarters. As I was merely a private at the time I do not know just what really transpired; but we never saw the colonel at all that night. About four the next morning the major came and paid us a visit when we had a new parapet built. The Germans, however, failed to get into our trenches; and up to this day the 25th can with perfect truth declare that they never failed in the critical hour, for if we did not always have competent officers at the head of the battalion we certainly had them in our companies. Following this action we were marched out of the trenches for a rest, and prior to going back again, we were visited by General Alderson, who gave us a pretty severe lecture. He said he had every confidence in the men. A few days later Colonel Hilliam took over the command, and Major Stan Bauld was appointed second in command.


Chapter Three


When officers arrive in England they are given the option of going to France as lieutenants or going back home. That is the reason you see so many bold footed officers holding down staff jobs in England and Canada. Colonel Hilliam who was now our commanding officer, says that the 25th battalion made his name; but the 25th boys are equally positive that he made the battalion. It was truly wonderful the confidence we placed in him and he never disappointed us. He was very strong on discipline, and when all is said and done that is most essential in the army. Without it a battalion simply becomes a mob. During the winter we were on the Kimmel front. It was a bad year in the trenches, for the rain and mud were something awful. The mud was waist deep and of such a nature that once a fellow got stuck it took another chap to get him out. For about two months they were trenches in name only; they were caved right in and the boys that were doing front line work would go in at 8 o'clock one night and would not be relieved until 8 o'clock the next night -- twenty-four hours without any hot food. I must say that we found the hot rum ration that winter to be a most desirable thing.

Our colonel was a regular fire eater, and wanted to be at it all the time. He organized a raiding party in charge of Capt. Tupper along with Brooks, Cameron and Roberts. All four of them proved to be great fighters. They were the pick of the battalion.


And now enters that great hero -- Toby Jones -- "the Man who came back!" He was machine gun officer, and the Colonel also put him in charge of a wire cutting party, and thus he was carrying the responsibility of both jobs. He would be around his guns all day and at night he would be scouting all over "No Man's land" and in December, 1915 it was no joke crawling around in the mud. He never got any rest. He would not eat, and the day of the raid Fritz had straffed us quite a lot. I was in trench S.P. 12 along with Toby when a message came to tell us that a shell had knocked in one of the dugouts and had killed one of our N.C.O's, Corporal Ferguson, a chap who was well liked by everybody. A road named the "V.C. Road" separated us from J 4. The Germans were shelling this road pretty bad; but as soon as Toby got the message he did not hesitate one minute but went across to J 4. He seemed to have had a charmed life. Shells were bursting all around him but he never got a scratch. That night Corporal Ingraham and the McNeil brothers, the three biggest dare devils that were in our battalion left our dugout on a wire cutting expedition. Imagine, three or four men lying on their backs in mud and water cutting at Fritz's wire just a few feet away from his trench! Jones would go around his gun teams to make sure that everything was all right and then he would visit his wire cutting party.

Night after night Toby would be engaged in this dangerous and telling work. It proved too much for flesh and blood, and one night just as a visit was planned he broke right down and was carried to our lines on a stretcher. Well, Toby got the blame for the failure of that evening and left our battalion; but as the old adage puts it "You can't keep a good man down" and Toby Jones enlisted again as a private in the 42nd Battalion -- won back his commission with the D.C.M. and a bar. Every man in the "Fighting Twenty-Fifth" lifts his hat to Toby Jones -- the greatest hero of them all!


We carried out several raids the next few weeks on the Kimmel front, and, as a matter of fact, it is no exaggeration to say that trench-raiding which has since been carried out so extensively was really initiated by the "Fighting Twenty-Fifth." Before proceeding further, let me describe a trench. They are all transversed, because if a shell or bomb should burst in one part of the trench the transverse prevents the spread of the shrapnel. A communication trench is usually to connect the trenches together, and sometimes these trenches are a mile long reaching from the front line to some part behind the line where it is comparatively safe to walk around. They are very deep and zig-zag in shape so that they cannot be enfiladed.


On the Belgian front we could not have deep dugouts for the soil was so soft. To dig down a few feet was to strike water. At first we only had sand bags shelters, then we had the corrugated iron ones which were shrapnel and bomb proof.


Chapter Four


We stayed on the Kimmel front from September 15th until sometime in February. We were never in anything big here for it was winter time and we had all our work cut out in repairing and rebuilding trenches. Now I have made mention of the fact that we came out for a rest, but that does not mean to say that we didn't work, for whilst we were resting we figured in many working parties. We all learned to believe that

Our section was the best in the Platoon Our Platoon the best in the Company, Our Company the best in the Battalion, Our Battalion the best in the Brigade, Our Brigade the best in the Division, Our Division the best in the Corps, Our Corps the best in the Army, And that the British were the best in the world.

Our old Colonel would have concerts and lectures arranged for us when we went to rest, and on Christmas day we had quite a big dinner, thanks to the people at home who helped by sending us quite a lot of nice things.

As you might know we had quite a lot of Cape Breton boys. They were needed to do some mining and they were splendid at that work. The miners work is as follows; first they sink a shaft so many feet down, and then when they get down deep enough they start sapping forward, putting up timbers as they go. They have to work very quietly as Fritz also does some sapping and if too much noise is made the miners themselves are liable to go up in the air and come down in pieces, and I do not think that anybody would relish that idea. Mining is done now on a very large scale. So you see this war is carried on underneath the earth as well as underneath the water.


I will remember a certain officer who got the creeps after the October affair and would always go around wearing armored body plates, and every time he heard a rat scratch he thought it was a mine. He heard a noise in his dugout and he cleared all the men out of his trench and had the miners up. They dug down and found that his place must have been over an old dugout and that there were quite a number of rats running around having a good time all to themselves. Certainly, I must admit that I was no hero myself. When our front trenches started to cave in we had to get out in front into No Man's Land and dig a new trench and what earth we excavated we had to throw up against our own front line trench, and although at the present time I would think nothing of it I was sure some scared. But after you are there awhile you do not mind it at all. The first winter Bill Cameron, along with his scouts used to live in No Man's Land. They thought nothing of doing that. They used to be planning to do all sorts of things, but the opportunity only seldom came for them to do anything out of the way, except it was to go over No Man's Land searching for dead bodies and curios, and those chaps were game enough for anything.

The whole time we were on this front everything went very smoothly, for we had one great man at the head of our Battalion. We were great friends with the French-Canadian Battalion, but there was another Battalion in our Brigade with whom we did not pull at all, and there was always a certain amount of jealousy between us, which was a good thing as we were always trying to outdo the other. Their Commanding Officer thought that they were the best battalion that ever left Canada, and Hilliam, the bulldog that he was, would not stand for that; so there was always a certain amount of rivalry between us.


On one occasion there were a few Canadians guarding a road where people were not supposed to travel by night unless they had a pass, and a "Twenty-fifth" man who had been having a good time was coming home. "Halt," cried the sentry, "who goes there?" Answer "25th," "Pass 25th all is well," so the 25th man went on his way home. Along came another belated traveller. The same performance was gone thru and he gave the number of his battalion which was not the 25th. The answer came back from the sentry, "Turn out the guard," and they put this poor soldier into the guard room. It was all due to their petty notions as to what they should not do. But still it always works out well; a little jealousy between the battalions always makes one try to outdo the other. But thanks to our Commanding Officer we never took second place to any battalion in France.


Shortly after we were ordered to move up to the M. and N. trenches where we relieved some of the 4th Brigade for a time. There was a trench in this locality named the "International" because of it's changing hands so often. Well, about a month before this the Germans had made an attack on the Scotties and they were just relieving and were not prepared for the Huns. But they fought until they saw that they would have to plan a surprise attack to get it back. The Scottish Division then went out for a rest and left Fritz master of the trench. But the canny Scot was not giving in so easily. When they had been reorganized they came back with one intention and that was to take back the "International" trench and they did.


Well here we were in the Vierstrutt trench, and we held it for a week. Our artillery would open up every couple of hours and we could look over our parapets and watch them pounding Cain out of Fritz's trench -- it was wonderful. We kept this up for about four or five days so that Fritz could not have much of a trench left. The idea of the heavy bombardment was to give him the notion that we were going to make an attack at this point. On the morning that the Scotties were to take back the trench Bill Cameron, George Roberts, together with Canning, and some of the other boys, played quite a trick on Fritz. They got a couple of very long steam pipes and filled them up with explosives; carried them across and put them underneath Fritz's barb wire. There was a long fuse attached.


Now to describe it: -- The hour is 4 a.m. Everybody is anxiously waiting for the bombardment to take place. We never gave a thought to the possibility of Fritz bombarding us. The attack starts, but we do not leave our trench, but set fire to the fuse. That fuse did all sorts of fancy turns and twists travelling across No Man's Land, and then the explosion! Fritz's wires are all blown to pieces. He was sure then that we are making the attack and sends up all sorts of S.O.S. signals that look very pretty. His artillery opens up, but it seems there is something the matter with his range for he cannot reach us at all. But what is taking place on the right of us? The Scotties, without firing a shot, walk over No Man's Land, jump into Fritz's trench and bomb the dugouts, capturing quite a few prisoners, and once more the "International" is ours and has not changed hands since.


Chapter Five


Our Battalion did not remain long on the Kimmel front, but on being relieved by some English troops, we were sent for a rest to a little village called Berthem. We were situated in a French farm house and received splendid treatment from the occupants. Here it was that we met the Anzacs, fresh from their terrible fighting at Gallipoli; and there was quite a little friendly rivalry between them and our Canadian boys.

Contrary to our expectations we did not remain for any length of time at Berthem. Some big fighting was in progress at St. Eloi, and the Imperials had planned a strong offensive movement. Several mines were exploded, and an attack was launched the objective of which, in the first instance, was to gain part of the Messines Ridge. The attack was a considerable success but not wholly so, because the Germans were able to get in some pretty effective artillery work; the Fourth Brigade was thereupon sent to their assistance and managed to drive Fritz back for quite a distance.

For the next three days there was some very hard fighting in this St. Eloi district in which our men participated with great valor. Some of our boys were obliged to remain in those mine craters for twenty-four hours with no chance of communication with the rear. Howard Johnstone beat off no less than five attacks in four hours. Guy Matheson, who had crossed over as a sergeant won the M.M. in this action, and here it was that Corporal Ingram gained the D.C.M. They really deserved the V.C. Captain Brooks did wonderful work, but I cannot continue to mention individuals or I should have to mention every name in the entire Battalion. After some days the intensity of the fighting died down and the ordinary trench warfare was resumed. We had hard work rebuilding our badly shattered trenches and were very glad of the opportunity to enjoy our divisional rest. While out on rest on one occasion we were visited by the King and Queen. Their Majesties, accompanied by Colonel Hilliam, walked through our lines and appeared much interested in our welfare.

It was in St. Eloi that we captured some prisoners who gave us the information that there was going to be a gas attack on the Kimmel Front. We warned the Imperials who were at that point, so they were quite prepared. The Germans sent over the gas, and then came over themselves. Our fellows fell back in the centre and thus surrounded them, capturing or killing every one that came over. It was while in those trenches that we first started to use the Lewis gun and the Stokes trench mortar.

The Lewis machine gun is a wonderful weapon. Like a rifle it can be fired from the shoulder and the discharge is at the rate of about 500 rounds a minute. The Stokes gun is much like a stove pipe; and as fast as the shells, which weigh 13 lbs., are dropped into it, they go flying through the air right to their object, and then burst and create an awful havoc. The Germans have invented quite a number of trench mortars, but nothing to come up to this.

One night whilst we were in those trenches a few Germans managed to get into a part of our trench which we were not occupying, as we knew that they had a mine there ready to blow up at any minute. As we discovered, by the bombs and other stuff that they had left behind, that they had been in our trench we decided to go and look for them, so Lieut. Dennis Stairs took a party out. He had with him Sergt. Canning, who has since won the M.M. and his commission. They wandered about No Man's Land for awhile when they suddenly came upon a supply of Fritz's bombs. There were a few hundred of them, so it was quite plain that they intended to make a big raid on us. But when he had the "25th" to contend with he had the wrong crowd. The next night the same party went out, prepared for anything that might happen and they waited by that supply of bombs, and sure enough, quite a few Huns appeared. Our fellows then threw the bombs, and I can assure you there were many Huns who never got back home again. We got a little information from the prisoners taken and that was most important.


Another night, as usual, we had our listening posts out in some of the shell holes, when one of the men of the "A" Company posts saw a couple of Huns quite close and immediately opened fire on them, killing one and wounding the other. It was by means such as these that we were able to gather very desirable information regarding the enemy, his strength, probable intentions, and sometimes the effect of our artillery fire. In fact one of the main reasons for making these raids was for the very purpose of getting information and also to weaken the morale of the Germans opposite to us.

While we were here at this section of the front, about June 9th, the Third Division had to withstand a very heavy bombardment, followed by a terrible barrage fire, and subsequently a fierce attack. The Germans managed to get into the trenches but not without paying a dreadful price.


It was found necessary to send for reinforcements if the trench was to be re-captured. Imperials relieved us on the St. Eloi front, and we were speedily conveyed by motor lorries and rushed up to the Ypres section. Our boys all knew they were in for a hot time but we were keen to be at it for we were "just spoiling for a fight." We got it all right, and though we were only here for two days, such was the severe nature of the fighting, that our casualty list was very heavy. Incessant rain added to our discomfiture; but the spirit of the boys was something wonderful to behold.


After a twenty-four hour rest in the huts at Ypres we went to the now famous "Hill 60" where we remained for seven days. It was while we were here at "Hill 60" that Sergt. Duffet got the D.C.M., though he afterwards died of the wounds which he had received.


After leaving "Hill 60" we went back to the St. Eloi front again, and had the usual routine of work to perform -- trench warfare and plenty of working parties. Just imagine a party of about a hundred men carrying wire trench mats across the open in full view of Fritz. A flare goes up; everybody stands still; a machine gun opens fire; everybody goes down so that they will not be hit; and then every thing is still again. All of a sudden somebody swears as he trips over a shell hole, but the oath is made in such a reverent way that it is more of a prayer than a curse word. Thus it continues night after night.


Chapter Six


As I have previously said, there is always a certain amount of rivalry between the Battalions. In illustration of this we got word that a Battalion on our right was going to pull off a raid. Our Colonel immediately ordered Lieut. Wise (he went over with the 25th as a Sergt. and is now a Major and second in command of the Battalion) to take a party of men and make a raid into Fritz's trench. They set off and after wandering around "No Man's Land" for a while found an opening in his wire. They got into his trench and bombarded him right and left, killing quite a few and bringing back valuable information. Unluckily we had a few wounded, and Sergt. Anderson got no further back than Fritz's wire when he was hit. Lieut. Wise made three or four gallant attempts to get him out, but, owing to the machine gun and rifle fire, it was impossible. Lieut. Wise, who was badly wounded got the Military Cross and Cross de Guerre, and several of the boys got the Military Medal, so the Battalion on our right had to postpone their raid.


A few nights later we planned another. There were three parties, one under Lieut. Matheson, one under Lieut. Daley, and one under Lieut. Hiltz, the whole being under the command of Major Grant. Lieut. Dennis Stairs also took part in this. We were all ready to raid the trench when we got orders that the Battalion on our right was going to pull off a raid and that we must postpone ours. The same night that Lieut. Wise pulled off his raid so successfully, the Fourth Brigade "put one over" on the Hun. They raided his trench, bringing back some prisoners and doing quite a lot of damage to his trench.

But one of their men had been missing and had been given up for lost. Two days later one of the Artillery officers, while observing our fire, noticed a chap wandering around No Man's Land, and he would have fired at him only the man turned round and the observer saw his black face and knew right away that it was the missing man. A couple of boys crawled out and brought him in. He was quite delirious. It seemed that he had been wounded and bled quite a lot and became unconscious. The sun dried the wound, but left him insane and he had started wandering around No Man's Land.

Just before we left the St. Eloi front we had some of the Fourth Division in with us, and we showed them what they had to do and left them to play their part and show the Huns that they were Canadians -- and this they have undoubtedly done.

The Somme fighting was on about this time. I well remember the 1st of July. Our aeroplanes went over the German lines and brought down about six or seven of their observation balloons before you could say "Jack Robinson." It was pretty slick work, with some new explosive that our fellows had kept very secret.

In leaving the St. Eloi front we marched for three days to a little town quite close to St. Omer called  --  -- , where we drilled from five in the morning till seven or eight at night, doing the usual training so as to get us fit for the fray. By this time I was a full fledged Lance Corporal in charge of "C" Company's Lewis guns. We had a great time here. A couple of days in the week we would have sports and then we would play games of baseball. Some of the boys would help the French girls make up their crops. Another thing that helped to make us so comfortable here was the difference in the people. They were most hospitable and could not do enough for us. We would scatter our straw on the floor, spread our blanket and go to sleep as happy and contented as possible. I tell you when you have a tiled floor for a mattress, your pack for a pillow and your overcoat for a blanket you can appreciate such a comfort as straw and blankets.


We all knew that we were going to the Somme to take part in that big show and we were very anxious to get down upon them. The First Division had gone down a little ahead of us, but we were going to show them that the 25th could play its part as well as any of the Battalions and we did so.


We stayed a while here in training and then we started on our journey. We would march about fifteen miles each day and would camp or bivouac for the night. Before turning in to sleep we would have a sing-song, all the men being in the best of spirits for at last we knew we were going to have a real scrap with the Hun, and although we had been in France twelve months, we had always been on the defensive and that is always the hardest kind of fighting. As we had quite a lot of old scores to pay off, we were just eager to get at the foe. After a long march we finally arrived at the brickfield in Albert, and there we saw for our first time the brass statute on the Church of Albert which was hanging head down. You would think that it would fall at any moment, but it was well secured so that the person who made the prophecy that when the statute on the church at Albert fell, the war would end, must have known that the war would last a long time.


Well here we were. Thousands of troops ready for a big attack. One day we saw some queer looking objects coming along the road. We were all wondering what sort of war machines they were. There were all sorts of rumors as to what they were and what they could do. We did not find out what they were until the 15th of September and then we knew that they were the much-talked of "tanks." Fritz also found that out -- much to his loss. We did several working parties here, going up through Contalmaison, Pozieres and other villages. We should not have known that they had been villages only that there were signs there to inform us to that effect.


Anybody who has seen the German trenches here, and the deep dugouts and steep ridges which the British troops had to swarm over could scarcely believe it possible to take any of their positions; but we had a leader in General Haig and he knew what he was doing. The Artillery pounded the Hun with such vigor that if any were left they were properly demoralized, and then the infantry went over and caught the Germans down in their dugouts. By the night of Sept. 14th we were ready to launch our attack. The great Somme fight was on!


Chapter Seven


On the way up to the trenches and on seeing the guns, practically speaking, wheel to wheel, we thought it would be impossible to use more artillery at one time. But I know we have four or five times the number of heavy guns in use on the western front now than we had on the Somme, and that is one of the reasons that the morale of the men in the western area is so good.


On the night of September 14th we moved up to a position of reserve, and we were all issued our fighting material which consisted of ammunition, rifles, bombs, with haversack on our backs, rations enough for two days and water bottle filled. We also made sure that we had our field dressing with us. There was also another little thing which we were given and that was our aeroplane signal. As soon as the advance starts our aeroplanes are ready to co-operate with us in all possible ways, and I can tell from what I have seen that Fritz's planes stand a very poor chance against ours.


Now to describe our action. As soon as we start to dig in we light some of those flares; our planes see them and they signal back with the Klaxon horns, then they drop some signal and do a little fancy flying, and by that means, sometimes combined with wireless, our artillery know just exactly where we are. Some of the men also carry wire cutters, others, shovels and picks. I can assure you that it is no light load but the queer thing is that nobody seems to mind it, until everything is all over.

On the morning of the 15th the 4th and 6th Brigades made the attack for our Division. It was a pretty big affair on about a three mile front. We were back in reserve and we were pretty sore because we were not taking a part in it, when we saw the "Irish Navy," as we called the tank, come puffing up. Little did we think that many who were there talking would be killed or wounded before the day was over. Then all of a sudden the artillery with a mighty roar opened up the most terrific fire.

It was a wonderful sight. Nothing could be seen all along the horizon in the rear but one mass of flame, where our guns were sending out shell after shell. They were there in all sizes from the eighteen pounders up to the fifteen inch guns.

Now, our boys are over with all their objectives well defined. The principal one for our division, at the time, was the Sugar Refinery, and in a very short while the prisoners started to come in. Some of them carrying our wounded with them, others carrying some of their own wounded. They were a demoralized crowd and after the artillery barrage which was put up it is not to be wondered at. Brigade headquarters were very close to us and they were taken there where they were asked all sorts of questions by our intelligence officers. Some would speak, others would not; but our intelligence corps generally got all the information that was needed. Our troops advanced so much that day that some of the artillery had to shift their guns up closer as they were out of range.

That movement was a very pretty sight -- the gun limbers being galloped across the shell torn ground, wheeling their guns around and getting into action in very short while. If I were a professional writer, I could describe a lot of things that happened that morning which would be very interesting to the reader but there are a number of incidents which I shall have to omit thru lack of memory.

Now and again, Fritz would throw a shell over at us, but it would do no more harm than fling up dirt over us and we were so used to this that we did not mind it at all.

The tanks did wonderful work puffing along to the German strong points and using their guns. I guess the moral effect was just as terrible as the real. No wonder that the German prisoners were so scared. Anyway, the main thing was the British got all of their objectives and quite a few were still pushing further ahead. We did not think that we would have a chance to take part in the show but at the same time we were prepared for anything that might happen.

At 3 p.m. that same afternoon the Scottish Division on our right took Martinupuch, so General Byng decided that the Canadians should make another drive and take Courcelette, and, as it was, the 4th and 6th Brigades that went over that morning it was our turn for Courcelette.

There was a conference of the four colonels commanding the four battalions in our Brigade and it was decided that the 25th were to go thru the left half of the village, the 22nd thru the right half, the 26th in close support and the 24th in reserve, and altho there have been not a few rumors as to who really took Courcelette all I can say is that the whole Canadian corps played a part one way or another, even to the Army Service Corps who supplied our ammunition. But anyway that is how our brigades went over on the 15th of September.

When the colonel came back he held a consultation with his company commanders who were Major Tupper "A" Co., Lieut. Col. Flowers, "B" Co., Capt. Stairs, "C" Co., Major Brooks "D" Co., and the entire scheme was explained to them. I was in the Lewis Gun Corps of "C" Co., so when Captain Stairs called together his platoon officers, I had to be there too, and the scheme was that "A" and "D" companies were to form the first wave. There was a railroad the other side of Courcelette, there they were to dig in, in the most suitable place in front of that. "C" and "B" formed the second wave and were to dig in, just in front of the village. My instructions as to my guns were that I was to plant one gun on the left flank of the company and one on the right. When I saw that D. Co., had consolidated their position I was to start and take the right flank gun up and put it out in a shell hole about 20 yards in front of D. Co. My left flank gun I was to leave as it was guarding a sunken road. It was also an understood thing that we were to leave so many Lewis gunners behind, so when we started over we had but two trained men per gun, and four others, untrained, to carry ammunition.

We started to get into position. The glorious 22nd were on our right, and the 3rd Division on our left, and tho this was our first time "over" everybody was laughing and eager to get at it. There was that grand old colonel of ours with a foot rule held in one hand and a map in the other. We were all lined up in extended order about 1- 1/2  miles from our objective and we had to advance over ground that had been ploughed up pretty badly by our own artillery that morning. Shortly, our colonel gave the order to advance. Almost at the same time our artillery opened up. We advanced in one long extended line. (I must say that we use a different formation today). We were all joking with one another. We had fixed bayonets and as we passed a trench I heard one artillery observing officer say: "By the Gods of War, isn't it fine." One of my gunners asked me for a chew of tobacco. We passed some of the trenches which our boys had taken that morning. I saw a big German lying on his face dead, and a few of our own lying around. Then again we came across a few more dead Huns. Here were a couple of skulls which had been thrown up by our artillery. One of our boys passed the remark that they would not even let the dead rest.


People talk about Fear; I must admit there is such a thing before you start over, but once you get started you are callous to everything. You see you own best friend killed alongside of you, but that does not stop you for you keep right on, never thinking that you may be the next, and even if you did you would say to yourself that you have got to go sooner or later, so what's the odds?


We were getting near to the Sugar Refinery that Fritz had put a barrage across. No matter, we kept on. We got to the trenches held by one of our other brigades. The second wave is supposed to stop here for a few minutes whilst the first wave keeps on. One of the boys who were holding the trench said "Keep on lads, don't be frightened. We gave them hell this morning. You ought to be able to do the same now." I got mad at him for thinking that we were not "playing the game," so I gave my gun team the order to advance. As we passed the Sugar Refinery, Fritz's shells were bursting everywhere -- shells bursting in the air, shrapnel coming down on us white hot like snow. One of my men was hit. I took his ammunition and left him to get out the best way he could. Fritz's machine guns were now playing on us.

We saw some of the boys turn around and then drop dead. It must be a great death, for in the excitement one would never know what struck him. We opened up our machine guns on the Huns who were hiding in a bit of a wood. My team is up with the first wave by now. Then we all made a dash and arrived at the Convent wall in Courcelette. There were lots there before us. The most prominent of all was Colonel Hilliam, with a cigar in his mouth, stick in one hand and watch in the other. He says, "Now boys, the barrage will play there for five minutes and then we will go right thru the village." He was wounded in the hand, but he only smiled at that. I went and found out that both my guns were O.K. and that I was lucky enough to get over with my full amount of ammunition, which was very fortunate considering that we came thru quite an artillery barrage.

Our shells were bursting just in front of the village. You could see nothing but one mass of flame and smoke. Our colonel looked up and said "Now Boys get ready," and then the artillery lifts and we go thru the village. What was once a peaceful village is now nothing but a mass of burning ruins. We got thru, but some of our boys had to bayonet a few Germans to make them be good.

The first wave was now well in front, and I was with my right flank team in the second wave. We came up on the right of "C" Co., just as they were preparing to dig in.

Lieut. Dalley was about ten yards in front of his platoon giving orders to his men to dig in, when I saw him take a turn round and drop. I rushed out and picked him up. He told me to go on and never mind him. It was a dry day and there were quite a few bullets striking close to us, but at the time I did not seem to know, what they were so I got hold of Dalley and brought him back to a shell hole where our boys were digging in, and turned him over to their care. By this time I saw that "D" Co., had started to dig in, so I took my guns along and placed them in a shell hole about 20 yards in front of where our boys were digging. It was now about six p.m. The aeroplanes were over our heads sounding their horns and we were burning our signals.

After placing my team I came back and found that Lieut. Dennis Stairs was wounded on the arm and leg. I bandaged him up, but he persisted in staying in and "carrying on" with his work altho the colonel wanted him to go out. He has the Military Cross and I must say he deserved it. I also found that Major Brooks had been killed and that Major Nutter was acting O.C. of "D" Co. I reported to the colonel who was in the front line, and he asked me to take out the prisoners. There were about thirty-five of them, and I was to turn them over to the 26th Battalion, which was supposed to be in close support. There were a couple of chaps who were slightly wounded, going out as escort. We went out right thru the village but no sign of the 26th.

We saw a couple of their scouts who told us that the battalion was a little in the rear of us, but as it was getting dark we decided to send them out in charge of the wounded runners. The Huns were so demoralized that they really did not need any escort. Just before they left I saw Lieut. Wetmore stick his head out of a shell hole. He had been badly wounded in the head, so he also went out with the prisoners. I then started on my way back to the front line. Going thru the village we came across two Huns carrying a wounded Hun. We took them prisoners and turned them over to Sergt. Anderson of "C" Co. I then saw Sergt. Laird of "B" Co. and got about 30 bombs from him and took them up to my front line gun and came back to visit my left flank gun, which was still with "C" Co. While I was talking to Sergt. Weir there was a message came to me from Major Nutter to get my left gun up and place it out in front. I went to the left flank to carry out my order, and found my gun and ammunition scattered around the sunken road not damaged. But my team was gone, so I hunted around and got another team together and placed them out in "No Man's Land." If Fritz had to counter attack us that night he would have got an awful reception, for we had quite a few machine guns out in front and everybody was in good spirits and keeping a good look out.

We found out by this time we had lost quite a few of our best officers; out of our company we had lost one of the finest men that ever went over. He was a man that no matter how hard the bombardment, he was always normal and would never get excited -- that was John Stairs. The O.C. of "B" Company, Colonel Flowers was also missing. He was not with us very long, but everybody thought a lot of him. It was splendid for a man of his age to come out and volunteer as a platoon commander as he did, and he deserves all the credit that can be given to him. We had a few others killed and missing, but taking everything into consideration and the objective that we had taken, we had come out very lucky.

Our boys were pretty well dug in by 12 that night. It was hard digging, about a foot of earth, then flint and underneath the flint was chalk.


Chapter Eight


The reaction had started to set in by this time. I cannot describe it to you properly, but there are a lot of people under the impression that a soldier gets a glass of rum before he "goes over." The reason I write about this is because people have often said the same thing about me. I'll tell you, the British soldier does not need rum to buck his courage up. I believe that it was given to the men before they went over in the beginning, and that after the effect wore off it left the man drowsy. Once you start "over," you do not give a curse for anything. All you think about is that there is an objective, and that there is nothing in this world to stop you and you keep that spirit up until you have everything securely in your hands, and then perhaps a couple of hours after a certain amount of reaction sets in. Then is the time for the rum. In France it is used, "never abused." The reaction generally works off after a few hours and then you are fit for anything.

During the night Fritz made several counter attacks on the 22nd. We were not quite sure how they were making out, but a runner came up and told us that everything was O.K.

I do not remember anything eventful happening that night. We had a couple killed, and Sergeant Tickle of the Machine Gun Section, whilst reconnoitering, ran into a German strong point. He bombed them and got back safely. But when daylight came there was quite a few of our chaps getting nipped off from the right, so a message was sent out to Major MacAvity, who was brigade major. He came up, and that afternoon the Third Division made an attack and took the trench from which they were sniping, and also 100 prisoners. We knew that there were papers of importance in a house in the village which had been used as headquarters and Fritz was quite determined that we should not get them, for he put shell after shell into the village. But whenever there is information to be had, there is somebody who will get it and we got those papers and believe me they proved to be of great significance.


We had everything consolidated and the artillery had wires right up to our front line for observation purposes. To make matters worse we had a little drizzly rain. The next afternoon Major Tupper was killed, and as "A" company was to make a small attack -- Major Nutter took over "A" company, and Lieutenant Matheson, who was now acting officer commanding "C" company took charge of operations. I am sorry to say we had many casualties that day in "A" company. We were relieved on the coming morning by the First Division. There were some machine gun crews to be relieved and as all the other companies and details were relieved the colonel wanted to stay and see them relieved, but he finally decided to let me stay behind and take this matter in hand.


On the 9th of April, in my rank as officer, I reported for duty to Colonel Bauld and was glad to be once more with the glorious fighting boys of the grand old Twenty-Fifth. Some few days later we took part in the Arleux fighting; my company, "D," formed the flank. We were able to take all our objectives and consolidate them. It was in this scrap that I "got mine," for I was hit in the arm, leg, back and behind the ear. After twenty and a half months in France to have escaped death and even a serious injury, I consider it to have been most fortunate, and feel persuaded that someone at home must have been remembering me in their prayers. After my wound, I managed to crawl out and was then sent to a clearing station, subsequently to England, and them home to Nova Scotia. Here I am at the present and to be candid I am not over anxious to return, but if I should be wanted -- well, I am ready to go and strike another blow for King and Empire, Liberty and God.


After holding these trenches we were glad to get out and get a rest. The first day we got as far as The Reserve trenches. There we had plenty of rations issued to us and we rested here where there were some very large and comfortable dugouts which our most amiable friend Fritz had built for us. We enjoyed them and although we had lost quite a few of our best pals we knew that we all had gone through that same ordeal and those of us who were lucky enough to come out of the scrap never gave a thought to what we had gone through. A good thing, for if we did a few of us would be good patients for a lunatic asylum. We stayed here for the night and the next morning we got as far as the Brickfields near Albert where there were a lot of the old London Motor Buses waiting to take us back to a little village clear of the shell fire so that we could reorganize and get another go at Fritz. We were all as happy as larks, singing "Are we downhearted," "The Canadians took Courcelette, they can fight you just bet" and other trench songs. Some of the boys had on Fritz helmets and others had Fritzs' revolvers; we all had souvenirs of some description. We arrived at this town after a couple of hours ride. There was our Pipe Band with the Battalion Mascot, the goat, which we got in 1915. It is still with the battalion and always leads the band. When we reached this village the very first thing we had to do was to shave and clean up, for were we not the best unit in France? We always thought so and we used always to show an example to the others. That is "esprit de corp." We had a pretty good time in this village. Some of the boys sold their souvenirs as they said we were going back and could get lots more. Our old Colonel was still with us but his hand was now bandaged up. I forgot to tell you when he was coming through Albert the 22nd gave three cheers for "Col. Hilliam." He turned around and said, "If there is any credit give it to the boys, they deserve it." He quite forgot that we looked upon him as something more than a man, the way he would go around through a bombardment. Out here we had the usual parades and reorganization, but we only had the old battalion to reorganize as we got no reinforcements. However, we were still the "25th" and could show the Germans what we could do. It soon got spread around that we were going back to have another go at Fritz. So we got our guns fixed up and the afternoon before we went in Col. Hilliam made an inspection of the battalion. I had my Lewis Gun team formed up in rear of "C" Co. When the C.O. came around I called them to attention and saluted. He said "What is your name my lad?" I replied "Lewis, Sir." "Oh, a very appropriate name to have charge of the Lewis Guns." I said, "Sir, I try to do my best." He says, "You have done wonderfully, my lad." I thought it the greatest honor that I have ever got. We started for the Brickfields next morning, Col. Bauld in command of the Battalion. Col. Hilliam had to go to hospital for a few days. We arrived at the Brickfields and there we were given our full instructions as to what we had to do and went through the usual performance of being fully equipped with all the necessary equipments of war before we went in. Capt. John D. MacNeil was now O.C. of "C" Co., and one night we got the order to move up to the reserve trenches. All this time the troops who were occupying the trenches were steadily advancing. We had taken quite a lot of their strongpoints, including  --  --  and other villages. After a long tedious march we arrived at our reserve trenches and made ourselves as comfortable as possible, such as digging a hole in the side of a trench and perhaps a couple of sheets of corrugated iron, and finally we got settled away and went to sleep. It was very comfortable when you consider the circumstances. Certainly now and again one of Fritz large shells would burst somewhere near you but that was all in the game. If it was going to get you it would. But keeping awake would not save us. So Fritz's shells had no more effect than the vermin which we had got quite used to. The next night at 7 o'clock, runners came down from the 14th Battalion to guide us to the front line. We were very inquisitive and began asking those chaps about where they were, what sort of fighting they had and other questions too numerous to mention, for strange to say, no matter how long you are there, when you got into a new position you always want to know what it is like before you go in it, and if you are told that it is a lovely place and that you can have a good time you can depend that it is going to be worse than hell. That is what happened in this case. The guide told us that it was a nice, quiet little spot. We found out the difference before we got out. We toiled through the shell-torn ground for about six hours before we got to where Battalion Headquarters were. Sometimes, our guides lost themselves. At other times Fritz would put a barrage across. We would lie down then in a shell hole and start talking about old times, never giving a thought to the shells which would burst quite close to us. In fact they got a few of our boys on the way up. But one has to be there to realize how callous a person appears to shell fire. By that I do not mean to say that he holds it in contempt for he doesn't He has a mighty regard for it. But you always want to show that you are as brave as your next door neighbour. Sometimes they came a little too close and one of the boys would sing out "Say let's make a move, for I don't mind getting Blightie but the way that one burst it will be France" or some other such remark. When we arrived at Headquarters it was in a large sunken road which our boys had captured a few days before. We hear quite a lot of  --  --  and here were quite a lot of wounded Germans who had been taken prisoners that day calling out for water, and although we were going in and we did not know when we were coming out, some of the boys gave them some of theirs. I hope they will do the same. We waited here for a while and then we started out for the trench. We had some night. We would go to one trench and then to another; our guides did not know where to take us. About 4 o'clock in the morning we started wandering around No Man's Land. At 7 o'clock, broad daylight, (we were laying down in the grass at the time), some of the boys saw somebody moving and as we saw that they were our own boys we made a rush and got into what was known as the Subsidiary trench. That is how "C" Co. relieved the 14th Battalion on the Somme. There was quite a chain-work of trenches here. What we held was named "Subsidiary Line." It really was not a trench but a system of outposts. In front of us were the famed "Kenora" and "Regina." Their names will always linger in the memory of the Canadians, for we did some very hard fighting around here. There were also a lot of trenches in rear of us held by some of our other companies. On our left were the 24th and C.M.R. I really do not know who were on our right. As I said what we were holding was only a system of strongpoints. There were five of them altogether and as I had three Lewis guns I put one on each flank and one in the centre. About 9 o'clock the same morning we saw somebody waving to us from out of No Man's Land. When we saw that he was one of our own lads, Lieut. Alexander, Corp. McEarley, (these two were both killed four days later) and myself, took a rubber sheet and doubled out and got him, expecting to be fired on at any time by Fritz. But he could not have seen us or else he did not want to give his position away. Anyway we got the chap in. He belonged to the 14th Battalion and had been out there for three days. His wounds had stiffened up so that he could not move. Poor chap, he said that he would have gone crazy that day if we had not brought him in.


Some very hard fighting took place here for there was an awful lot of dead Huns lying around. All that morning we made our positions as secure as possible. At about two that afternoon word came from Col. Bauld that we were to attack and that the Co. Commanders were all wanted at Battalion Headquarters. When Capt. MacNeil came back he gave us the outline of the scheme and told me that I was to stay in the Subsidiary trench until they had things consolidated, or if they had to fall back under a heavy counter attack I was to cover the retirement and hold the trench at all costs. All right! Our barrage opens up; our fellows go over; up goes Fritz's S.O.S. signals, his artillery starts. It is maddening where we are. His artillery is playing all round us, knocking in our trenches in places but never getting any of my guns or men. Then there is a tremendous fire of machine guns from Fritz's trench no man could live through. The bullets are just singing through the air. But our men are quick to grasp the game and get into some shell holes and wait until it gets a little dark and then crawl back to our own line. We have quite a few wounded and some killed. Nothing though when you look at the resistance. One chap by the name of Porter came crawling into the trench with an ugly head wound and blood pouring all over his face. He started swearing at Fritz and ended up by asking for a chew of tobacco before he went out to the dressing station. We got settled away once more all prepared for the wily Hun if he should come over.


There were several of attacks on our left that night. It sort of got our wind up a little. Outside of that everything went well and we passed a very comfortable night, smoking and tell stories, for there was no such thing as sleep in the outposts. The next morning at daylight we took a good observation and everything seemed normal, so after giving out the rations of food, water and rum, we took turns and had a sleep until about 11 o'clock when for some reason Capt. MacNeil was ordered to take his company back to the sunken road in rear of the trenches so they could have a sleep I had to stay there with my three gun teams and hold the trench against all attacks. About 2 o'clock that afternoon when everything seemed very quiet and normal, Fritz started up with a bit of a bombardment and they were all landing around our trench. At times they would just cover us with mud. Luckily for us it never got anybody. He was also landing them between us and "A" Co., so I began to get a bit worried and decided that I should send a message back to Headquarters as they were shelling pretty bad. I did not think it fair to send one of my men so took a message across to "A" Co., and had them send it back to H.Q. I then went back to my own men, arrived there safely and cuddled up against the side of the trench expecting any minute to go up in the air, but we still kept on joking each other. Neither one of us would let on that we were scared. About 5 o'clock that afternoon I saw about twenty men leave "A" Co. trench and make a dash across No Man's Land. They were a reconnoitring patrol in charge of Lieut. Canning and they were going to find out if the Kenora trench was occupied. Well they did. Fritz stopped shelling us and turned his machine guns and artillery on to this small party. They had to fall back and I believe they had four or five killed, including Lieut. Houston. Shortly after that our own Company came back and I can tell you I was not sorry to see them for it was no enviable position having responsibility for a couple of hundred yards of your front line. We got an issue of rum from the Captain when he came and we needed it bad. About eight that night a ration party came up with our rations and water. Say, you should have tasted it; full right up with the taste of petrol, but still it was good to us. You know we lose all fancy ideas about taste in the trenches.


Everything passed off as usual. Now and again we would think that the German was coming over so would have an extra good watch. He is such an uncanny devil he is always sending up fancy signals. The next morning as usual I visited my teams, issued their rations and rum. I had just finished doing this with my middle team and was sitting down talking to them. The little trench was more like a grave that could just hold us comfortable. All of a sudden there was an explosion overhead. I heard somebody singing out "stretcher-bearer" and I thought something had struck me in the back and had gone though me, but I looked around for my men. As far as I could see they had all been wounded and they were trying to get as fast as they could to the dressing station. Then I looked behind me and there was one of my team with his leg right off; three of his fingers were also off but as he was bleeding so much from his leg there was not a bit of blood left in his hand. I bandaged him up the best way I could and then we got a stretcher and carried him out. The wound that I had was only a little scratch and I found out later the shell that burst overhead was what we call a "wooly bear," instead of the shrapnel bursting forward it shot downwards. My gun was disabled so I thought I should have another. I went back to Howard Johnson who was Acting O.C. of operations in the front line. He was always optimistic (a good way to be) so told me about all the artillery that we had behind us and that we should not worry. Well, I did, and finally I got that gun fixed so that it worked alright. Everybody was telling me how lucky I was to escape when everybody else got hit, but I had a more miraculous one that afternoon.


About three Fritz started to shell us badly again. The shells were coming quite thick and as we could see that he did not intend coming over it was decided to evacuate the outposts and go back to the Sunken Road. The most of the Company had gone back and as I was all ready to leave with my team a big fellow burst. It got one of the men who was just behind me, tore off his leg and a big chunk went into his back, missed me, and the concussion took the chap that was in front of me and landed him about 5 yards away dead. I cannot explain it but there are several of the boys back here who saw it. We got back to the sunken road, stayed there about an hour and then we manned our trenches again. About nine o'clock that night rations were brought up to us as usual, and they also sent the few men that they had left at the horse-line, for we were beginning to get them out a little. The advance is all right for the morale but it causes quite a few casualties. This night went past as the others -- nothing happened.


The morning was fine and we received word that we were to make an attack and take the Regina trench that afternoon at all costs. We got everything prepared for it that morning and that afternoon at three o'clock we went over again, but it was a futile attempt for they had all sorts of machine guns and barbed wire there waiting for us. But we kept on as far as the Regina, but could not capture it as our numbers were too depleted by this time. It was here I got the M.M. This makes a coincidence in our family, two brothers having the M.M. and one the D.C.M. We were relieved late that night by the 6th Brigade and we were not sorry to get out. We lost quite a few here, including Howard Johnson, who was in charge of operations. If ever a man deserved a V.C., he did. We marched from here to the Brickfield and from there back to a village behind the lines, out of the range of shell fire. We were still the same old battalion in name and those of us who were left intended to let the reinforcements know what sort of a battalion they had come to.


When our reinforcements at last arrived Col. Hilliam took them and gave them a good lecture and then the old boys got after them. It did not take them long to decide that we were the best battalion in France and that is how we got the "Esprit de Corp."


We stayed in this little village for about a week and then started on our march for the Bullez Grenaz front. After a few days marching, we arrived at our destination, a place where all Canadians have spent a happy time. The village itself was right close up to the communication trench and the French people carried on their work as usual, although now and again Fritz would put over an occasional shell, but they all seemed to think that was in the day's work. We went into a reserve trench called Mechanic's Dump. It is a spot that will always remain. Here were buried quite a lot of French and British soldiers who had lost their lives in the battle of Looz and there were also some of our own buried here. Amongst them, Sergt. Jim Harris. He was the greatest all round dare-devil that we had in the battalion. In fact there was nothing too daring for him to do if he could get a joke off. It was he that took the chickens, skinned them and threw the skins beneath the officers' cookhouse so that they would have to pay for them. Sergt. Harris was appointed Wiring Sergt. He had charge of all the wiring in front of our trench and craters. There were two craters quite close to each other, one occupied by us, the other by Fritz. The Brigade Major asked Harris if he could wire this crater as it was a very risky job. Harris promptly replied that "if Kaizer Bill himself were there in the crater opposite, he would wire it." He did and had the job finished when he saw a couple of Huns stick their heads out of their crater. With that he threw a couple of bombs at them and got them, but a couple of their pals got Harris. We were sorry; for he was really the most talked of man in the Battalion. Anyway, I had the satisfaction of fixing his grave up.


When we took over these trenches everything was quiet in this section, but it was not very long before the Canadians had livened things up. Some days we would "strafe" him with trench mortars; on others we would give him a touch of our artillery. Bill Cameron was aching to get a go at him so he picked out eighty men and four officers. It was decided to use the Bengalore torpedo to blow his wire up. The time appointed was Xmas morning. When they went to put the torpedoes underneath the wire they found it impossible as it was too bright, so there was a consultation and it was decided to crawl out, lay alongside of his wire and then make a dash into his trench as soon as the artillery started which they did with great success, bringing back about nine prisoners. Besides what they killed and the damage done, the moral effect on the Hun was good.

That night the battalion on our right were going to pull off a raid. They started in and Fritz must have thought we were going to pull off another, so he just started in and shelled us like anything. He didn't get any of us, but sure kept us ducking. I would put a chew of tobacco in my mouth and go round and visit my men, shells landing all around us. When they were coming through the air you would swear that they were coming straight for you and that one had your number engraved on it. Well, I would be as shaky as anybody could be, but I would not let the others see it and the men were the same. We are all alike; we all get a little funky in a bombardment but we will not admit it.


During our stay here Fritz bombarded the village with gas shells, killing four or five civilians. He did not get one of the military. Well, I suppose that is his way of waging war.


We were to be relieved by the 1st Division so that we could go out for a rest and I was advised that on the 21st of February I was to go to a cadet school in France to qualify for a commission.

It was also understood that before we went out for this rest that we were to carry out a large daylight raid. The 4th Brigade who were on our right were to do this. A couple of nights before the raid was planned for, the Battalion Scout officer, with a couple of men, were scouting around No Man's Land when they encountered a strong German patrol. Our fellows had to drop back to our trench but the officer was hit and it was believed taken prisoner by the Germans. As he had some important papers the plans were all changed. So much in fact that we knew nothing about them ourselves. We got word at last that the raid was to take place at 4.30 this certain afternoon. Exactly on the second our artillery trench mortars and machine guns opened up. We just showered them with liquid fire shells and gas shells. Well, it was a wonderful night. The 26th Battalion on our left went over, entered his trench and bombed dugouts in the front line, for we were not taking any chances on Fritz having a surprise waiting for us. Our men all returned and we thought everything was over and that we would be relieved the next day. I guess Fritz thought the same. At seven the next morning I had a message handed me telling me that my men were not to stand down until I was notified later, as the Brigade on our left were going to carry out a raid. Again we pounded Cain out of him. Our men went over and our artillery formed a box barrage so that they could go in the trenches secure from a German counter attack. They had great success, brought back 100 prisoners besides what were killed. We suffered very light.

After our boys came back, Fritz, thinking that we still held it completed the work of knocking his trench to pieces which we had started. We were relieved the next day and marched to a large mining town called Bruay. I was there only about four days when I was sent down the line to qualify for a commission and arrived back on the morning of the ninth and went up the line to the front trenches that night, along with Lt. Col. Bauld.

After a month of rest at Bruay, the Battalion left for a training camp where for over a month the Battalion, in conjunction with the remainder of the 2nd Division, trained on ground marked out showing the different communication and main line trenches then held by the Huns and which were to be our objectives. This is made possible by the accurate photography from aeroplanes used for that purpose.

At last the time drew near. A week was all that was left before the great day was to arrive and by that time the Battalion was in a good condition for anything that might happen. On the night of the 5th Major Delancy, who was going to take the Battalion over the top, held a meeting of all officers and everything was explained. The officers were made to understand that even if only one man was left alive the objective must be taken and held and unless the position was serious no calls for help were to be sent to other units but that the "25th" must carry out the task alloted to them.


Easter Sunday came and we were ready and anxiously waiting to move. At 6.30 a.m., Lieut. F.G. Lawzanne left with a party of N.C.O's to take up, what the orders stated, to be a Camp but what was in reality all that was left of a small forest known as the Bois-Des Alleux. At 9.30 a.m., the Battalion, in fighting kit, without great-coats, left for this camp. After arriving bombs, ground flares, etc., were issued the Battalion and the remainder of the day was spent in trying to keep warm. During the course of the afternoon two men appeared in Camp with sand bags slung over their shoulders. They turned out to be Piper Brand and Piper Telford who did not want to be left behind and volunteered to play the Battalion "over the top." Permission for this was given by Lt. Col. D.S. Bauld, who, at that time, was in the Camp with his Battalion and who was feeling downhearted at not being able to lead his men on the following day.


At last orders were received to move forward to our jumping off trench. At 8.30 p.m., Easter Sunday, the 25th left their camp, a camp which, some of the finest sons of Nova Scotia would never see again, and moved forward slowly, passing through Mount St Eloi, where could be noticed a few remaining French families who had stayed by the home all through the months of war. A few hours march, and we arrived on the Muvelle St. Vacest Road where for some reason we stayed for almost two hours, during which time the Hun started shelling the road, and here our first casualties occurred. We were at last able to continue our march and at 3.30 a.m., Easter Monday we marched out to the jumping off trench which was already being shelled by the Huns. Zero hour had been set for 5.30 a.m., so we had two hours to wait, and a long two hours they were. Nobody can realize except those who have been through it the thoughts which pass through mens minds at such a time -- thoughts of home and loved ones appear as a vision with a wonder as to whether you will ever see them again.


Operations orders were that the 24th and 26th Battalion would attack a trench known as ZWISCHEN STELLING, while the 25th Battalion with the 22nd French-Canadians, as "moppers-up," would capture and consolidate a trench named TURCO GRABEN which was in advance of ZWISCHEN STELLING. On the left was a communication trench known as DUMP AVE which was left to the capable hands of Major Wise and the remaining companies were spread to the right. We stayed in those trenches consolidating, etc., for a few days when two minutes before the time of advancing the word was passed from man to man to get ready and every man in those muddy trenches fixed his equipment, looked to the bombs and rifles and passed wishes of good luck to those nearest him, making a toe hold in the side of the trench to help himself up.


Zero hour (5.30 a.m., Easter Monday, 1917) had come! The VIMY RIDGE attack was on! Whistles blew and over the top went the Canadians. The artillery started their work. Hundreds and hundreds of guns commenced drum fire simultaneously. Looking towards the Hun trenches it appeared as if the whole line was afire. It was a grand and impressive sight. The gallant pipers leading the 25th could be seen but it was impossible with the din to hear what they were playing. Gradually we advanced our ground -- nothing but holes filled with mud and water to make the going very difficult. At last we reached the German line which had been taken by the 24th and 26th Battalion. We jumped into what was left of the trench and waited until the set time to move forward. Looking at the Hun trench one could easily see what good work the gunners were doing. Everything was smashed in; dugouts were gone and many of the enemy with them. Our next objective was the TU ROP GRABEN trench. By this time the Boche realized that he had no small attack to deal with and his artillery, helped with many machine guns, started, causing us many casualties. Just about this stage of the advance Major Delancy was killed and also R.S.M. Hinchcliffe. We could see our boys for miles advancing with confidence and determination. The Hun shells and bullets were coming swift but that did not stay the Canadians. Parties of the enemy were trying to put up a fight but they were soon settled. Major A.O. Blois, though wounded, took command of the Battalion and for this and other good work he was awarded the D.S.O.

Finally we reached our last objective and commenced to consolidate. This trench, like the others, was in an awful condition. We found a large dugout named CRAEMER HOUSE which was a Battalion headquarters. By this time we had lost not only Major Delancy, but Lieuts. Hallesy, Sheriff, Feindel, Barber, as well as other officers wounded, and a good number of men both killed and wounded.

Then came the long hours of waiting. It had rained during the morning and everybody was more or less wet and as the evening drew on it became very cold and by the time the morning came again, the Battalion having no overcoats, or shelter were in a sorry plight, with but little food or water except what the Hun had left behind.


On the evening of the attack Col. S. Bauld came with Lieuts. Lewis and Fisher and Capt. and Q.M. Ingraham, who having heard of the casualties amongst the officers volunteered to come and help out. The following night water was sent up and altho it tasted more like petrol we were glad to get it.


That night we moved back to the rear trench and everyone felt a lot happier when a rumour went around that the Battalion was going to be relieved. After holding the position for less than two days we were sent for two days rest, prior to being relieved, into a larger German tunnel known as FOLKER TUNNEL.


Lieut. Dryden was detailed to take charge of the burial party and the sad work it was, collecting friend and foe from all over the battlefield.


After a night in the tunnel the order came that instead of going out to be relieved we were again to go forward. The people at home will never realize what this order meant to our men. After four days without sleep, wet clothing and mud right next to the skin, with very little food or water, our men were not anxious to move forward, but did they grumble? Not they. When the word came to move forward they were ready once more for another go at the Hun.

We came out of the trenches for a short rest. We had to travel about two miles over shell-torn ground and we were about all in having been in the line for quite a few days doing our duty regardless of shells, snow and rain. After what seemed to us to be a long time we arrived out at our resting place not so very far from the front line. We bivouacked here in tents and had one beautiful rest. Rain and mud the entire four days that we were out here. Col. Bauld was in charge of the Battalion and Major Blois was acting as second in command. But we were quite happy despite the rain and mud. One night the German aeroplanes came overhead. The order came to put out the lights and just to show you how little the boys thought of Fritz's bombs, a crowd of men in a few of the tents who had just came back from a working party and were turning in when the signal went to put out lights ignored it saying: "Just wait a few minutes as we have to turn in." I wonder if Fritz's planes would wait? I guess not. Anyway he did not get us that night. Now and again Fritz would drop an occasional shell over quite close to us but he never did us any damage.


We had come through one of the heaviest engagements that had taken place up until this time and though very muddy, we were as happy as anyone could be. Well, as I said, we stayed here for a few days and then we went up the line and stayed in supports for a few days. Col. Bauld was in command and I must say that he has done good work for the whole time that he was out there. He was such that no matter who the man was he would do all in his power to assist him. We stayed in supports for a few days and then we got the order to move up into the front line trench -- trench in name only as it really could only be called a ditch. On the way up Fritz shelled us pretty badly. I tell you, whilst we were up on top of the ridge, Fritz just peppered us. But strange to say, although he got our wind up and made us feel a little shaky he never inflicted any casualties and that is the main thing. Well, after a long march we arrived at our destination.


How easy to write this back here, but what a feeling whilst going up. An occasional shell bursting close to you. Now and again a machine gun opening up. You are marching along very quietly when a battery of our own guns open up alongside of you and I tell you honestly there are times when the bravest of us get the creeps. We were in our new home, and had to see about some shelters. We would dig into the side of the parapet just enough for a man to crouch up into. I can tell you that although it was clammy and wet it seemed like heaven to us at times. Well, there was an attack planned for the 28th of April. The night of the 28th we dug a jumping off trench and it was understood that "D" Co. should form the left flank of the attack. "C" Co. digging in No Man's Land and connecting with the 26th Battalion. My platoon of "D" Co. formed the left flank of the "C" Co. Lieut. Bell was in charge of "D" Co. that day. We were notified that the hour would be at 4.45 p.m. All right. Just before the attack Fritz sent a few shells over on us and we shelled the best way that we could. It is getting quite close to the appointed time. I look at my watch. My men are all ready. I have nothing to worry about. I wonder whether I have been out here too long and that I am going to get mine. But I don't worry for we get to be fatalists and say if it is going to be well it has to be, so what's the odds. I look at my watch, it wants a minute to go. By the time I put my watch back there is one terrific noise. All around the horizon in the rear there is one mass of flame. You can hear the shells whizzing over your head. We start over -- walking, not running. It is a creeping barrage. It will play on his wire and front line trenches for a while and then creep forward. We are following up close behind it. It is a wonderful sight and nobody will ever be able to do justice to it. Shells bursting in front of us. Fritz sending up his S.O.S. signals; our men with their rifles at the "High Port," not giving a damn for anybody living, with one fixed idea that is to get into Fritz' trench and take all of our objectives and take them prisoner, but if they show any fight to do them in. We get to his wire it is not cut as well as it should have been, but we belong to the "25th." We have to get through regardless of what happens to ourselves. We get through the wire but most of the boys are a little too much to the right. There is a machine gun playing on us but not doing any damage.


One of Fritz's bombs burst right close by us and some of it gets me behind the ear. But they are only flesh wounds and we have got to get to the objective, which is a sunken road. He is using a trench mortar on us. But with our usual luck he is firing wild and, therefore doing no damage. I jump into the sunken road. I am too far ahead of my men. The Fritz's who are firing the Trench Mortar see me and think that we are all there. So they start to beat it. I fire at them with my revolver. I hear some squealing behind me and look around. Three Germans! What can I do. I cannot take them prisoners nor can I take any chances. So I have no other alternative but to shoot them. It may seem cold blooded to a lot but the only thing I am sorry for is that I did not kill a few more. About the same time my men came along and we started bombing the dugouts. It was great sport. You throw a bomb down then stand clear. A burst of flame comes up and then you hear a lot of squealing.


At the end of the sunken road Fritz started to counter-attack us, so there is nothing for me to do but lead a couple of men over the open to a trench and place a block in so that Fritz cannot get behind us. On the way over I get hit in the ankle and the wrist with a couple of Fritz's bullets. We get into the trench and start bombing up the trench. There we have a bit of a fight and I get a bayonet wound in the back. By this time I had lost a considerable amount of blood so have to try to get out the best way I can for at the time we did not know how things were going to go. But I found out later that we held on to all of our objectives. I started to crawl out, but Fritz also started sniping at me. I got to the wire and it looked as if I would not be able to get through as Fritz's bullets were flying around. Anyway I decided to go through the best way I could even if I did get killed. As soon as I started to walk through the wire Fritz stopped firing, for why I do not know and another thing I did not care so long as I got out of the wire and could get into a shell hole. By this time, through loss of blood I was feeling pretty weak. Whilst taking a breath in this shell hole I saw a Boche coming towards me. I was not taking any chances so covered him with my revolver. He surrendered and helped me to get out.


It is impossible in this short space to tell all the glorious achievements of the Twenty-fifth. Suffice to say that the empire bore no braver sons and history will chronicle no greater sacrifices than those of the men of Nova Scotia.

<eob>

The Adventures Of Reddy Fox

By

Thornton W. Burgess



I. Granny Fox Gives Reddy a Scare

Reddy Fox lived with Granny Fox. You see, Reddy was one of a large family, so large that Mother Fox had hard work to feed so many hungry little mouths and so she had let Reddy go to live with old Granny Fox. Granny Fox was the wisest, slyest, smartest fox in all the country round, and now that Reddy had grown so big, she thought it about time that he began to learn the things that every fox should know. So every day she took him hunting with her and taught him all the things that she had learned about hunting: about how to steal Farmer Brown's chickens without awakening Bowser the Hound, and all about the thousand and one ways of fooling a dog which she had learned.

This morning Granny Fox had taken Reddy across the Green Meadows, up through the Green Forest, and over to the railroad track. Reddy had never been there before and he didn't know just what to make of it. Granny trotted ahead until they came to a long bridge. Then she stopped.

"Come here, Reddy, and look down," she commanded.

Reddy did as he was told, but a glance down made him giddy, so giddy that he nearly fell. Granny Fox grinned.

"Come across," said she, and ran lightly across to the other side.

But Reddy Fox was afraid. Yes, Sir, he was afraid to take one step on the long bridge. He was afraid that he would fall through into the water or onto the cruel rocks below. Granny Fox ran back to where Reddy sat.

"For shame, Reddy Fox!" said she. "What are you afraid of? Just don't look down and you will be safe enough. Now come along over with me."

But Reddy Fox hung back and begged to go home and whimpered. Suddenly Granny Fox sprang to her feet, as if in great fright. "Bowser the Hound! Come, Reddy, come!" she cried, and started across the bridge as fast as she could go.

Reddy didn't stop to look or to think. His one idea was to get away from Bowser the Hound. "Wait, Granny! Wait!" he cried, and started after her as fast as he could run. He was in the middle of the bridge before he remembered it at all. When he was at last safely across, it was to find old Granny Fox sitting down laughing at him. Then for the first time Reddy looked behind him to see where Bowser the Hound might be. He was nowhere to be seen. Could he have fallen off the bridge?

"Where is Bowser the Hound?" cried Reddy.

"Home in Farmer Brown's dooryard," replied Granny Fox dryly. Reddy stared at her for a minute. Then he began to understand that Granny Fox had simply scared him into running across the bridge. Reddy felt very cheap, very cheap indeed. "Now we'll run back again," said Granny Fox. And this time Reddy did.



II. Granny Shows Reddy a Trick

Every day Granny Fox led Reddy Fox over to the long railroad bridge and made him run back and forth across it until he had no fear of it whatever. At first it had made him dizzy, but now he could run across at the top of his speed and not mind it in the least. "I don't see what good it does to be able to run across a bridge; anyone can do that!" exclaimed Reddy one day.

Granny Fox smiled. "Do you remember the first time you tried to do it?" she asked.

Reddy hung his head. Of course he remembered -- remembered that Granny had had to scare him into crossing that first time.

Suddenly Granny Fox lifted her head. "Hark!" she exclaimed.

Reddy pricked up his sharp, pointed ears. Way off back, in the direction from which they had come, they heard the baying of a dog. It wasn't the voice of Bowser the Hound but of a younger dog. Granny listened for a few minutes. The voice of the dog grew louder as it drew nearer.

"He certainly is following our track," said Granny Fox. "Now, Reddy, you run across the bridge and watch from the top of the little hill over there. Perhaps I can show you a trick that will teach you why I have made you learn to run across the bridge."

Reddy trotted across the long bridge and up to the top of the hill, as Granny had told him to. Then he sat down to watch. Granny trotted out in the middle of a field and sat down. Pretty soon a young hound broke out of the bushes, his nose in Granny's track. Then he looked up and saw her, and his voice grew still more savage and eager. Granny Fox started to run as soon as she was sure that the hound had seen her, but she did not run very fast. Reddy did not know what to make of it, for Granny seemed simply to be playing with the hound and not really trying to get away from him at all. Pretty soon Reddy heard another sound. It was a long, low rumble. Then there was a distant whistle. It was a train.

Granny heard it, too. As she ran, she began to work back toward the long bridge. The train was in sight now. Suddenly Granny Fox started across the bridge so fast that she looked like a little red streak. The dog was close at her heels when she started and he was so eager to catch her that he didn't see either the bridge or the train. But he couldn't begin to run as fast as Granny Fox. Oh, my, no! When she had reached the other side, he wasn't halfway across, and right behind him, whistling for him to get out of the way, was the train.

The hound gave one frightened yelp, and then he did the only thing he could do; he leaped down, down into the swift water below, and the last Reddy saw of him he was frantically trying to swim ashore.

"Now you know why I wanted you to learn to cross a bridge; it's a very nice way of getting rid of dogs," said Granny Fox, as she climbed up beside Reddy.



III. Bowser the Hound Isn't Fooled

Reddy Fox had been taught so much by Granny Fox that he began to feel very wise and very important. Reddy is naturally smart and he had been very quick to learn the tricks that old Granny Fox had taught him. But Reddy Fox is a boaster. Every day he swaggered about on the Green Meadows and bragged how smart he was. Blacky the Crow grew tired of Reddy's boasting.

"If you're so smart, what is the reason you always keep out of sight of Bowser the Hound?" asked Blacky. "For my part, I don't believe that you are smart enough to fool him."

A lot of little meadow people heard Blacky say this, and Reddy knew it. He also knew that if he didn't prove Blacky in the wrong he would be laughed at forever after. Suddenly he remembered the trick that Granny Fox had played on the young hound at the railroad bridge. Why not play the same trick on Bowser and invite Blacky the Crow to see him do it? He would.

"If you will be over at the railroad bridge when the train comes this afternoon, I'll show you how easy it is to fool Bowser the Hound," said Reddy.

Blacky agreed to be there, and Reddy started off to find out where Bowser was. Blacky told everyone he met how Reddy Fox had promised to fool Bowser the Hound, and every time he told it he chuckled as if he thought it the best joke ever.

Blacky the Crow was on hand promptly that afternoon and with him came his cousin, Sammy Jay. Presently they saw Reddy Fox hurrying across the fields, and behind him in full cry came Bowser the Hound. Just as old Granny Fox had done with the young hound, Reddy allowed Bowser to get very near him and then, as the train came roaring along, he raced across the long bridge just ahead of it. He had thought that Bowser would be so intent on catching him that he would not notice the train until he was on the bridge and it was too late, as had been the case with the young hound. Then Bowser would have to jump down into the swift river or be run over. As soon as Reddy was across the bridge, he jumped off the track and turned to see what would happen to Bowser the Hound. The train was halfway across the bridge, but Bowser was nowhere to be seen. He must have jumped already. Reddy sat down and grinned in the most self-satisfied way.

The long train roared past, and Reddy closed his eyes to shut out the dust and smoke. When he opened them again, he looked right into the wide-open mouth of Bowser the Hound, who was not ten feet away.

"Did you think you could fool me with that old trick?" roared Bowser.

Reddy didn't stop to make reply; he just started off at the top of his speed, a badly frightened little fox.

You see, Bowser the Hound knew all about that trick and he had just waited until the train had passed and then had run across the bridge right behind it.

And as Reddy Fox, out of breath and tired, ran to seek the aid of Granny Fox in getting rid of Bowser the Hound, he heard a sound that made him grind his teeth.

"Haw, haw, haw! How smart we are!"

It was Blacky the Crow.



IV. Reddy Fox Grows Bold

Reddy Fox was growing bold. Everybody said so, and what everybody says must be so. Reddy Fox had always been very sly and not bold at all. The truth is Reddy Fox had so many times fooled Bowser the Hound and Farmer Brown's boy that he had begun to think himself very smart indeed. He had really fooled himself. Yes, Sir, Reddy Fox had fooled himself. He thought himself so smart that nobody could fool him.

Now it is one of the worst habits in the world to think too much of one's self. And Reddy Fox had the habit. Oh, my, yes! Reddy Fox certainly did have the habit! When anyone mentioned Bowser the Hound, Reddy would turn up his nose and say: "Pooh! It's the easiest thing in the world to fool him."

You see, he had forgotten all about the time Bowser had fooled him at the railroad bridge.

Whenever Reddy saw Farmer Brown's boy he would say with the greatest scorn: "Who's afraid of him? Not I!"

So as Reddy Fox thought more and more of his own smartness, he grew bolder and bolder. Almost every night he visited Farmer Brown's henyard. Farmer Brown set traps all around the yard, but Reddy always found them and kept out of them. It got so that Unc' Billy Possum and Jimmy Skunk didn't dare go to the henhouse for eggs any more, for fear that they would get into one of the traps set for Reddy Fox. Of course they missed those fresh eggs and of course they blamed Reddy Fox.

"Never mind," said Jimmy Skunk, scowling down on the Green Meadows where Reddy Fox was taking a sun bath, "Farmer Brown's boy will get him yet! I hope he does!" Jimmy said this a little spitefully and just as if he really meant it.

Now when people think that they are very, very smart, they like to show off. You know it isn't any fun at all to feel smart unless others can see how smart you are. So Reddy Fox, just to show off, grew very bold, very bold indeed. He actually went up to Farmer Brown's henyard in broad daylight, and almost under the nose of Bowser the Hound he caught the pet chicken of Farmer Brown's boy. 'Ol Mistah Buzzard, sailing overhead high up in the blue, blue sky, saw Reddy Fox and shook his bald head:

"Ah see Trouble on the way; Yes, Ah do! Yes, Ah do! Hope it ain't a-gwine to stay; Yes, Ah do! Yes, Ah do! Trouble am a spry ol' man, Bound to find yo' if he can; If he finds yo' bound to stick. When Ah sees him, Ah runs quick! Yes, Ah do! Yes, Ah do!"

But Reddy Fox thought himself so smart that it seemed as if he really were hunting for Ol' Mr. Trouble. And when he caught the pet chicken of Farmer Brown's boy, Ol' Mr. Trouble was right at his heels.



V. Reddy Grows Careless

Ol' Mistah Buzzard was right. Trouble was right at the heels of Reddy Fox, although Reddy wouldn't have believed it if he had been told. He had stolen that plump pet chicken of Farmer Brown's boy for no reason under the sun but to show off. He wanted everyone to know how bold he was. He thought himself so smart that he could do just exactly what he pleased and no one could stop him. He liked to strut around through the Green Forest and over the Green Meadows and brag about what he had done and what he could do.

Now people who brag and boast and who like to show off are almost sure to come to grief. And when they do, very few people are sorry for them. None of the little meadow and forest people liked Reddy Fox, anyway, and they were getting so tired of his boasting that they just ached to see him get into trouble. Yes, Sir, they just ached to see Reddy get into trouble.

Peter Rabbit, happy-go-lucky Peter Rabbit, shook his head gravely when he heard how Reddy had stolen that pet chicken of Farmer Brown's boy, and was boasting about it to everyone.

"Reddy Fox is getting so puffed up that pretty soon he won't be able to see his own feet," said Peter Rabbit.

"Well, what if he doesn't?" demanded Jimmy Skunk.

Peter looked at Jimmy in disgust:

"He comes to grief, however fleet, Who doesn't watch his flying feet.

"Jimmy Skunk, if you didn't have that little bag of scent that everybody is afraid of, you would be a lot more careful where you step," replied Peter. "If Reddy doesn't watch out, someday he'll step right into a trap."

Jimmy Skunk chuckled. "I wish he would!" said he.

Now when Farmer Brown's boy heard about the boldness of Reddy Fox, he shut his mouth tight in a way that was unpleasant to see and reached for his gun. "I can't afford to raise chickens to feed foxes!" said he. Then he whistled for Bowser the Hound, and together they started out. It wasn't long before Bowser found Reddy's tracks.

"Bow, wow, wow, wow!" roared Bowser the Hound.

Reddy Fox, taking a nap on the edge of the Green Forest, heard Bowser's big, deep voice. He pricked up his ears, then he grinned. "I feel just like a good run today," said he, and trotted off along the Crooked Little Path down the hill.

Now this was a beautiful summer day and Reddy knew that in summer men and boys seldom hunt foxes. "It's only Bowser the Hound," thought Reddy, "and when I've had a good run, I'll play a trick on him so that he will lose my track." So Reddy didn't use his eyes as he should have done. You see, he thought himself so smart that he had grown careless. Yes, Sir, Reddy Fox had grown careless. He kept looking back to see where Bowser the Hound was, but didn't look around to make sure that no other danger was near.

Ol' Mistah Buzzard, sailing round and round, way up in the blue, blue sky, could see everything going on down below. He could see Reddy Fox running along the edge of the Green Forest and every few minutes stopping to chuckle and listen to Bowser the Hound trying to pick out the trail Reddy had made so hard to follow by his twists and turns. And he saw something else, did Ol' Mistah Buzzard. It looked to him very much like the barrel of a gun sticking out from behind an old tree just ahead of Reddy.

"Ah reckon it's just like Ah said: Reddy Fox is gwine to meet trouble right smart soon," muttered Ol' Mistah Buzzard.



VI. Drummer the Woodpecker Drums in Vain

Once upon a time, before he had grown to think himself so very, very smart, Reddy Fox would never, never have thought of running without watching out in every direction. He would have seen that thing that looked like the barrel of a gun sticking out from behind the old tree toward which he was running, and he would have been very suspicious, very suspicious indeed. But now all Reddy could think of was what a splendid chance he had to show all the little meadow and forest people what a bold, smart fellow he was.

So once more Reddy sat down and waited until Bowser the Hound was almost up to him. Just then Drummer the Woodpecker began to make a tremendous noise -- rat-a-tat-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat-tat! Now everybody who heard that rat-a-tat-tat-tat knew that it was a danger signal. Drummer the Woodpecker never drums just that way for pleasure. But Reddy Fox paid no attention to it. He didn't notice it at all. You see, he was so full of the idea of his own smartness that he didn't have room for anything else.

"Stupid thing!" said Drummer the Woodpecker to himself. "I don't know what I am trying to warn him for, anyway. The Green Meadows and the Green Forest would be better off without him, a lot better off! Nobody likes him. He's a dreadful bully and is all the time trying to catch or scare to death those who are smaller than he. Still, he is so handsome!" Drummer cocked his head on one side and looked over at Reddy Fox.

Reddy was laughing to see how hard Bowser the Hound was working to untangle Reddy's mixed-up trail.

"Yes, Sir, he certainly is handsome," said Drummer once more.

Then he looked down at the foot of the old tree on which he was sitting, and what he saw caused Drummer to make up his mind. "I surely would miss seeing that beautiful red coat of his! I surely would!" he muttered. "If he doesn't hear and heed now, it won't be my fault!" Then Drummer the Woodpecker began such a furious rat-a-tat-tat-tat on the trunk of the old tree that it rang through the Green Forest and out across the Green Meadows almost to the Purple Hills.

Down at the foot of the tree a freckled face on which there was a black scowl looked up. It was the face of Farmer Brown's boy.

"What ails that pesky woodpecker?" he muttered. "If he doesn't keep still, he'll scare that fox!"

He shook a fist at Drummer, but Drummer didn't appear to notice. He kept right on, rat-a-tat-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat-tat!



VII. Too Late Reddy Fox Hears

Drummer the Woodpecker was pounding out his danger signal so fast and so hard that his red head flew back and forth almost too fast to see. Rat-a-tat-tat-a-tat-tat, beat Drummer on the old tree trunk on the edge of the Green Forest. When he stopped for breath, he looked down into the scowling face of Farmer Brown's boy, who was hiding behind the old tree trunk.

Drummer didn't like the looks of that scowl, not a bit. And he didn't like the looks of the gun which Farmer Brown's boy had. He knew that Farmer Brown's boy was hiding there to shoot Reddy Fox, but Drummer was beginning to be afraid that Farmer Brown's boy might guess what all that drumming meant -- that it was a warning to Reddy Fox. And if Farmer Brown's boy did guess that, why -- why -- anyway, on the other side of the tree there was a better place to drum. So Drummer the Woodpecker crept around to the other side of the tree and in a minute was drumming harder than ever. Whenever he stopped for breath, he looked out over the Green Meadows to see if Reddy Fox had heard his warning.

But if Reddy had heard, he hadn't heeded. Just to show off before all the little meadow and forest people, Reddy had waited until Bowser the Hound had almost reached him. Then, with a saucy flirt of his tail, Reddy Fox started to show how fast he could run, and that is very fast indeed. It made Bowser the Hound seem very slow, as, with his nose to the ground, he came racing after Reddy, making a tremendous noise with his great voice.

Now Reddy Fox had grown as careless as he had grown bold. Instead of looking sharply ahead, he looked this way and that way to see who was watching and admiring him. So he took no note of where he was going and started straight for the old tree trunk on which Drummer the Woodpecker was pounding out his warning of danger.

Now Reddy Fox has sharp eyes and very quick ears. My, my, indeed he has! But just now Reddy was as deaf as if he had cotton stuffed in his ears. He was chuckling to himself to think how he was going to fool Bowser the Hound and how smart everyone would think him, when all of a sudden, he heard the rat-a-tat-tata-tat-tat of Drummer the Woodpecker and knew that that meant "Danger!"

For just a wee little second it seemed to Reddy Fox that his heart stopped beating. He couldn't stop running, for he had let Bowser the Hound get too close for that. Reddy's sharp eyes saw Drummer the Woodpecker near the top of the old tree trunk and noticed that Drummer seemed to be looking at something down below. Reddy Fox gave one quick look at the foot of the old tree trunk and saw a gun pointed at him and behind the gun the freckled face of Farmer Brown's boy. Reddy Fox gave a little gasp of fright and turned so suddenly that he almost fell flat. Then he began to run as never in his life had he run before. It seemed as though his flying feet hardly touched the grass. His eyes were popping out with fright as with every jump he tried to run just a wee bit faster.

Bang! Bang! Two flashes of fire and two puffs of smoke darted from behind the old tree trunk. Drummer the Woodpecker gave a frightened scream and flew deep into the Green Forest. Peter Rabbit flattened himself under a friendly bramble bush. Johnny Chuck dived headfirst down his doorway.

Reddy Fox gave a yelp, a shrill little yelp of pain, and suddenly began to go lame. But Farmer Brown's boy didn't know that. He thought he had missed and he growled to himself:

"I'll get that fox yet for stealing my pet chicken!"



VIII. Granny Fox Takes Care of Reddy

Reddy Fox was so sore and lame that he could hardly hobble. He had had the hardest kind of work to get far enough ahead of Bowser the Hound to mix his trail up so that Bowser couldn't follow it. Then he had limped home, big tears running down his nose, although he tried hard not to cry. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" moaned Reddy Fox, as he crept in at the doorway of his home.

"What's the matter now?" snapped old Granny Fox, who had just waked up from a sun nap.

"I -- I've got hurt," said Reddy Fox, and began to cry harder. Granny Fox looked at Reddy sharply. "What have you been doing now -- tearing your clothes on a barbed-wire fence or trying to crawl through a bull-briar thicket? I should think you were big enough by this time to look out for yourself!" said Granny Fox crossly, as she came over to look at Reddy's hurts.

"Please don't scold, please don't, Granny Fox," begged Reddy, who was beginning to feel sick to his stomach as well as lame, and to smart dreadfully.

Granny Fox took one look at Reddy's wounds, and knew right away what had happened. She made Reddy stretch himself out at full length and then she went to work on him, washing his wounds with the greatest care and binding them up. She was very gentle, was old Granny Fox, as she touched the sore places, but all the time she was at work her tongue flew, and that wasn't gentle at all. Oh, my, no! There was nothing gentle about that!

You see, old Granny Fox is wise and very, very sharp and shrewd. Just as soon as she saw Reddy's hurts, she knew that they were made by shot from a gun, and that meant that Reddy Fox had been careless or he never, never would have been where he was in danger of being shot.

"I hope this will teach you a lesson!" said Granny Fox. "What are your eyes and your ears and your nose for? To keep you out of just such trouble as this.

"A little Fox must use his eyes Or get someday a sad surprise.

"A little Fox must use his ears And know what makes each sound he hears.

"A little Fox must use his nose And try the wind where'er he goes.

"A little Fox must use all three To live to grow as old as me.

"Now tell me all about it, Reddy Fox. This is summer and men don't hunt foxes now. I don't see how it happens that Farmer Brown's boy was waiting for you with a gun."

So Reddy Fox told Granny Fox all about how he had run too near the old tree trunk behind which Farmer Brown's boy had been hiding, but Reddy didn't tell how he had been trying to show off, or how in broad daylight he had stolen the pet chicken of Farmer Brown's boy. You may be sure he was very careful not to mention that.

And so old Granny Fox puckered up her brows and thought and thought, trying to find some good reason why Farmer Brown's boy should have been hunting in the summertime.

"Caw, caw, caw!" shouted Blacky the Crow.

The face of Granny Fox cleared. "Blacky the Crow has been stealing, and Farmer Brown's boy was out after him when Reddy came along," said Granny Fox, talking out loud to herself.

Reddy Fox grew very red in the face, but he never said a word.



IX. Peter Rabbit Hears the News

Johnny Chuck came running up to the edge of the Old Briarpatch quite out of breath. You see, he is so round and fat and roly-poly that to run makes him puff and blow. Johnny Chuck's eyes danced with excitement as he peered into the Old Briar-patch, trying to see Peter Rabbit.

"Peter! Peter Rabbit! Oh, Peter!" he called. No one answered. Johnny Chuck looked disappointed. It was the middle of the morning, and he had thought that Peter would surely be at home then. He would try once more. "Oh, you Peter Rabbit!" he shouted in such a high-pitched voice that it was almost a squeal.

"What you want?" asked a sleepy voice from the middle of the Old Briar-patch.

Johnny Chuck's face lighted up. "Come out here, Peter, where I can look at you," cried Johnny.

"Go away, Johnny Chuck! I'm sleepy," said Peter Rabbit, and his voice sounded just a wee bit cross, for Peter had been out all night, a habit which Peter has.

"I've got some news for you, Peter," called Johnny Chuck eagerly.

"How do you know it's news to me?" asked Peter, and Johnny noticed that his voice wasn't quite so cross.

"I'm almost sure it is, for I've just heard it myself, and I've hurried right down here to tell you because I think you'll want to know it," replied Johnny Chuck.

"Pooh!" said Peter Rabbit, "it's probably as old as the hills to me. You folks who go to bed with the sun don't hear the news until it's old. What is it?"

"It's about Reddy Fox," began Johnny Chuck, but Peter Rabbit interrupted him.

"Shucks, Johnny Chuck! You are slow! Why, it was all over Green Meadows last night how Reddy Fox had been shot by Farmer Brown's boy!" jeered Peter Rabbit. "That's no news. And here you've waked me up to tell me something I knew before you went to bed last night! Serves Reddy Fox right. Hope he'll be lame for a week," added Peter Rabbit.

"He can't walk at all!" cried Johnny Chuck in triumph, sure now that Peter Rabbit hadn't heard the news.

"What's that?" demanded Peter, and Johnny Chuck could hear him begin to hop along one of his little private paths in the heart of the Old Briar-patch. He knew now that Peter Rabbit's curiosity was aroused, and he smiled to himself.

In a few minutes Peter thrust a sleepy-looking face out from the Old Briar-patch and grinned rather sheepishly. "What was that you were saying about Reddy Fox?" he asked again.

"I've a good mind not to tell you, Mr. Know-it-all," exclaimed Johnny Chuck.

"Oh, please, Johnny Chuck," pleaded Peter Rabbit.

Finally Johnny gave in. "I said that Reddy Fox can't walk. Aren't you glad, Peter?"

"How do you know?" asked Peter, for Peter is very suspicious of Reddy Fox, and has to watch out for his tricks all the time.

"Jimmy Skunk told me. He was up by Reddy's house early this morning and saw Reddy try to walk. He tried and tried and couldn't. You won't have to watch out for Reddy Fox for some time, Peter. Serves him right, doesn't it?''

"Let's go up and see if it really is true!" said Peter suddenly.

"All right," said Johnny Chuck, and off they started.



X. Poor Reddy Fox

Peter Rabbit and Johnny Chuck stole up the hill toward the home of Reddy Fox. As they drew near, they crept from one bunch of grass to another and from bush to bush, stopping behind each to look and listen. They were not taking any chances. Johnny Chuck was not much afraid of Reddy Fox, for he had whipped him once, but he was afraid of old Granny Fox. Peter Rabbit was afraid of both. The nearer he got to the home of Reddy Fox, the more anxious and nervous he grew. You see, Reddy Fox had played so many tricks to try and catch Peter that Peter was not quite sure that this was not another trick. So he kept a sharp watch in every direction, ready to run at the least sign of danger.

When they had tiptoed and crawled to a point where they could see the doorstep of the Fox home, Peter Rabbit and Johnny Chuck lay down in a clump of bushes and watched. Pretty soon they saw old Granny Fox come out. She sniffed the wind and then she started off at a quick run down the Lone Little Path. Johnny Chuck gave a sigh of relief, for he wasn't afraid of Reddy and now he felt safe. But Peter Rabbit was just as watchful as ever.

"I've got to see Reddy for myself before I'll go a step nearer," he whispered. Just then Johnny Chuck put a hand on his lips and pointed with the other hand. There was Reddy Fox crawling out of his doorway into the sun. Peter Rabbit leaned forward to see better. Was Reddy Fox really so badly hurt, or was he only pretending?

Reddy Fox crawled painfully out onto his doorstep. He tried to stand and walk, but he couldn't because he was too stiff and sore. So he just crawled. He didn't know that anyone was watching him, and with every movement he made a face. That was because it hurt so.

Peter Rabbit, watching from the clump of bushes, knew then that Reddy was not pretending. He knew that he had nothing, not the least little thing, to fear from Reddy Fox. So Peter gave a whoop of joy and sprang out into view.

Reddy looked up and tried to grin, but made a face of pain instead. You see, it hurt so to move.

"I suppose you're tickled to death to see me like this," he growled to Peter Rabbit.

Now Peter had every reason to be glad, for Reddy Fox had tried his best to catch Peter Rabbit to give to old Granny Fox for her dinner, and time and again Peter had just barely escaped. So at first Peter Rabbit had whooped with joy. But as he saw how very helpless Reddy really was and how much pain he felt, suddenly Peter Rabbit's big, soft eyes filled with tears of pity.

He forgot all about the threats of Reddy Fox and how Reddy had tried to trick him. He forgot all about how mean Reddy had been.

"Poor Reddy Fox," said Peter Rabbit. "Poor Reddy Fox."



XI. Granny Fox Returns

Up over the hill trotted old Granny Fox. She was on her way home with a tender young chicken for Reddy Fox. Poor Reddy! Of course, it was his own fault, for he had been showing off and he had been careless or he never would have gone so near to the old tree trunk behind which Farmer Brown's boy was hiding.

But old Granny Fox didn't know this. She never makes such mistakes herself. Oh, my, no! So now, as she came up over the hill to a place where she could see her home, she laid the chicken down and then she crept behind a little bush and looked all over the Green Meadows to see if the way was clear. She knew that Bowser the Hound was chained up. She had seen Farmer Brown and Farmer Brown's boy hoeing in the cornfield, so she had nothing to fear from them.

Looking over to her doorstep, she saw Reddy Fox lying in the sun, and then she saw something else, something that made her eyes flash and her teeth come together with a snap. It was Peter Rabbit sitting up very straight, not ten feet from Reddy Fox.

"So that's that young scamp of a Peter Rabbit whom Reddy was going to catch for me when I was sick and couldn't! I'll just show Reddy Fox how easily it can be done, and he shall have tender young rabbit with his chicken!" said Granny Fox to herself.

So first she studied and studied every clump of grass and every bush behind which she could creep. She saw that she could get almost to where Peter Rabbit was sitting and never once show herself to him. Then she looked this way and looked that way to make sure that no one was watching her.

No one did she see on the Green Meadows who was looking her way. Then Granny Fox began to crawl from one clump of grass to another and from bush to bush. Sometimes she wriggled along flat on her stomach. Little by little she was drawing nearer and nearer to Peter Rabbit.

Now with all her smartness old Granny Fox had forgotten one thing. Yes, Sir, she had forgotten one thing. Never once had she thought to look up in the sky.

And there was Ol' Mistah Buzzard sailing round and round and looking down and seeing all that was going on below.

Ol' Mistah Buzzard is sharp. He knew just what old Granny Fox was planning to do -- knew it as well as if he had read her thoughts. His eyes twinkled.

"Ah cert'nly can't allow li'l' Brer Rabbit to be hurt, Ah cert'nly can't!" muttered Ol' Mistah Buzzard, and chuckled.

Then he slanted his broad wings downward and without a sound slid down out of the sky till he was right behind Granny Fox.

"Do yo' always crawl home, Granny Fox?" asked Ol' Mistah Buzzard.

Granny Fox was so startled, for she hadn't heard a sound, that she jumped almost out of her skin. Of course Peter Rabbit saw her then, and was off like a shot.

Granny Fox showed all her teeth. "I wish you would mind your own business, Mistah Buzzard!" she snarled.

"Cert'nly, cert'nly, Ah sho'ly will!" replied Ol' Mistah Buzzard, and sailed up into the blue, blue sky.



XII. The Lost Chicken

When old Granny Fox had laid down the chicken she was bringing home to Reddy Fox to try to catch Peter Rabbit, she had meant to go right back and get it as soon as she had caught Peter. Now she saw Peter going across the Green Meadows, lipperty-lipperty-lip, as fast as he could go. She was so angry that she hopped up and down. She tore up the grass and ground her long, white teeth. She glared up at Ol' Mistah Buzzard, who had warned Peter Rabbit, but all she could do was to scold, and that didn't do her much good, for in a few minutes Ol' Mistah Buzzard was so far up in the blue, blue sky that he couldn't hear a word she was saying. My, my, but old Granny Fox certainly was angry! If she hadn't been so angry she might have seen Johnny Chuck lying as flat as he could make himself behind a big clump of grass.

Johnny Chuck was scared. Yes, indeed, Johnny Chuck was dreadfully scared. He had fought Reddy Fox and whipped him, but he knew that old Granny Fox would be too much for him. So it was with great relief that Johnny Chuck saw her stop tearing up the grass and trot over to see how Reddy Fox was getting along. Then Johnny Chuck crept along until he was far enough away to run. How he did run! He was so fat and roly-poly that he was all out of breath when he reached home, and so tired that he just dropped down on his doorstep and panted.

"Serves me right for having so much curiosity," said Johnny Chuck to himself.

Reddy Fox looked up as old Granny Fox came hurrying home. He was weak and very, very hungry. But he felt sure that old Granny Fox would bring him something nice for his breakfast, and as soon as he heard her footsteps his mouth began to water.

"Did you bring me something nice, Granny?" asked Reddy Fox.

Now old Granny Fox had been so put out by the scare she had had and by her failure to catch Peter Rabbit that she had forgotten all about the chicken she had left up on the hill. When Reddy spoke, she remembered it, and the thought of having to go way back after it didn't improve her temper a bit.

"No!" she snapped. "I haven't! -- You don't deserve any breakfast anyway. If you had any gumption" -- that's the word Granny Fox used, gumption -- "if you had any gumption at all, you wouldn't have gotten in trouble, and could get your own breakfast."

Reddy Fox didn't know what gumption meant, but he did know that he was very, very hungry, and do what he would, he couldn't keep back a couple of big tears of disappointment. Granny Fox saw them.

"There, there, Reddy! Don't cry. I've got a fine fat chicken for you up on the hill, and I'll run back and get it," said Granny Fox.

So off she started up the hill to the place where she had left the chicken when she started to try to catch Peter Rabbit. When she got there, there wasn't any chicken. No, Sir, there was no chicken at all -- just a few feathers. Granny Fox could hardly believe her own eyes. She looked this way and she looked that way, but there was no chicken, just a few feathers. Old Granny Fox flew into a greater rage than before.



XIII. Granny Fox Calls Jimmy Skunk Names

Granny Fox couldn't believe her own eyes. No, Sir, she couldn't believe her own eyes, and she rubbed them two or three times to make sure that she was seeing right. That chicken certainly had disappeared, and left no trace of where it had gone.

It was very queer. Old Granny Fox sat down to think who would dare steal anything from her. Then she walked in a big circle with her nose to the ground, sniffing and sniffing. What was she doing that for? Why, to see if she could find the tracks of anyone who might have stolen her chicken.

"Aha!" exclaimed old Granny Fox, starting to run along the top of the hill, her nose to the ground. "Aha! I'll catch him this time!"

In a few minutes she began to run more slowly, and every two or three steps she would look ahead. Suddenly her eyes snapped, and she began to creep almost flat on her stomach, just as she had crept for Peter Rabbit. But it wasn't Peter Rabbit this time. It was -- who do you think? Jimmy Skunk! Yes, Sir, it was Jimmy Skunk. He was slowly ambling along, for Jimmy Skunk never hurries. Every big stick or stone that he could move, he would pull over or look under, for Jimmy Skunk was hunting for beetles.

Old Granny Fox watched him. "He must have a tremendous appetite to be hunting for beetles after eating my chicken!" muttered she. Then she jumped out in front of Jimmy Skunk, her eyes snapping, her teeth showing, and the hair on her back standing on end so as to make her look very fierce. But all the time old Granny Fox took the greatest care not to get too near to Jimmy Skunk.

"Where's my chicken?" snarled old Granny Fox, and she looked very, very fierce.

Jimmy Skunk looked up as if very much surprised. "Hello, Granny Fox!" he exclaimed. "Have you lost a chicken?"

"You've stolen it! You're a thief, Jimmy Skunk!" snapped Granny Fox.

"Words can never make black white; Before you speak be sure you're right,"

said Jimmy Skunk. "I'm not a thief."

"You are!" cried Granny working herself into a great rage.

"I'm not!"

"You are!"

All the time Jimmy Skunk was chuckling to himself, and the more he chuckled the angrier grew old Granny Fox. And all the time Jimmy Skunk kept moving toward old Granny Fox and Granny Fox kept backing away, for, like all the other little meadow and forest people, she has very great respect for Jimmy Skunk's little bag of scent.

Now, backing off that way, she couldn't see where she was going, and the first thing she knew she had backed into a bramble bush. It tore her skirts and scratched her legs. "Ooch!" cried old Granny Fox.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Jimmy Skunk. "That's what you get for calling me names."



XIV. Granny Fox Finds What Became of the Chicken

Old Granny Fox was in a terrible temper. Dear, dear, it certainly was a dreadful temper! Jimmy Skunk laughed at her, and that made it worse. When he saw this, Jimmy Skunk just rolled over and over on the ground and shouted, he was so tickled. Of course, it wasn't the least bit nice of Jimmy Skunk, but you know that Granny Fox had been calling Jimmy a thief. Then Jimmy doesn't like Granny Fox anyway, nor do any of the other little meadow and forest people, for most of them are very much afraid of her.

When old Granny Fox finally got out of the bramble bush, she didn't stop to say anything more to Jimmy Skunk, but hurried away, muttering and grumbling and grinding her teeth. Old Granny Fox wasn't pleasant to meet just then, and when Bobby Coon saw her coming, he just thought it best to get out of her way, so he climbed a tree.

It wasn't that Bobby Coon was afraid of old Granny Fox. Bless you, no! Bobby Coon isn't a bit afraid of her. It was because he had a full stomach and was feeling too good-natured and lazy to quarrel.

"Good morning, Granny Fox. I hope you are feeling well this morning," said Bobby Coon, as old Granny Fox came trotting under the tree he was sitting in. Granny Fox looked up and glared at him with yellow eyes.

"It isn't a good morning and I'm not feeling fine!" she snapped.

"My goodness, how you have torn your skirts!" exclaimed Bobby Coon.

Old Granny Fox started to say something unpleasant. Then she changed her mind and instead she sat down and told Bobby Coon all her troubles. As she talked, Bobby Coon kept ducking his head behind a branch of the tree to hide a smile. Finally Granny Fox noticed it.

"What do you keep ducking your head for, Bobby Coon?" she asked suspiciously.

"I'm just looking to see if I can see any feathers from that chicken," replied Bobby Coon gravely, though his eyes were twinkling with mischief.

"Well, do you?" demanded old Granny Fox.

And just then Bobby Coon did. They were not on the ground, however, but floating in the air. Bobby Coon leaned out to see where they came from, and Granny Fox turned to look, too. What do you think they saw? Why, sitting on a tall, dead tree was Mr. Goshawk, just then swallowing the last of Granny's chicken.

"Thief! thief! robber! robber!" shrieked old Granny Fox.

But Mr. Goshawk said nothing, just winked at Bobby Coon, puffed out his feathers, and settled himself for a comfortable nap.



XV. Reddy Fox Has a Visitor

Hardly was old Granny Fox out of sight on her way to hunt for the chicken she had left on the hill, when Unc' Billy Possum came strolling along the Lone Little Path. He was humming to himself, for he had just had a good breakfast. One of the Merry Little Breezes spied him and hurried to meet him and tell him about how Reddy Fox had been shot.

Unc' Billy listened, and the grin with which he had greeted the Merry Little Breeze grew into a broad smile.

"Are yo' all sure about that?" he asked.

The Merry Little Breeze was sure.

Unc' Billy Possum stopped for a few minutes and considered.

"Serves that no 'count Reddy Fox right," chuckled Unc' Billy. "He done spoil mah hunting at Farmer Brown's, he raised such a fuss among the hens up there. 'Tisn't safe to go there any mo'! No, Suh, 'tisn't safe, and it won't be safe for a right smart while. Did yo' say that Granny Fox is home?"

The Merry Little Breeze hadn't said anything about Granny Fox, but now remembered that she had gone up the hill.

"Ah believe Ah will just tote my sympathy over to Reddy Fox," said Unc' Billy Possum, as he started in the direction of Reddy Fox's house. But he made sure that old Granny Fox was not at home before he showed himself. Reddy Fox lay on his doorstep. He was sick and sore and stiff. Indeed, he was so stiff he couldn't walk at all. And he was weak -- weak and hungry, dreadfully hungry. When he heard footsteps, he thought old Granny Fox was bringing him the chicken after which she had gone. He felt too ill even to turn his head.

"Did you get the chicken, Granny?" he asked weakly. No one answered. "I say, did you get the chicken, Granny?" Reddy's voice sounded a little sharp and cross as he asked this time.

Still there was no reply, and Reddy began to be a little bit suspicious. He turned over and raised his head to look. Instead of old Granny Fox, there was Unc' Billy Possum grinning at him.

"Smarty, Smarty is a thief! Smarty, Smarty came to grief! Tried to show off just for fun And ran too near a loaded gun.

"Yo' all certainly has got just what yo' deserve, and Ah'm glad of it! Ah'm glad of it, Suh!" said Unc' Billy Possum severely.

An angry light came into the eyes of Reddy Fox and made them an ugly yellow for just a minute. But he felt too sick to quarrel. Unc' Billy Possum saw this. He saw how Reddy was really suffering, and down deep in his heart Unc' Billy was truly sorry for him. But he didn't let Reddy know it. No, indeed! He just pretended to be tickled to death to see Reddy Fox so helpless. He didn't dare stay long, for fear Granny Fox would return. So, after saying a few more things to make Reddy feel uncomfortable, Unc' Billy started off up the Lone Little Path toward the Green Forest.

"Too bad! Too bad!" he muttered to himself. "If ol' Granny Fox isn't smart enough to get Reddy enough to eat, Ah'll have to see what we-alls can do. Ah cert'nly will."



XVI. Unc' Billy Possum Visits the Smiling Pool

Joe Otter and Billy Mink were sitting on the Big Rock in the Smiling Pool. Because they had nothing else to do, they were planning mischief. Jerry Muskrat was busy filling his new house with food for the winter. He was too busy to get into mischief.

Suddenly Billy Mink put a finger on his lips as a warning to Little Joe Otter to keep perfectly still. Billy's sharp eyes had seen something moving over in the bulrushes. Together he and Little Joe Otter watched, ready to dive into the Smiling Pool at the first sign of danger. In a few minutes the rushes parted and a sharp little old face peered out. Little Joe Otter and Billy Mink each sighed with relief, and their eyes began to dance. "Hi, Unc' Billy Possum!" shouted Billy Mink.

A grin crept over the sharp little old face peering out from the bulrushes.

"Hi, yo'self!" he shouted, for it really was Unc' Billy Possum.

"What are you doing over here?" called Little Joe Otter.

"Just a-looking round," replied Unc' Billy Possum, his eyes twinkling.

"Have you heard about Reddy Fox?" shouted Billy Mink.

"Ah done jes' come from his home," replied Unc' Billy Possum.

"How is he?" asked Little Joe Otter.

"Po'ly, he sho'ly is po'ly," replied Unc' Billy Possum, shaking his head soberly. Then Unc' Billy told Billy Mink and Little Joe Otter how Reddy Fox was so stiff and sore and sick that he couldn't get anything to eat for himself, and how old Granny Fox had lost a chicken which she had caught for him.

"Serves him right!" exclaimed Billy Mink, who has never forgotten how Reddy Fox fooled him and caught the most fish once upon a time.

Unc' Billy nodded his head. "Yo' are right. Yo' cert'nly are right. Yes, Suh, Ah reckons yo' are right. Was yo' ever hungry, Billy Mink -- real hungry?" asked Unc' Billy Possum.

Billy Mink thought of the time when he went without his dinner because Mr. Night Heron had gobbled it up, when Billy had left it in a temper. He nodded his head.

"Ah was just a-wondering," continued Une' Billy Possum, "how it would seem to be right smart powerful hungry and not be able to hunt fo' anything to eat."

For a few minutes no one said a word. Then Billy Mink stood up and stretched. "Good-by," said Billy Mink.

"Where are you going so suddenly?" demanded Little Joe Otter.

"I'm going to catch a fish and take it up to Reddy Fox, if you must know!" snapped Billy Mink.

"Good!" cried Little Joe Otter. "You needn't think that you can have all the fun to yourself either, Billy Mink. I'm going with you."

There was a splash in the Smiling Pool, and Unc' Billy Possum was left looking out on nothing but the Smiling Pool and the Big Rock. He smiled to himself as he turned away. "Ah reckon Ah'll sho' have to do my share, too," said he.

And so it happened that when old Granny Fox finally reached home with nothing but a little wood mouse for Reddy, she found him taking a nap, his stomach as full as it could be. And just a little way off were two fish tails and the feathers of a little duck.



XVII. Farmer Brown's Boy Is Determined

Farmer Brown's boy had made up his mind. When he shut his teeth with a click and drew his lips together into a thin, straight line, those who knew him were sure that Farmer Brown's boy had made up his mind. That is just what he had done now. He was cleaning his gun, and as he worked he was thinking of his pet chicken and of all the other chickens that Reddy Fox had taken.

"I'm going to get that fox if it takes all summer!" exclaimed Farmer Brown's boy. "I ought to have gotten him the other day when I had a shot at him. Next time well, we'll see, Mr. Fox, what will happen next time."

Now someone heard Farmer Brown's boy, heard everything he said, though Farmer Brown's boy didn't know it. It was Unc' Billy Possum, who was hiding in the very pile of wood on which Farmer Brown's boy was sitting. Unc' Billy pricked up his ears.

He didn't like the tone of voice in which Farmer Brown's boy spoke. He thought of Reddy Fox still so stiff and sore and lame that he could hardly walk, all from the shot which Farmer Brown's boy thought had missed.

"There isn't gwine to be any next time. No, Suh, there isn't gwine to be any next time. Ah sho'ly doan love Reddy Fox, but Ah can't nohow let him be shot again. Ah cert'nly can't!" muttered Unc' Billy Possum to himself.

Of course, Farmer Brown's boy didn't hear him. He didn't hear him and he didn't see him when Unc' Billy Possum crept out of the back side of the woodpile and scurried under the henhouse. He was too intent on his plan to catch Reddy Fox.

"I'm just going to hunt over the Green Meadows and through the Green Forest until I get that fox!" said Farmer Brown's boy, and as he said it he looked very fierce, as if he really meant it. "I'm not going to have my chickens stolen any more! No, Sir-e-e! That fox has got a home somewhere on the Green Meadows or in the Green Forest, and I'm going to find it. Then watch out, Mr. Fox!"

Farmer Brown's boy whistled for Bowser the Hound and started for the Green Forest.

Unc' Billy Possum poked his sharp little old face out from under the henhouse and watched them go. Usually Unc' Billy is grinning, but now there wasn't any grin, not the least sign of one. Instead Unc' Billy Possum looked worried.

"There goes that boy with a gun, and nobody knows what'll happen when it goes off. If he can't find Reddy Fox, just as likely as not he'll point it at somebody else just fo' fun. Ah hope he doan meet up with mah ol' woman or any of mah li'l' pickaninnies. Ah'm plumb afraid of a boy with a gun, Ah am. 'Pears like he doan have any sense. Ah reckon Ah better be moving along right smart and tell mah family to stay right close in the ol' hollow tree," muttered Unc' Billy Possum, slipping out from his hiding place. Then Unc' Billy began to run as fast as he could toward the Green Forest.



XVIII. The Hunt for Reddy Fox

"Trouble, trouble, trouble, I feel it in the air; Trouble, trouble, trouble, it's round me everywhere."

Old Granny Fox muttered this over and over, as she kept walking around uneasily and sniffing the air.

"I don't see any trouble and I don't feel any trouble in the air. It's all in the sore places where I was shot," said Reddy Fox, who was stretched out on the doorstep of their home.

"That's because you haven't got any sense. When you do get some and learn to look where you are going, you won't get shot from behind old tree trunks and you will be able to feel trouble when it is near, without waiting for it to show itself. Now I feel trouble. You go down into the house and stay there!" Granny Fox stopped to test the air with her nose, just as she had been testing it for the last ten minutes.

"I don't want to go in," whined Reddy Fox. "It's nice and warm out here, and I feel a lot better than when I am curled up way down there in the dark."

Old Granny Fox turned, and her eyes blazed as she looked at Reddy Fox. She didn't say a word. She didn't have to. Reddy just crawled into his house, muttering to himself. Granny stuck her head in at the door.

"Don't you come out until I come back," she ordered. Then she added: "Farmer Brown's boy is coming with his gun."

Reddy Fox shivered when he heard that. He didn't believe Granny Fox. He thought she was saying that just to scare him and make him stay inside. But he shivered just the same. You see, he knew now what it meant to be shot, for he was still too stiff and sore to run, all because he had gone too near Farmer Brown's boy and his gun.

But old Granny Fox had not been fooling when she told Reddy Fox that Farmer Brown's boy was coming with a gun. It was true. He was coming down the Lone Little Path, and ahead of him was trotting Bowser the Hound. How did old Granny Fox know it? She just felt it! She didn't hear them, she didn't see them, and she didn't smell them; she just felt that they were coming. So as soon as she saw that Reddy Fox had obeyed her, she was off like a little red flash.

"It won't do to let them find our home," said Granny to herself, as she disappeared in the Green Forest.

First she hurried to a little point on the hill where she could look down the Lone Little Path. Just as she expected, she saw Farmer Brown's boy, and ahead of him, sniffing at every bush and all along the Lone Little Path, was Bowser the Hound. Old Granny Fox waited to see no more. She ran as fast as she could in a big circle which brought her out on the Lone Little Path below Farmer Brown's boy and Bowser the Hound, but where they couldn't see her, because of a turn in the Lone Little Path. She trotted down the Lone Little Path a very little way and then turned into the woods and hurried back up the hill, where she sat down and waited. In a few minutes she heard Bowser's great voice. He had smelled her track in the Lone Little Path and was following it. Old Granny Fox grinned. You see, she was planning to lead them far, far away from the home where Reddy Fox was hiding, for it would not do to have them find it.

And Farmer Brown's boy also grinned, as he heard the voice of Bowser the Hound.

"I'll hunt that fox until I get him," he said. You see, he didn't know anything about old Granny Fox; he thought Bowser was following Reddy Fox.



XIX Unc' Billy Possum Gives Warning

"What's the matter with you, Unc' Billy? You look as if you had lost your last friend." It was Jimmy Skunk who spoke.

Unc' Billy Possum stopped short. He had been hurrying so fast that he hadn't seen Jimmy Skunk at all.

"Matter enuff, Suh! Matter enuff!" said Unc' Billy Possum, when he could get his breath. "Do you hear that noise?"

"Sure, I hear that noise. That's only Bowser the Hound chasing old Granny Fox. When she gets tired she'll lose him," replied Jimmy Skunk. "What are you worrying about Bowser the Hound for?"

"Bowser the Hound will have to be smarter than he is now befo' he can worry me, Ah reckon," said Unc' Billy Possum scornfully. "It isn't Bowser the Hound; it's Farmer Brown's boy and his gun!" Then Unc' Billy told Jimmy Skunk how he had been hiding in the woodpile at Farmer Brown's and had heard Farmer Brown's boy say that he was going to hunt over the Green Meadows and through the Green Forest until he got Reddy Fox.

"What of it?" asked Jimmy Skunk. "If he gets Reddy Fox, so much the better. Reddy always did make trouble for other people. I don't see what you're worrying about Reddy Fox for. He's big enough to take care of himself."

"Yo' cert'nly are plumb slow in your wits this morning, Jimmy Skunk, yo' cert'nly are plumb slow! Supposing yo' should meet up with Farmer Brown's boy with that gun in his hands and supposing he had grown tired of watching fo' Reddy Fox. That gun might go off, Jimmy Skunk; it might go off when it was pointing right straight at yo'!" said Unc' Billy Possum.

Jimmy Skunk looked serious. "That's so, Unc' Billy, that's so!" he said. "Boys with guns do get dreadfully careless, dreadfully careless. They don't seem to think anything about the feelings of those likely to get hurt when the gun goes off. What was you thinking of doing, Unc' Billy?"

"Just passing the word along so everybody in the Green Meadows and in the Green Forest will keep out of the way of Farmer Brown's boy," replied Unc' Billy Possum.

"Good idea, Unc' Billy! I'll help you," said Jimmy Skunk.

So Unc' Billy Possum went one way, and Jimmy Skunk went another way. And everyone they told hurried to tell someone else. Happy Jack Squirrel told Chatterer the Red Squirrel; Chatterer told Striped Chipmunk, and Striped Chipmunk told Danny Meadow Mouse. Danny Meadow Mouse told Johnny Chuck; Johnny Chuck told Peter Rabbit; Peter Rabbit told Jumper the Hare; Jumper the Hare told Prickly Porky; Prickly Porky told Bobby Coon; Bobby Coon told Billy Mink; Billy Mink told Little Joe Otter; Little Joe Otter told Jerry Muskrat, and Jerry Muskrat told Grandfather Frog. And everybody hastened to hide from Farmer Brown's boy and his terrible gun.

By and by Farmer Brown's boy noticed how still it was in the Green Forest. Nowhere did he see or hear a bird. Nowhere could he catch a glimpse of anybody who wore fur.

"That fox must have scared away all the other animals and driven away all the birds. I'll get him! See if I don't!" muttered Farmer Brown's boy, and never once guessed that they were hiding from him.



XX. Old Granny Fox Makes a Mistake

Old Granny Fox was running through the overgrown old pasture, way up back of Farmer Brown's. She was cross and tired and hot, for it was a very warm day. Behind her came Bowser the Hound, his nose in Granny's tracks, and making a great noise with his big voice. Granny Fox was cross because she was tired. She hadn't done much running lately. She didn't mind running when the weather was cold, but now -- "Oh dear, it is hot!" sighed old Granny Fox, as she stopped a minute to rest.

Now old Granny Fox is very, very smart and very, very wise. She knows all the tricks with which foxes fool those who try to catch them. She knew that she could fool Bowser the Hound and puzzle him so that he wouldn't be able to follow her track at all. But she wasn't ready to do that yet. No, indeed! Old Granny Fox was taking great care to see that her tracks were easy to follow. She wanted Bowser the Hound to follow them, although it made her tired and hot and cross. Why did she? Well, you see, she was trying to lead him, and with him Farmer Brown's boy, far, far away from the home where Reddy Fox was nursing the wounds that he had received when Farmer Brown's boy had shot at him a few days before.

"Bow, wow, wow!" roared Bowser the Hound, following every twist and turn which Granny Fox made, just as she wanted him to. Back and forth across the old pasture and way up among the rocks on the edge of the mountain Granny Fox led Bowser the Hound. It was a long, long, long way from the Green Meadows and the Green Forest. Granny Fox had made it a long way purposely. She was willing to be tired herself if she could also tire Bowser the Hound and Farmer Brown's boy. She wanted to tire them so that when she finally puzzled and fooled them and left them there, they would be too tired to go back to the Green Meadows.

By and by Granny Fox came to a hole in the ground, an old house that had once belonged to her grandfather. Now this old house had a back door hidden close beside the hollow trunk of a fallen tree. Old Granny Fox just ran through the house, out the back door, through the hollow tree, and then jumped into a little brook where there was hardly more than enough water to wet her feet. Walking in the water, she left no scent in her tracks.

Bowser the Hound came roaring up to the front door of the old house. Granny's tracks led right inside, and Bowser grew so excited that he made a tremendous noise. At last he had found where Granny Fox lived; at least he thought he had. He was sure that she was inside, for there were her fresh tracks going inside and none coming out. Bowser the Hound never once thought of looking for a back door. If he had, he wouldn't have been any the wiser, because, you know, old Granny Fox had slipped away through the hollow tree trunk.

Granny Fox grinned as she listened to the terrible fuss Bowser was making. Then, when she had rested a little, she stole up on the hill where she could look down and see the entrance to the old deserted house. She watched Bowser digging and barking. After a while a worried look crept into the face of old Granny Fox.

"Where's Farmer Brown's boy? I thought surely he would follow Bowser the Hound," she muttered.



XXI. Reddy Fox Disobeys

When old Granny Fox had sent Reddy Fox into the house and told him to stay there until she returned home, he had not wanted to mind, but he knew that Granny Fox meant just what she said, and so he had crawled slowly down the long hall to the bedroom, way underground.

Pretty soon Reddy Fox heard a voice. It was very faint, for you know Reddy was in his bedroom way underground, but he knew it. He pricked up his ears and listened. It was the voice of Bowser the Hound, and Reddy knew by the sound that Bowser was chasing Granny Fox.

Reddy grinned. He wasn't at all worried about Granny Fox, not the least little bit. He knew how smart she was and that whenever she wanted to, she could get rid of Bowser the Hound. Then a sudden thought popped into Reddy's head, and he grew sober.

"Granny did feel trouble coming, just as she said," he thought.

Then Reddy Fox curled himself up and tried to sleep. He intended to mind and not put his little black nose outside until old Granny Fox returned. But somehow Reddy couldn't get to sleep. His bedroom was small, and he was so stiff and sore that he could not get comfortable. He twisted and turned and fidgeted. The more he fidgeted, the more uncomfortable he grew. He thought of the warm sunshine outside and how comfortable he would be, stretched out full length on the doorstep. It would take the soreness out of his legs. Something must have happened to Granny to keep her so long. If she had known that she was going to be gone such a long time, she wouldn't have told him to stay until she came back, thought Reddy.

By and by Reddy Fox crept a little way up the long, dark hall. He could just see the sunlight on the doorstep. Pretty soon he went a little bit nearer. He wasn't going to disobey old Granny Fox. Oh, no! No, indeed! She had told him to stay in the house until she returned. She hadn't said that he couldn't look out! Reddy crawled a little nearer to the open door and the sunlight.

"Granny Fox is getting old and timid. Just as if my eyes aren't as sharp as hers! I'd like to see Farmer Brown's boy get near me when I am really on the watch," said Reddy Fox to himself. And then he crept a little nearer to the open door.

How bright and warm and pleasant it did look outside! Reddy just knew that he would feel ever and ever so much better if he could stretch out on the doorstep. He could hear Jenny Wren fussing and scolding at someone or something, and he wondered what it could be. He crept just a wee bit nearer. He could hear Bowser's voice, but it was so faint that he had to prick up his sharp little ears and listen with all his might to hear it at all.

"Granny's led them way off on the mountain. Good old Granny!" thought Reddy Fox. Then he crawled right up to the very doorway. He could still hear Jenny Wren scolding and fussing.

"What does ail her?

"If it's hot or if it's cold, Jenny Wren will always scold. From morn till night the whole day long Her limber tongue is going strong.

"I'm going to find out what it means," said Reddy, talking to himself.

Reddy Fox poked his head out and -- looked straight into the freckled face of Farmer Brown's boy and the muzzle of that dreadful gun!



XXII. Ol' Mistah Buzzard's Keen Sight

Old Granny Fox had thought that when she fooled Bowser the Hound up in the old pasture on the edge of the mountain she could take her time going home. She was tired and hot, and she had planned to pick out the shadiest paths going back. She had thought that Farmer Brown's boy would soon join Bowser the Hound, when Bowser made such a fuss about having found the old house into which Granny Fox had run.

But Farmer Brown's boy had not yet appeared, and Granny Fox was getting worried. Could it be that he had not followed Bowser the Hound, after all? Granny Fox went out on a high point and looked, but she could see nothing of Farmer Brown's boy and his gun. Just then Ol' Mistah Buzzard came sailing down out of the blue, blue sky and settled himself on a tall, dead tree. Now Granny Fox hadn't forgotten how Ol' Mistah Buzzard had warned Peter Rabbit just as she was about to pounce on him, but she suddenly thought that Ol' Mistah Buzzard might be of use to her.

So old Granny Fox smoothed out her skirts and walked over to the foot of the tree where Ol' Mistah Buzzard sat.

"How do you do today, neighbor Buzzard?" inquired Granny Fox, smiling up at Ol' Mistah Buzzard.

"Ah'm so as to be up and about, thank yo'," replied Ol' Mistah Buzzard, spreading his wings out so that air could blow under them.

"My!" exclaimed old Granny Fox, "what splendid great wings you have, Mistah Buzzard! It must be grand to be able to fly. I suppose you can see a great deal from way up there in the blue, blue sky, Mistah Buzzard."

Ol' Mistah Buzzard felt flattered. "Yes," said he, "Ah can see all that's going on on the Green Meadows and in the Green Forest."

"Oh, Mistah Buzzard, you don't really mean that!" exclaimed old Granny Fox, just as if she wanted to believe it, but couldn't.

"Yes, Ah can!" replied Ol' Mistah Buzzard.

"Really, Mistah Buzzard? Really? Oh, I can't believe that your eyes are so sharp as all that! Now I know where Bowser the Hound is and where Farmer Brown's boy is, but I don't believe you can see them," said Granny Fox.

Ol' Mistah Buzzard never said a word but spread his broad wings and in a few minutes he had sailed up, up, up until he looked like just a tiny speck to old Granny Fox. Now old Granny Fox had not told the truth when she said she knew where Farmer Brown's boy was. She thought she would trick Ol' Mistah Buzzard into telling her.

In a few minutes down came Ol' Mistah Buzzard. "Bowser the Hound is up in the old back pasture," said he.

"Right!" cried old Granny Fox, clapping her hands. "And where is Farmer Brown's boy?"

"Farmer Brown's boy is..." Ol' Mistah Buzzard paused.

"Where? Where?" asked Granny Fox, so eagerly that Ol' Mistah Buzzard looked at her sharply.

"Yo' said you knew, so what's the use of telling yo'?" said Ol' Mistah Buzzard. Then he added: "But if Ah was yo', Ah cert'nly would get home right smart soon."

"Why? Do, do tell me what you saw, Mistah Buzzard!" begged Granny Fox.

But Ol' Mistah Buzzard wouldn't say another word, so old Granny Fox started for home as fast as she could run.

"Oh dear, I do hope Reddy Fox minded me and stayed in the house," she muttered.



XXII Granny Fox Has a Terrible Scare

Old Granny Fox felt her heart sink way down to her toes, for she felt sure Ol' Mistah Buzzard had seen Farmer Brown's boy and his gun over near the house where Reddy Fox was nursing his wounds, or he wouldn't have advised her to hurry home. She was already very tired and hot from the long run to lead Bowser the Hound away from the Green Meadows. She had thought to walk home along shady paths and cool off, but now she must run faster than ever, for she must know if Farmer Brown's boy had found her house.

"It's lucky I told Reddy Fox to go inside and not come out till I returned; it's very lucky I did that," thought Granny Fox as she ran. Presently she heard voices singing. They seemed to be in the treetops over her head.

"Happily we dance and play All the livelong sunny day! Happily we run and race And win or lose with smiling face!"

Granny Fox knew the voices, and she looked up. Just as she expected, she saw the Merry Little Breezes of Old Mother West Wind playing among the leaves. Just then one of them looked down and saw her.

"There's old Granny Fox! Just see how hot and tired she looks. Let's go down and cool her off!" shouted the Merry Little Breeze.

In a flash they were all down out of the treetops and dancing around old Granny Fox, cooling her off. Of course, Granny Fox kept right on running. She was too worried not to. But the Merry Little Breezes kept right beside her, and it was not nearly as hard running now as it had been.

"Have you seen Farmer Brown's boy?" panted Granny Fox.

"Oh, yes! We saw him just a little while ago over near your house, Granny Fox. We pulled his hat off, just to hear him scold," shouted the Merry Little Breezes, and then they tickled and laughed as if they had had a good time with Farmer Brown's boy.

But old Granny Fox didn't laugh -- oh, my, no, indeed! Her heart went lower still, and she did her best to run faster. Pretty soon she came out on the top of the hill where she could look, and then it seemed as if her heart came right up in her mouth and stopped beating. Her eyes popped almost out of her head. There was Farmer Brown's boy standing right in front of the door of her home. And while she was watching, what should Reddy Fox do but stick his head out the door.

Old Granny Fox saw the gun of Farmer Brown's boy pointed right at Reddy and she clapped both hands over her eyes to shut out the dreadful sight. Then she waited for the bang of the gun. It didn't come. Then Granny peeped through her fingers. Farmer Brown's boy was still there, but Reddy Fox had disappeared inside the house.

Granny Fox sighed in relief. It had been a terrible scare, the worst she could remember.



XXIV. Granny and Reddy Have To Move

"I don't want to move," whined Reddy Fox. "I'm too sore to walk."

Old Granny Fox gave him a shove. "You go along and do as I say!" she snapped. "If you had minded me, we wouldn't have to move. It's all your own fault. The wonder is that you weren't killed when you poked your head out right in front of Farmer Brown's boy. Now that he knows where we live, he will give us no peace. Move along lively now! This is the best home I have ever had, and now I've got to leave it. Oh dear! Oh dear!"

Reddy Fox hobbled along up the long hall and out the front door. He was walking on three legs, and at every step he made a face because, you know, it hurt so to walk.

The little stars, looking down from the sky, saw Reddy Fox limp out the door of the house he had lived in so long, and right behind him came old Granny Fox. Granny sighed and wiped away a tear, as she said good-by to her old home. Reddy Fox was thinking too much of his own troubles to notice how badly Granny Fox was feeling. Every few steps he had to sit down and rest because it hurt him so to walk.

"I don't see the use of moving tonight, anyway. It would be a lot easier and pleasanter when the sun is shining. This night air makes me so stiff that I know I never will get over it," grumbled Reddy Fox.

Old Granny Fox listened to him for a while, and then she lost patience. Yes, Sir, Granny Fox lost patience. She boxed Reddy Fox first on one ear and then on the other. Reddy began to snivel.

"Stop that!" said Granny Fox sharply. "Do you want all the neighbors to know that we have got to move? They'll find it out soon enough. Now come along without any more fuss. If you don't, I'll just go off and leave you to shift for yourself. Then how will you get anything to eat?"

Reddy Fox wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve and hobbled along as best he could. Granny Fox would run a little way ahead to see that the way was safe and then come back for Reddy. Poor Reddy. He did his best not to complain, but it was such hard work. And somehow Reddy Fox didn't believe that it was at all necessary. He had been terribly frightened when he had disobeyed Granny Fox that afternoon and put his head out the door, only to look right into the freckled face of Farmer Brown's boy. He had ducked back out of sight again too quickly for Farmer Brown's boy to shoot, and now he couldn't see why old Granny Fox wanted to move that very night.

"She's getting old. She's getting old and timid and fussy," muttered Reddy Fox, as he hobbled along behind her.

It seemed to Reddy as if they had walked miles and miles. He really thought that they had been walking nearly all night when old Granny Fox stopped in front of the worst-looking old fox house Reddy had ever seen.

"Here we are!" said she.

"What! Are we going to live in that thing?" cried Reddy. "It isn't fit for any respectable fox to put his nose into."

"It is where I was born!" snapped old Granny Fox. "If you want to keep out of harm's way, don't go to putting on airs now.

"Who scorns the simple things of life And tilts his nose at all he sees, Is almost sure to feel the knife Of want cut through his pleasant ease.

"Now don't let me hear another word from you, but get inside at once!"

Reddy Fox didn't quite understand all Granny Fox said, but he knew when she was to be obeyed, and so he crawled gingerly through the broken-down doorway.



XXV. Peter Rabbit Makes a Discovery

Hardly had jolly, round, red Mr. Sun thrown off his nightcap and come out from his home behind the Purple Hills for his daily climb up in the blue, blue sky, when Farmer Brown's boy started down the Lone Little Path through the Green Forest.

Peter Rabbit, who had been out all night and was just then on his way home, saw him. Peter stopped and sat up to rub his eyes and look again. He wasn't quite sure that he had seen aright the first time. But he had. There was Farmer Brown's boy, sure enough, and at his heels trotted Bowser the Hound.

Peter Rabbit rubbed his eyes once more and wrinkled up his eyebrows. Farmer Brown's boy certainly had a gun over one shoulder and a spade over the other. Where could he be going down the Lone Little Path with a spade? Farmer Brown's garden certainly was not in that direction. Peter watched him out of sight and then he hurried down to the Green Meadows to tell Johnny Chuck what he had seen. My, how Peter's long legs did fly! He was so excited that he had forgotten how sleepy he had felt a few minutes before.

Halfway down to Johnny Chuck's house, Peter Rabbit almost ran plump into Bobby Coon and Jimmy Skunk, who had been quarreling and were calling each other names. They stopped when they saw Peter Rabbit.

"Peter Rabbit runs away From his shadder, so they say. Peter, Peter, what a sight! Tell us why this sudden fright,"

shouted Bobby Coon.

Peter Rabbit stopped short. Indeed, he stopped so short that he almost turned a somersault. "Say," he panted, "I've just seen Farmer Brown's boy."

"You don't say so!" said Jimmy Skunk, pretending to be very much surprised. "You don't say so! Why, now I think of it, I believe I've seen Farmer Brown's boy a few times myself."

Peter Rabbit made a good-natured face at Jimmy Skunk, and then he told all about how he had seen Farmer Brown's boy with gun and spade and Bowser the Hound going down the Lone Little Path. "You know there isn't any garden down that way," he concluded.

Bobby Coon's face wore a sober look. Yes, Sir, all the fun was gone from Bobby Coon's face.

"What's the matter?" asked Jimmy Skunk.

"I was just thinking that Reddy Fox lives over in that direction and he is so stiff that he cannot run," replied Bobby Coon.

Jimmy Skunk hitched up his trousers and started toward the Lone Little Path. "Come on!" said he. "Let's follow him and see what he is about."

Bobby Coon followed at once, but Peter Rabbit said he would hurry over and get Johnny Chuck and then join the others.

All this time Farmer Brown's boy had been hurrying down the Lone Little Path to the home old Granny Fox and Reddy Fox had moved out of the night before. Of course, he didn't know that they had moved. He put down his gun, and by the time Jimmy Skunk and Bobby Coon and Peter Rabbit and Johnny Chuck reached a place where they could peep out and see what was going on, he had dug a great hole.

"Oh!" cried Peter Rabbit, "he's digging into the house of Reddy Fox, and he'll catch poor Reddy!"



XXVI. Farmer Brown's Boy Works for Nothing

The grass around the doorstep of the house where Reddy Fox had always lived was all wet with dew when Farmer Brown's boy laid his gun down, took off his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and picked up his spade. It was cool and beautiful there on the edge of the Green Meadows. Jolly, round, red Mr. Sun had just begun his long climb up in the blue, blue sky. Mr. Redwing was singing for joy over in the bulrushes on the edge of the Smiling Pool. Yes, it was very beautiful, very beautiful indeed. It didn't seem as if harm could come to anyone on such a beautiful morning.

But there was Farmer Brown's boy. He had crawled on his hands and knees without making a sound to get near enough to the home of Reddy Fox to shoot if Reddy was outside. But there was no sign of Reddy, so Farmer Brown's boy had hopped up, and now he was whistling as he began to dig. His freckled face looked good-natured. It didn't seem as if he could mean harm to anyone.

But there lay the gun, and he was working as if he meant to get to the very bottom of Reddy Fox's home!

Deeper and deeper grew the hole, and bigger and bigger grew the pile of sand which he threw out. He didn't know that anyone was watching him, except Bowser the Hound. He didn't see Johnny Chuck peeping from behind a tall bunch of meadow grass, or Peter Rabbit peeping from behind a tree on the edge of the Green Forest, or Bobby Coon looking from a safe hiding place in the top of that same tree. He didn't see Jimmy Skunk or Unc' Billy Possum or Happy Jack Squirrel or Digger the Badger. He didn't see one of them, but they saw him. They saw every shovelful of sand that he threw, and their hearts went pit-a-pat as they watched, for each one felt sure that something dreadful was going to happen to Reddy Fox.

Only Ol' Mistah Buzzard knew better. From way up high in the blue, blue sky he could look down and see many things. He could see all the little meadow and forest people who were watching Farmer Brown's boy. The harder Farmer Brown's boy worked, the more Ol' Mistah Buzzard chuckled to himself. What was he laughing at? Why, he could see the sharp face of old Granny Fox, peeping out from behind an old fence corner, and she was grinning. So Ol' Mistah Buzzard knew Reddy Fox was safe.

But the other little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows didn't know that old Granny Fox and Reddy Fox had moved, and their faces grew longer and longer as they watched Farmer Brown's boy go deeper and deeper into the ground.

"Reddy Fox has worried me almost to death and would eat me if he could catch me, but somehow things wouldn't be quite the same without him around. Oh dear, I don't want him killed," moaned Peter Rabbit.

"Perhaps he isn't home," said Jimmy Skunk.

"Of course he's home; he's so stiff and sore he can hardly walk at all and has to stay home," replied Johnny Chuck. "Hello, what's the matter now?"

Everybody looked. Farmer Brown's boy had climbed out of the hole. He looked tired and cross. He rested for a few minutes, and as he rested, he scowled. Then he began to shovel the sand back into the hole. He had reached the bottom and found no one there.

"Hurrah!" shouted Peter Rabbit and struck his heels together as he jumped up in the air.

And the others were just as glad as Peter Rabbit. Johnny Chuck was especially glad, for, you see, Farmer Brown's boy had once found Johnny's snug home, and Johnny had had to move as suddenly as did Granny and Reddy Fox. Johnny knew just how Reddy must feel, for he had had many narrow escapes in his short life. You can read all about them in the next book, The Adventures of Johnny Chuck.

<eob>

The Rover Boys In Camp

Or

The Rivals Of Pine Island

By

Arthur M. Winfield



Chapter I

The Rover Boys At Home


"All out for Oak Run!" shouted the brakeman of the train, as he thrust his head in through the doorway of the car. "Step lively, please!"

"Hurrah for home!" shouted a curly-headed youth of sixteen, as he caught up a small dress-suit case. "Come on, Sam."

"I'm coming, Tom," answered a boy a year younger. "Where is Dick?"

"Here I am," replied Dick Rover, the big brother of the others. "Just been in the baggage car, making sure the trunks would be put off," he added. "Say, but this looks natural, doesn't it, after traveling thousands of miles across the Pacific?"

"And across the Continent from San Francisco," put in Sam Rover.

"Do you know, I feel as if I'd been away for an age?"

"It's what we've gone through with that makes you feel that way, Sam," came from Tom Rover. "Just think of being cast away on a lonely island like Robinson Crusoe! Why, half the folks won't believe our story when they hear it."

"They'll have to believe it." Sam hopped down to the depot platform, followed by the others. "Wonder if the folks got that telegram I forwarded from Buffalo?"

"They must have, for there is Jack with the big carriage," said Tom, and walked over to the turnout he mentioned. "Hullo, Jack!" he called out. "How is everybody?"

"Master Tom!" ejaculated Jack Ness, the Rovers' hired man. "Back at last, are you, an' safe an' sound?"

"Sound as a dollar, Jack. How are the folks?"

"Your father is putty well, and so is your Uncle Randolph. Your Aunt Martha got so excited a-thinkin' you was coming hum she got a headache."

"Dear Aunt Martha!" murmured Tom. "I'll soon cure her of that." He turned to his brothers. "What shall we do about the trunks? We can't take 'em in the carriage."

"Aleck is comin' for them boxes," said the hired man. "There's his wagon now."

A box wagon came dashing up to the depot platform, with a tall, good-looking colored man on the seat. The eyes of the colored man lit up with pleasure when he caught sight of the boys.

"Well! well! well!" he ejaculated, leaping down and rushing forward. "Heah yo' are at las', bless you! I'se been dat worried 'bout yo' I couldn't 'most sleep fo' t'ree nights. An' jess to t'ink yo' was cast away on an island in de middle of dat Pacific Ocean! It's a wonder dem cannonballs didn't eat yo' up."

"Thanks, but we didn't meet any 'cannonballs,' Aleck, I am thankful to say," replied Dick Rover. "Our greatest trouble was with some mutineers who got drunk and wanted to run things to suit themselves. They might have got the best of us, but a warship visited the island just in the nick of time and rescued us."

"So I heared out ob dat letter wot yo' writ yo' father. An' to t'ink dat Miss Dora Stanhope and de Laning gals was wrecked wid yo'! It's wonderful!"

"It certainly was strange, Aleck. But, come, I am anxious to get home. Here are the trunk checks," and Dick passed the brasses over.

In a moment more the three boys had entered the carriage, along with Jack Ness. Tom insisted on driving, and away they went at a spanking gait, over Swift River, through the little village of Dexter's Corners, and then out on the road that led to Valley Brook farm.

As my old readers know, the Rover boys were three in number, as already introduced. They were the sons of Anderson Rover, a well-to-do gentleman, who was now living in retirement at Valley Brook, in company with his brother Randolph, and the latter's wife, Martha.

While Anderson Rover had been on a hunt for gold in the heart of Africa, the three boys had been sent by their Uncle Randolph to a military academy known as Putnam Hall. Here they made many friends and also a few enemies, the worst of the latter being Dan Baxter, a bully who wanted his way in everything. Baxter was the offspring of a family of low reputation, and his father, Arnold Baxter, was now in prison for various misdeeds.

The first term at school had been followed by an exciting chase on the ocean, after which the boys had gone with their uncle to the jungles of Africa, in a search after Anderson Rover. After the parent was found it was learned that Arnold Baxter was trying to swindle the Rovers out of a valuable gold mine in the far West, but this plot, after some exciting adventures, was nipped in the bud.

The trip West had tired the boys, and they hailed an outing on the Great Lakes with delight. During this outing they learned something about a treasure located in the heart of the Adirondack Mountains, and the next winter visited the locality and unearthed a box containing gold, silver, and precious stones, worth several thousands of dollars. During this treasure-hunt Dan Baxter did his best to bring the Rover boys to grief, but without success.

After the winter in the Adirondacks, the boys had expected to return at once to Putnam Hall to continue their studies. But three pupils were taken down with scarlet fever, and the academy was promptly closed by the master, Captain Victor Putnam.

"That gives us another holiday," Tom had said. "Let us put in the time by traveling," and, later on, it was decided that the boys should visit California for their health. This they did, and in the seventh volume of this series, entitled "The Rover Boys on Land and Sea," I related the particulars of how they were carried off to sea during a violent storm, in company with three of their old-time girl friends, Dora Stanhope and her cousins, Nellie and Grace Laning. It may be mentioned here that Dick thought Dora Stanhope the sweetest girl in the world, and Tom and Sam were equally smitten with Nellie and Grace Laning.

Being cast away on the Pacific was productive of additional adventures and surprises. On a ship that picked the girls and boys up they fell in again with Dan Baxter, and he did all in his power to make trouble for them. When all were cast away on a deserted island, Dan Baxter joined some mutineers among the sailors, and there was a fight which threatened to end seriously for our friends. But as luck would have it, a United States warship hove into sight, and from that moment the boys and girls, and the friends, who had stuck to them through thick and thin, were safe.

Before the warship left the island a search was made for Dan Baxter and for those who had mutinied with him. But the bully and his evil-minded followers kept out of sight, and so they were left behind to shift for themselves.

"Do you think that we will ever see Dan Baxter again?" Sam had questioned.

"I hardly think so," had been Dick's reply. But in this surmise the elder Rover boy was mistaken, as later events will prove.

The journey across the Pacific to San Francisco was accomplished without incident. As soon as the Golden Gate was reached the boys, and also the girls, sent telegrams to their folks, telling them that all was well.

Mrs. Stanhope was staying at Santa Barbara for her health. All of the girls had been stopping with her, and now it was decided that Dora, Nellie, and Grace should go to her again.

"It's too bad we must part," Dick had said, as he squeezed Dora's hand. "But you are coming East soon, aren't you?"

"In a month or two, yes. And what will you do?"

"Go back to Putnam Hall most likely -- if the scarlet fever scare is over."

"Then we'll be likely to see you again before long," and Dora smiled her pleasure.

"It will be like old times to get back to the Hall again," Sam had put in. "But first, I want to go home and see the folks."

"Right you are," had come from Tom. "I reckon they are dead anxious to see us, too."

And so they had parted, with tight hand-squeezing and bright smiles that meant a good deal. One train had taken the girls southward to Santa Barbara, and another had taken the boys eastward to Denver and to Chicago. At the latter city the lads had made a quick change, and twenty-six hours later found them at Oak Run, and in the carriage for the farm.



Chapter II

News Of Interest


"My boys! my boys!"

Such was the cry given by Anderson Rover, when he caught sight of the occupants of the carriage, as the turnout swept up to the piazza of the comfortable farm home.

"Home again! Home again Safe from a foreign shore!"

sang out Tom, and leaping to the ground, he caught his father around the shoulders. "Aren't you glad to see us, father?" he went on.

"Glad doesn't express it, Tom," replied the fond parent, as he embraced first one and then another. "My heart is overflowing with joy, and I thank God that you have returned unharmed, after having passed through so many grave perils. How brown all of you look!"

"Tanned by the tropical sun," answered Sam. "Oh, here is Aunt Martha, and Uncle Randolph!"

"Sam!" burst out the motherly aunt, as she kissed him. "Oh, how you must have suffered on that lonely island!" And then she kissed the others.

"We've certainly had our fill of adventures," came from Dick, who was shaking hands with his Uncle Randolph. "And more than once we thought we should never see Valley Brook farm again."

"We were real Robinson Crusoes," went on Sam. "And the girls were Robinson Crusoes, too."

"Are the girls well?" questioned Mrs. Rover.

"Very well, auntie. If they hadn't been we shouldn't have parted with them in San Francisco. They went back to Santa Barbara to finish their vacation."

"I see. Well, it certainly was a wonderful trip. You'll have to tell us all the particulars this evening. I suppose you are as hungry as bears just now. Tom is, I'm sure."

"Oh, Aunt Martha, I see you haven't forgotten my failing," piped in the youth mentioned, with a twinkle in his eye. "And do I get pie for dinner?"

"Yes, Tom, and all you care to eat, too. We are going to make your home-coming a holiday."

"Good!"

They were soon in the house, every nook and corner of which was so familiar to them. They rushed up to their rooms, and, after a brushing and a washing up, came down to the big dining room, where the table fairly groaned with good things.

"Gosh! this is a regular Christmas spread!" observed Tom, as he looked the table over. "Tell you what, Aunt Martha, I'm going to be cast away every week after this."

"Oh, Tom, don't speak of it! After this you must stay right here. Neither your father nor your uncle nor myself will want to leave you out of sight."

"Pooh! We can't stay home. But we'll be careful of our trips in the future, you can be sure of that."

"Have you heard anything about Putnam Hall since we went away?" asked Dick, during the meal.

"The academy opened again last week, Dick," answered his father. "We received a circular letter from Captain Putnam. The scarlet fever scare did not amount to much, for which the captain is very thankful."

"I sent him a telegram, stating we were safe," said Sam. "I knew he would like to hear from us. The captain is a brick."

"The best ever," said Tom, with his mouth full of chicken.

"And ditto, Mr. Strong," put in Dick, referring to the head assistant at the Hall.

"Exactly, Dick. But no more Jasper Grinders in mine," went on Tom, referring to a tyrannical teacher who had caused them much trouble, and who had been discharged from the academy, as already mentioned in "The Rover Boys in the Mountains."

"Or Josiah Crabtrees," said Dick, referring to another teacher, who had been made to leave Putnam Hall, and who had wanted to marry the widow Stanhope, in an endeavor to get control of the money that was coming to Dora. Crabtree's misdeeds had landed him in prison, where he was likely to stay for some time to come.

While the meal was still in progress the boys began the recital of their many adventures, and this recital was kept up until a late hour. It was astonishing how much they had to tell, and how interesting it proved to the listeners.

"You might make a book of it," said Anderson Rover. "It equals our adventures in the jungles of Africa."

"I am going to write it out some day," answered Dick. "And, maybe, I'll get the story printed. The trouble is, I can't end the tale properly."

"How is that, Dick?" asked his Uncle Randolph. "You were all saved. Isn't that a proper ending for any book?"

"Yes, but what of the villain? Baxter didn't show himself, and that is no ending at all. He should have fallen over a cliff, or been shot, or something like that."

"And we should have married the three girls," put in fun-loving Tom. "That would make the story even more complete."

"Well, things do not happen in real life as they do in story books," said the parent. "It is likely you will never hear of Dan Baxter again. But we may hear from his father."

"His father!" exclaimed the three youths in concert.

"Why, Arnold Baxter is in prison," added Sam.

"He was, up to five days ago, when they took him to the hospital to undergo some sort of an operation. At the hospital the operation was postponed for a day, and during the night he slipped away from the institution and disappeared."

"Well, I never!" burst out Dick. "Isn't he the slick one, though! Just when you think you've got him hard and fast, you haven't at all."

"Haven't they any trace of him?" asked Sam.

"None, so far as I have heard. There was a report that he had gone to New York and taken passage on a ship bound for Liverpool, but at present the ship is on the Atlantic, so the authorities can do nothing."

"I hope they catch him."

"We all hope that, Sam."

For a few days the three boys did nothing but take it easy. It was pleasant weather, and they roamed around the farm in company with their father and their uncle, or with Alexander Pop, the colored man of work. As my old readers know, Pop had been in former days a waiter at Putnam Hall, and Dick, Tom, and Sam had befriended him on more than one occasion, for which he was extremely grateful.

"Yo' boys is jes' naturally fust-class heroes," said Aleck one day. "Even if dem cannonballs had cum after yo', I don't t'ink da could have cotched yo', no, sirree!"

"It's a pity you weren't along, Aleck," answered Tom.

"I can't say as to dat, Master Tom. I got 'bout all de hair-raisin' times I wanted when we was in de jungles ob Africy. I'se only sorry ob one t'ing."

"And what is that?"

"Dat you didn't jes' go an' frow dat Dan Baxter overboard from dat ship de fust time yo' sot eyes on him. Suah as yo' am born he'll turn up some day to make moah trouble."

"Well, if he turns up we'll be ready for him," returned Tom grimly.

"How can yo' be ready fo' a pusson wot acts like a snake in de grass? He'll sting befo' yo' hab de chance to spot him."

"We'll have to keep our eyes open, Aleck," answered the youth; and then the subject was changed.

During those days the boys went fishing and bathing in the river, and also visited Humpback Falls, that spot where Sam had had such a thrilling adventure, as related in "The Rover Boys at School."

"What a lot has happened since those days," said Sam, taking a deep breath. "Tom, do you remember how you got into trouble with old Crabtree the very first day we landed at Putnam Hall?"

"I do, Sam; and do you remember our first meeting, on the boat, with Dan Baxter, and how we sent him about his business when he tried to annoy Nellie, and Grace, and Dora?"

"Yes, indeed. Say, I am getting anxious to get back to the Hall. It seems almost like a second home."

"So am I," put in Dick. "Besides, we have lost time enough from our studies. We'll have to pitch in, or we'll drop behind our classes."

"Father says we can return to the Hall next Monday, if we wish."

"I vote we do so."

"So do I."

And thus it was decided that they should return to the academy four days later.

But during those four days something was to happen which would have an important bearing upon their future actions.



Chapter III

A Midnight Visitor


The next day, shortly after noon, it began to rain, and the storm increased in violence until the wind blew almost a gale.

The rain kept the boys indoors, at which Tom was inclined to grumble.

"No use of grumbling, Tom," said Dick cheerfully. "Let us improve the time by looking over our school books. That will make it easier to slip into the grind again when we get back to the Hall."

"That is excellent advice, Richard," said Randolph Rover. "Whatever you do, do not neglect your studies."

"By the way, Uncle Randolph, how is scientific farming progressing?" said Tom, referring to something that had been his uncle's hobby for years -- a hobby that had cost the gentleman considerable money.

"Well -- ah -- to tell the truth, Thomas, not as well as I had hoped for."

"Hope you didn't drop a thousand or two this year, uncle?"

"Oh, no -- not over fifty dollars."

"Then you got off easy."

"I shall do better next year. The potatoes already show signs of improvement."

"Good! I suppose you'll be growing 'em on top of the ground soon. Then you won't have the bother of digging 'em, you know," went on the fun-loving boy innocently.

"Absurd, Thomas! But I shall have some very large varieties, I feel certain."

"Big as a watermelon?"

"Hardly, but -- "

"Big as a muskmelon, then?"

"Not exactly, but -- "

"About the size of a cocoanut, eh?"

"No! no! They will be as large as -- "

"I mean a little cocoanut," pleaded Tom, while Sam felt like laughing outright.

"Well, yes, a little cocoanut. You see -- "

"We saw some big potatoes in California, Uncle Randolph."

"Ah! Of what variety?"

"Cornus bustabus, or something like that. Sam, what was the name, do you know?"

"That must be something like it, Tom," grinned the youngest Rover.

"Took two men to lift some of those potatoes," went on Tom calmly.

"Two men? Thomas, surely you are joking."

"No, uncle, I am telling nothing but the strict truth."

"But two men! The potatoes must have been of monstrous size!"

"Oh, not so very big. But they did weigh a good deal, no question of it."

"Think of two men lifting one potato!"

"I didn't say one potato, Uncle Randolph. I said some of those potatoes."

"Eh?"

"The men had a barrel full of 'em."

"Thomas!" The uncle shook his finger threateningly. "At your old tricks, I see. I might have known it." And then he stalked off to hide his chagrin.

"Tom, that was rather rough on Uncle Randolph," said Sam, after a laugh.

"So it was, Sam. But I've got to do something. This being boxed up, when one might be fishing or swimming, or playing baseball, is simply dreadful," answered the other.

Just before the evening meal was announced Jack Ness came up from the barn, and sought out Randolph Rover.

"Found a man slinking around the cow-shed a while ago," he said. "He looked like a tramp. I wanted to talk to him, but he scooted in double-quick order."

"Humph! We haven't had any tramps here in a long time," came from Randolph Rover. "Where did he go to?"

"Down toward the berry patch."

"Did you follow him up?"

"I did, sir, but he got away from me."

"You must keep a close watch for those fellows," said Randolph Rover bluntly. "I don't want any of them getting in our barn and burning it down to the ground."

"You are right, Randolph," said Anderson Rover. "Make them keep away from the place by all means, Jack."

"I'll keep my eye peeled for 'em," answered the hired man.

The wind was now blowing a gale, causing the trees near the farmhouse to creak and groan, and banging more than one shutter. But the boys did not mind this, and went to bed promptly at the usual hour.

"A storm like this on land is nothing to one on the sea," was the way Tom expressed himself. "I don't like anything better than to listen to the whistling of the wind when I am snug in bed."

For the time being Sam and Tom were occupying a room in the L of the farmhouse, and Dick had a small bedchamber adjoining. The boys were soon undressed, and, having said their prayers, hopped into bed, and were soon sound asleep.

It was not until half an hour later that the older folks retired. Anderson Rover was the last to leave the sitting room, where he had been busy writing some letters at the desk that stood there.

As he was about to retire he fancied he heard a noise outside of one of the windows. He drew up the curtain and looked through the glass, but could see nothing.

"It must have been the wind," he murmured. "But, somehow, it didn't sound like it."

As he stepped into the dark hallway an uneasy feeling took possession of him -- a feeling hard to define, and one for which he could not account.

"I think I had better go around and see that all the doors and windows are properly locked," he told himself. "Brother Randolph may have overlooked one of them."

He walked the length of the hallway, and stepped into the kitchen and over to a side window.

As he had his hand on the window-latch he heard a quick step directly behind him.

He started to turn, but before he could do so he received a blow on the head from a club that staggered him. Then he was jerked backward to the floor.

"Silence!" muttered a voice close to his ear. "Don't you dare to make a sound!"

"What does this mean -- " he managed to gasp.

"Silence, I tell you!" was the short answer. "If you say another word, I will hit you again!"

Having no desire to receive a blow that might render him totally unconscious, or, perhaps, take his life, Anderson Rover said no more. He heard a match struck, and then a bit of a tallow candle was lit and placed on the edge of the kitchen table.

By this dim light the father of the Rover boys saw standing over him a tall man, beardless, and with his head closely cropped. One glance into that hardened face sufficed to tell him who the unwelcome visitor was.

"Arnold Baxter!"

"I see you recognize me," was the harsh reply. "Not so loud, please, unless you want that crack I promised you."

"What brings you here, and at such an hour as this?"

"I find it more convenient to travel during the night than in the daytime."

"The police are on your track."

"I know that as well you, Rover."

"What do you want here?"

"What does any man want when he has been stripped of all his belongings? I want money."

"I have none for you."

"Bosh! Do you think I have forgotten how you and your boys swindled me out of my rights to that mine in the far West?"

"We did not swindle you, Baxter. The claim was lawfully mine."

"I can't stop to argue the question, and I don't want you to talk so loud, remember that. No, don't try to get up," went on the midnight visitor, as Anderson Rover attempted to rise. "Stay just where you are."

He was feeling in his pocket, and now he brought forth a strip of cloth, with a knot tied in the middle.

It was a gag, and he started to place it in Anderson Rover's mouth, when the latter leaped up and began to struggle with all the force he could command.

"Stop, I tell you!" cried Arnold Baxter softly.

"Stop!" And then, catching up his club once more, he dealt Anderson Rover another blow, this time directly across the temple. The gentleman wavered for an instant, gave a deep groan, and fell like a log to the floor.



Chapter IV

A Useless Pursuit


Half an hour later Tom awoke with a start. For the moment he could not tell what had aroused him. Then he remembered hearing the slam of a door or a window sash.

"Must have been the storm," he told himself, and was about to turn over and go to sleep when he heard a gun-shot from the direction of the barn.

"Something is wrong, that's certain!" he cried. "Sam, wake up!"

"What's the row, Tom?" questioned the youngest brother sleepily.

Before Tom could reply they heard Dick getting up, and also their Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha.

"What did that shot mean?" demanded Randolph Rover, coming toward the boys' rooms. "Did any of you fire it?"

"No, it came from outside," returned Torn. "Hark!"

"Hullo, in the house!" came in the voice of Jack Ness. "Wake up, everybody! Something is wrong!"

After this it did not take long for those upstairs to slip into some clothing, and go below. Randolph Rover ran to the side door, to find it wide open. Dick lit the hall lamp.

"Saw a man running across the garden," said Jack Ness, who had his shot-gun with him. "I yelled to him to stop, and then fired the gun. I think he came from the house."

"How did you happen to be up?" asked Sam.

"One of the horses is sick, and I was attending to him."

By this time some of the others were looking into the various rooms.

"The desk has been broken open!" cried Dick. "And the pantry in the corner, too!"

"Mercy, save us!" shrieked Mrs. Rover, from the kitchen. "Come here at once. Poor Anderson has been killed!"

"Killed!" gasped Tom; and then all ran to the kitchen as quickly as they could.

They found Anderson Rover lying where he had fallen, and still unconscious. There was a lump on his forehead, and a thin stream of blood trickled down one side of his face.

"Thank heaven, he is not dead!" murmured Dick, as he knelt beside his father. "But he has been struck some cruel blows. Somebody fetch water and a bandage."

The water was procured, and also a bandage, and under skillful treatment, Anderson Rover was presently restored to consciousness.

"Where -- where is he?" he questioned, when he could speak.

"Do you mean the person who struck you down?" asked Dick.

"Ye -- yes."

"I don't know. Got away, I guess."

"The villain! He attacked me most foully!"

"I saw him running across the garden," put in the hired man. "Did he steal anything?"

"To be sure he stole something," said Sam. "He ransacked the whole lower floor, by the looks of things."

"Wonder who it was?" put in Tom.

"It was Arnold Baxter," answered his father.

"Arnold Baxter!" cried the others in chorus.

"Are you certain?" asked Dick.

"Yes. He struck me down, and then lit the bit of tallow candle you see lying there. Then we struggled, and he hit me again, and that is all I know. But I am sure it was Baxter, for I spoke to him. He accused us of having robbed him of that mine out West."

"Was he alone?" asked Randolph Rover.

"I saw no one else."

"We ought to follow him up," declared Tom, now that he realized his father was not so badly hurt as at first feared.

"That's the talk!" ejaculated Dick. "Wait till I get my pistol."

"Boys, do keep out of harm," pleaded Mrs. Rover. "Remember that this Arnold Baxter is a desperate criminal."

"We are not afraid of him," answered Tom.

"We'll show him that he can't come here and attack father," added Sam.

Leaving their father in the care of their Aunt Martha, the three Rover boys armed themselves and sallied forth, accompanied by their uncle and Alexander Pop, the latter carrying a horse-pistol of the old-fashioned variety.

"Dat dar Baxter am a rascal of de fust water," was Aleck's comment. "He deserbes to be shot full ob holes, an' I am de boy to do dat same, if only I gets de chance."

Jack Ness was closely questioned, and he described the spot where he had last seen the unwelcome midnight visitor.

"He had a bag of something over his shoulder," he declared.

"Most likely the stuff taken from the house," declared Dick.

The party crossed the garden patch and then took to the path which ran down toward the river.

Here all was intensely dark, although it had stopped raining, and the wind was trying its best to scatter the heavy clouds that obscured the stars.

"Not a thing to see," observed Randolph Rover. "We may as well go back."

"Let us scatter and make a search," came from Dick, and his idea was carried out. But though they tramped the locality for a good half hour the pursuit of Arnold Baxter proved useless.

"He is probably making good use of his time," was Tom's comment. "He knew we would be after him hot-footed, just as soon as we heard of his being here."

"I'm going to drive over to the railroad station," said Dick. "He may hang around and get aboard of the first morning train."

"Take me along with you," said Sam, and Dick agreed. They got Aleck to drive them and took the fastest team the stable afforded.

But at the depot all was dark and deserted, and if Arnold Baxter was anywhere near he took good care not to show himself, nor was anything seen of him in Oak Run later on.

"He has left the neighborhood by some other way," said Randolph Rover, and his surmise was correct.

When the boys reached home again they found their parent sitting up in an easy-chair, with his forehead still bandaged. The blows he had received were painful, but by no means serious, and when the doctor was called in he said the patient would speedily recover.

"But you had a narrow escape," said the doctor. "Had you been struck a little harder your skull might have been broken."

"Well, I don't think Arnold Baxter would have cared if he had broken my skull," answered Anderson Rover. "He is a thoroughly bad man."

It was broad daylight before a complete examination of the house was made, and then it was learned that Baxter had run away with some silver knives, forks, and spoons, some gold napkin rings, a silver and gold water pitcher, and half a dozen similar articles. From the desk he had taken a pocketbook containing three hundred dollars in cash, and from Anderson Rover's person his watch and chain, and a diamond stud. He had also tried to rob the unconscious man of his diamond ring, but as the ring would not come off had pried out the stone and taken that.

"He is at his old tricks again," said Dick. "Evidently his term in prison has done him no good."

"Guess it has made him worse," added Sam. "Oh, how I would like to lay my hands on him!" And Tom said the same.

The authorities were notified, including the sheriff of the county, and later still Anderson Rover hired a New York detective to take up the case. But it was of no avail. Arnold Baxter did not show himself, and not a trace of him was to be found anywhere.

"I shouldn't be surprised if he disguised himself as soon as he got away from here," remarked Tom. "He could easily put on a false mustache, and a wig would fit capitally over that almost bald pate of his."

"But where would he get the mustache and wig, Tom?" asked Dick.

"He may have bought them before he came here. I have heard that some robbers prepare themselves for all sorts of emergencies. Only last week I was reading about a fellow who went to a ball, and between the dances went out and robbed a gentleman on the street of his watch. When he was arrested, he tried to prove that he hadn't been outside of the ballroom all night, and it was by the merest accident that the authorities found out his story wasn't true."

"Tom is right; some criminals are very shrewd," said his father. "And I fancy Arnold Baxter is about as slick as any of them."

"Well, I hope we run across him some day," said Dick.

With so much to occupy their minds the days flew by swiftly, and almost before they knew it Monday was at hand, and the three boys set out to return once more to Putnam Hall.



Chapter V

On The Way To Putnam Hall


The idea of going back to dear old Putnam Hall, with all of its pleasant memories, filled Tom with good humor, and he was fairly bubbling over on the train which carried the boys to Ithaca, where they were to take a steamer up Cayuga Lake to Cedarville, the nearest village to the academy.

"Makes me feel as I did the first time we went to the Hall," he declared. "Don't you remember that trip, and the fun we had with Peleg Snuggers, the wagon man?" and then he burst out singing:

"Putnam Hall's the place for me! Tra-la-lee! Tra-la-lee! Putnam Hall's the place for me! The best old school I know!"

"You'll have the conductor putting you off, the next thing you know," remarked Sam.

"Putting me off? Never!" cried Tom. "He knows that academy boys own privileges that other passengers do not possess. He can't cork me up. I defy him!"

"Wonder if we'll meet any of the other fellows," mused Dick.

He had hardly spoken when the train stopped at a junction, and two other lads got aboard and came down the aisle. One was tall and handsome, and the other stout and with a round, chubby face beaming with good humor.

"Larry Colby!" cried Dick, leaping up and grasping the tall boy's hand. "I'm awfully glad to meet you. Returning to the Hall, of course?"

"Yes," was the answer from the Rover boys' old chum. "Isn't it odd that I should be thinking of you just as we meet?" and he shook hands.

"Hullo, if it ton't peen dem Rofer brudders alretty," cried the round-faced lad, with a twinkle in his eyes. "I dink me you vos left der Hall for goot, yah!"

"Hans Mueller!" came from Sam. "Then you are going back, too? I thought you had scarlet fever?"

"Not much I ain't," said the German youth. "I vos eat too much of dem puckveat cakes alretty, und dot makes mine face preak owid, put I ain't got no scarlet fefers, nein! How you vos alretty annahow?" And he shook hands as Larry had done.

"I can hardly believe your story about being cast away on an island in the Pacific," said Larry.

"Your letter read like a fairy tale. If you tell the fellows they'll think you are drawing the long bow."

"Yes, Larry vos told me somedings apoud dot," broke in Hans. "You vos regular Robinson Roosters," he said.

"Great Scott! Robinson Roosters!" yelled Tom, bursting out into a fit of laughter. "Boys, we are discovered at last."

"Well, if you are, you needn't crow over it," came from Larry.

"Roosters and crowing! Oh, Larry, I didn't think you'd begin to pun so early," put in Sam.

"He just hatched it out," said Tom.

"I suppose you think that sounds chic," joined in Dick. And then there was a laugh in which all but Hans Mueller joined. The German youth looked blankly from one to another of his companions.

"Vos dot Robinson Rooster a choke?" he demanded. "Of it vos let me in by it kvick."

"Oh, you couldn't climb in on a gangway and a step-ladder combined," answered Tom.

"Put vos you Robinson Roosters or vos you not Robinson Roosters?"

"Oh, we were Robinson Roosters right enough," answered Tom, when he could control his laughter.

"Den vot you vos giggling apout, hey?"

"Nothing, only it was so funny to be a Robinson Rooster and live on a big island with nobody but lions, buffaloes, snakes, and 'cannonballs,'" added the fun-loving youth.

"Cannonballs?" queried Larry

"That's what Aleck Pop calls 'em, Larry. He said it was a wonder the 'cannonballs' hadn't eaten us up," and then came another laugh, during which Hans was as mute as ever.

"Vos dere lions, snakes, and buffaloes py dot island on?" went on the German youth.

"To be sure there were, Hans. And likewise elephants, panthers, cats, dogs, hippopotamuses, mice, elk, rats, and winged jibberjackers."

"Mine gracious, Tom! Und you vosn't eaten up alretty kvick!"

"None of the animals troubled us, but the three-horned jibberjacker. He came into our house one night, crawled upstairs, and began to swallow Sam alive."

"You ton't tole me!"

"Yes, I do tell you. He had Sam in his mouth, and had swallowed him as far as his waist, when Sam began to kick on the floor with his feet."

"I see, I see -- " Hans' eyes were as big as saucers.

"That woke Dick and me up, and we ran and got Sam by the legs, and pulled for all we were worth."

"You ton't tole me, Tom! Und vot did dot vot-you-call-him do den?"

"He planked his ten feet on the floor, and -- "

"His ten feet did you said, Tom?" interrupted Hans doubtfully.

"To be sure. Didn't you know that a real jibberjacker has ten feet?"

"Maype I did -- I ton't oxactly remember about him."

"I am surprised at your ignorance of natural history, Hans. Yes, the real jibberjacker has ten feet, although a branch of the family, known as the jibbertwister, has only eight feet."

"Well, go on. He planked his ten feets by der floor town -- "

"He held on and so did we, and it was a regular tug of war between us. Sam was swallowed as far as the waist, and couldn't do anything to help himself. You just ask Sam if that isn't so."

"When Tom tells the truth it's a fact every time, Hans," answered Sam, who felt as if he would choke from suppressed laughter.

"So the blamed old jibberjacker held on and held on," continued Tom. "Then we gave a tug and he gave a tug, and all of a sudden Sam came out. The shock was so great it threw Dick and me clear across the room, and through a doorway into the next room. But the poor jibberjacker fared still worse."

"How vos dot?"

"He flew up against the outside wall, and his weight was so great he went right through the side of the building, and landed on some rocks below. All of his ten legs were broken, and of course he couldn't get away, so we went down, got a long cross-cut saw, and sawed off his head. Now, if you don't believe that story, you come to our house sometime and I'll show you the cross-cut saw."

Hans stared in breathless amazement. His solemn face was too much for the others, and a peal of laughter rang through the car. At this Hans grew suspicious, and at length a sickly grin overspread his features.

"I know you, Tom Rofer," he said. "Dot vos von of dem fish stories, ain't it alretty?"

"No, it's a jibberjacker story, Hans."

"It vos a jibjacker fish story den annahow. You can't fool me some more. I vos too schmart for dot alretty. Ven I go py der academy I git mine ear teeths cut, hey?"

"All right, Hans, if you have cut your ear-teeth we'll call it off," said Dick, and here the conversation took a more rational turn.

"So far as I know only a few of the fellows have left the Hall on account of the scarlet fever scare," said Larry. "And they were boys that nobody seemed to care much about."

"I was told that the fellows expected to elect an entirely new lot of officers," said Sam. "We have been away so much I've rather lost track of our military affairs."

"Captain Putnam said we would have to ballot for officers as soon as all the boys were back," said Larry. "Some of the old officers have graduated, you must remember."

"I've not forgotten that I was once second lieutenant of Company A," put in Dick. "Reckon I'll have to try my luck once more -- if the boys want me to run."

"Well, I want you to run for one, Dick," said Larry. "Hans, you'll vote for Dick, won't you?"

"Yah, und I vonts him to vote for me, too," said the German youth.

"Why, Hans, do you want to be water-carrier this year?" asked Sam.

"Nein, I vonts to be high brivate py der rear rank alretty. Von of der fellows tole me dot would chust suit me."

"All right, Hans, we'll all elect you high private of the rear rank," answered Larry with a laugh.



Chapter VI

Fun On The Boat


At the city of Ithaca the boys stopped long enough to get dinner, and were here joined by Fred Garrison and George Granbury, two more of their old school chums.

"Hurrah for the gathering of the clans!" cried George Granbury, with a beaming face. "This is like a touch of old times. How are all of you, anyway?"

"First rate, with the exception of Hans here," said Tom. "He's got the buckwheat measles."

"Yah, und Tom he's got der jipperjocker fefer," declared the German boy, bound to do his best to get square.

"Good for Hans!" cried Sam. "Tom, after this, you have got to take care, or Hansie will roast you."

"Oh, Hans is just all right," observed Tom, and when the German boy's face was turned away he took the latter's coffee and put into it about a teaspoonful of salt. "Tell you what, fellows, this coffee just touches the spot," he added loudly.

"Right you are," said Fred Garrison. "Never tasted better in my life."

So far Hans had not touched the coffee, but hearing the words he took up his cup and downed a deep draught. It may be added that he was a German who loved coffee a good deal, and frequently drank several cups at a meal.

For an instant the German youth said nothing. Then his face turned pale.

"Dat coffee was no goot!" he gasped.

"Why, Hans," cried several.

"See how pale he is getting," came from George Granbury. "Hans, are you going to die?

"Don't say the coffee is going to poison him," burst out Tom. "I was reading about poison getting into the coffee at this hotel last week. But, of course -- "

"Did da got poison py der coffee in here?" demanded Hans.

"To be sure, put -- "

"How vos dot poisoned coffee taste annahow?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"I think it was a little salty," came from Fred Garrison.

"Mine cracious me! Of dot's so I vos poisoned, sure. Run for der toctor kvick!"

"Here, eat some jam, Hans. That will counteract the effect of the poison," said Tom, and handed over a small dish with jam in it, over which he had just sprinkled the pepper with an exceedingly liberal hand.

Anxious to do anything that would stop him from being poisoned, the German boy clutched the dish and took a large spoonful of the jam. But as he gulped it, he gave a gasp, and the tears started down his cheeks.

"Du meine zeit!" he bawled. "I vos purnt up alife by mine mouth alretty! Dake it avay kvick!" And jumping up from the table he began to dance around madly.

"It's a serious case," said Tom. "If he's burning up we had better call out the fire department."

This remark made Hans grow suddenly suspicious. He caught up Tom's cup of coffee and tasted it.

"I know you, Tom Rofer," he said. "Dot vos more dricks of yours, ain't it?" He held the cup of coffee on high. "How you like dot, hey!" And splash! down came the coffee on Tom's head, and trickled down his back.

"Hi, you! let up!" roared Tom, and knocked the half-empty cup to one side. "Let up, I say, or I'll have the landlord put you out."

"I told you to take care, Tom," came from Sam, when the other boys had restored quietness. "When Hans gets his dander up he is dangerous."

"Dot is drue," came from Hans. "I vonts no more of them chokes alretty." And then, as the waiter came hurrying up, he forced Tom to order him another cup of coffee, and took good care to keep it out of the fun-loving youth's reach. Poor Tom sopped away the spilt coffee as best he could, but it must be admitted that for the balance of that day his backbone felt none too comfortable. Yet he bore no grudge towards Hans, for he knew that he had deserved the punishment meted out to him.

Down at the dock the boys found the Golden Star, a trim little side-wheeler, ready to take them up the lake. There were about half a hundred passengers, bound for various landings, and among them six Putnam Hall scholars, including our old-time acquaintances, Jack Powell, generally called Songbird Powell, because of his habit of composing poems and songs, and that aristocratic young gentleman who rejoiced in the name of William Philander Tubbs.

"The family is surely getting together," remarked Dick, after another handshaking had been indulged in. "Songbird, do you warble as much as ever?"

"You can wager a sweet potato he does," said George Granbury. "Nothing short of a cyclone will ever stop Songbird's warbling, eh, Songbird?"

For reply the youth addressed turned a pair of dreamy eyes on the speaker, and then said slowly:

"With hopeful hearts And brightest faces, To school we go To fill our places. We'll study hard, And do our best -- "

"If Songbird Powell Will give us a rest!"

finished Tom. "Oh, Songbird, have mercy on us, and don't begin so early."

"You're a good one to preach, Tom," came from Larry. "Started to joke the moment we met him, didn't he, Hans?"

"Did I?" questioned Tom innocently. "I had forgotten." He turned to Tubbs. "And how is our friend Philliam Willander to-day?"

"William Philander, if you please, Rover," was the dignified reply. "I must insist on your getting my name correctly this term."

"All right, Tubby, old boy, it shall be just as you say. I wouldn't hurt your feelings for a big red apple."

"Then, please don't call me Tubby. You know my real name is William Philander Tubbs."

"Don't you want Esquire tacked to it, too?"

"That is hardly necessary as yet. But you may write it after my name, if you have occasion to send me any written communication," continued Tubbs, with greater dignity than ever.

"Phew! but Tubby is worse than he was before," whispered Sam to Dick. "They must have been tuning him up at home."

"Tubbs is going to try for a captaincy this term," said Powell, who had not minded Tom's interruption of his versification in the least.

"Hurrah for Captain Tubbs!" cried Tom. "Captain, allow me to salute you," and he made a sweeping bow to the deck. Tom spoke so earnestly that Tubbs was pleased, and instantly forgot their little differences.

"I shall be pleased to become a captain," said the young gentleman. "I feel I can fill the position with credit to myself and dignity to the academy. There is military blood in my veins, for a second cousin on my mother's side was a lieutenant in the Civil War. Besides that, I have studied military movements at West Point, where I went to see the cadets drill."

"Do you know how to swab out a cannon?" asked Sam, with a wink at the others.

"I shouldn't -- ah -- care for such dirty work," replied William Philander Tubbs with dignity.

"Or police a camp?"

"Surely you don't think I was ever a policeman?"

"Don't you remember what policing a camp is?" asked George Granbury.

"Upon my honor, I do not."

"It means to clean up the streets, burn up the rubbish, and all that."

"Thank you, but I do not -- ah -- care to become a street cleaner," returned Tubbs, with great dignity.

"Sorry, but I'm afraid you are not cut out for a corporalship," came from Tom.

"I didn't say a corporalship, Tom, I said -- "

"Excuse me, I meant a sergeantship."

"No, I said -- "

"Make it a second lieutenantship, then, Tubby. Anything to be friends, you know."

"I said -- "

"Oh, bother, if you want to be a major-general, go ahead. Nobody will stop you."

"Hurrah, Major-General Tubbs!" cried Sam. "That sounds well, doesn't it, fellows?"

"We'll have to present him with a tin-plated sword," came from one of the crowd.

"And a pair of yellow worsted epaulets," added another.

And then Songbird Powell began to sing softly:

"Rub a dub, dub! Here comes General Tubb! He'll make you bow to the ground! You must stop ev'ry lark, And toe the chalk mark, As soon as he comes around."

"There you are, Tubby; think of Songbird composing a poem in your honor," cried Tom. "You ought to present him with a leather medal."

"I -- I don't like such -- er -- such doggerel," cried William Philander Tubbs angrily. "I think -- "

"Well, I never!" ejaculated Tom, in pretended astonishment. "And Songbird worked so hard over it, too! Thus doth genius receive its reward. Songbird, if I were you, I'd give up writing poems, and go turn railroad president, track-walker, or something like that."

"You boys are simply horrid, don't you know!" cried Tubbs, and, pushing his way through the crowd, he walked to the other end of the boat.

"Being away from school hasn't done Tubby any good," was Fred Garrison's remark. "He thinks he's the High Tum-Tum, and no mistake."

"Don't fret, he'll be taken down before the term is over," came from Larry Colby.

"That's true," added another pupil, who had been taken down himself two terms before. "And when he hits his level he'll be just as good as any of us."

The time on the steamer passed quickly enough, and after several stops along the lake, the Golden Star turned in at the Cedarville landing, and all of the Putnam Hall cadets went ashore.



Chapter VII

Something About The Military Academy


As my old readers know, Cedarville was only a small country village, so the arrival and departure of the steamer was a matter of importance to the inhabitants.

The boys, consequently, found the little dock crowded with sightseers and more than one face looked familiar to them.

"There are the Rover boys," said one man, quite loudly. "Everybody knows 'em."

"We are growing notorious, it would seem," whispered Dick to Sam.

Back of the dock stood the big carryall attached to Putnam Hall, with the old Hall driver, Peleg Snuggers, on the box.

"Hullo, Peleg, old friend!" shouted Tom, waving his hand at the man. "How are we to-morrow, as the clown in the circus puts it?"

"I'm all right, Master Tom -- an' will be so long as you let me alone," was the deliberate answer from the driver.

"He remembers you all right enough, Tom," came from George Granbury.

"Now, Peleg, don't throw cold water on my enthusiasm," said Tom reproachfully.

"I ain't throwin' water on nobody, Master Tom; I'm only giving fair warning that I want to be let alone," answered the driver doggedly. "No more monkey shines around me, remember that."

"All right, Peleg, I'll remember. And how is Mrs. Green, our worthy housekeeper?"

"First-rate."

"No whooping-cough?"

"No."

"Nor measles, or chicken-pox?"

"Not a bit of 'em."

"Or mumps? Tell me, now, she really hasn't got the mumps, has she?"

"See here, Master Tom, didn't I jest tell you -- "

"No, you didn't tell me, and that's why I'm so anxious to know. If she's got the mumps, and the chilblains, and the ingrowing warts -- "

"Oh, crickey! I knew it!" groaned Peleg Snuggers. "I says to myself as I was a-drivin' over, 'if thet Tom Rover comes back, I might as well throw up my job, for he won't give nobody a rest!' If you would only -- "

"All right, Peleg, I see you are really and truly bound to go back on me. You hate me!" Tom drew his handkerchief from his pocket. "It is awful, after all I have tried to do for you in the past. I've got to --  to -- cry! Boo -- hoo!" And the boy began to wipe his eyes.

"Look a-here, Master Tom, it ain't nothin' to cry about," said Peleg half suspiciously. "I only give you warnin' -- "

"You are so -- so hard-hearted, Peleg. Boohoo! I want to go back home!" And Tom began to sob.

This was too much for the driver, and his face fell.

"Don't you mind me, Master Tom," he said softly. "I didn't mean nothin', indeed, I didn't. You're all right. I like you better'n any of 'em."

"Oh, dear!" burst out Larry Colby. "Just to hear that!"

"Peleg, have you gone back on us?" demanded George Granbury.

"He ought to have a ducking for that," put in another.

"Let's dump him into the lake!"

"Come on, a cold bath will do him good!"

"No! no! Oh, crickey!" groaned the driver of the carryall. "This is a mess! I -- I didn't mean nuthin', gents, indeed, I didn't -- "

"He's mean enough for anything, that's what he means," came from a voice in the rear. "Pile in, before he runs away, and leaves us to walk to the Hall!" And into the carryall the boys tumbled, one over another. Dick got a seat beside the driver, and away they went at a spanking gait, through Cedarville, and then along the winding road leading to the academy. Two or three of the cadets had brought tin horns with them, and they made the welkin ring as the turnout dashed on its way.

"A ginger-snap prize to the first fellow who spots the academy," cried Sam, as they made the last turn in the highway.

"I see the Hall!" shouted half a dozen voices in chorus. And in a few seconds they came out into full view of the broad brick and stone building, with its well-kept parade ground, and its trees and shrubbery. The parade ground came down to the edge of the wagon road, and off to the other side the land sloped gradually down to the lake, glistening like a sheet of gold in the rays of the setting sun.

The boys set up a loud shout and a wild blowing of horns, and in a moment a score of cadets came running forward to greet them, followed by Captain Victor Putnam, the master of the academy, and George Strong, his head assistant.

"I am glad to see you, young gentlemen," said Captain Putnam, as he shook one and another by the hand. "You look as if your vacation had done you good."

"It's done me a pile of good," said Sam. "But I don't know as I want another like it."

"You Rover boys have certainly had some remarkable experiences," continued the captain. "I congratulate you on escaping so many grave perils. Sometime you must give me all the particulars. But now it is time to prepare for supper. I dare say the trip on the lake has made you hungry."

"Dot is so," came from Hans Mueller. "I vos so hungry like four lions alretty."

"I have made some slight changes in your sleeping accommodations," went on Captain Putnam. "Mr. Strong will show you to your rooms." Then the boys marched into the academy, led by the head assistant.

The majority of the cadets had their dormitories on the second floor of the building. Each room held from four to eight students, and was both bright and clean. The rules of Putnam Hall were similar to those in force at West Point, and every pupil was expected to keep his clothing, his books, and his other possessions in perfect order. Each had a cot, a chair, and a clothes closet to himself, extra closets having been introduced in the rooms for that purpose, and each was allowed the use of his trunk in addition. Each cadet had to take his turn at keeping the room in order, although the dormitories were given a regular sweeping and cleaning once a week by the servants.

As before, the Rover boys were placed in one room, and into this came also Larry Colby, Fred Garrison, and George Granbury. The apartment was at an angle of the building, and next to it was another occupied by Songbird Powell, Tubbs, Hans, and three other cadets. Between the two rooms was a door, but this was closed, and was supposed to be kept locked.

"This makes one feel like home," said Sam, as he began to wash up for supper.

"Right you are," answered Larry Colby. "No matter where I go during a vacation, I am always glad to get back to Putnam Hall."

A little later came the evening parade of the cadets, who marched around the parade ground several times before entering the messroom, as the dining hall was termed. The late arrivals did not join in the parade, but they watched it with interest, and then hurried to their accustomed places at the long tables, where a plain, but substantial supper awaited them.

Only a little talking was allowed throughout the meal, but at its conclusion the cadets were given an hour off, in which time they could do very much as they pleased. In that hour some played games, others took walks, and not a few drifted over to the gymnasium, which stood at one corner of the grounds.

"I'm going over to the gym," said Dick to Larry Colby. "Want to go along?"

"Certainly," was the prompt answer. "I am going in for gymnastics this term, Dick."

"Want to win some of the prizes when we have our contests?"

"If I can."

"I don't see why you shouldn't, Larry. You seem to be in first-class shape physically."

"I am going to try hard, Dick."

They were soon in the building, and Larry slipped off to the dressing room to don his gymnasium suit.

While Dick was waiting for his friend to reappear he looked on at the efforts of the other cadets present. Some were on the rings and bars, others were using the parallel bars and horses, and still others were at the pulling and lifting machines. In one corner two of the boys were boxing, while another was hammering a punching bag as hard as he could.

The boy at the punching bag was a tall, big-boned youth, named Lew Flapp. He was a newcomer at Putnam Hall, but though he had been there but three weeks he acted as if half of the place already belonged to him. At the start, he had made a few friends, principally on account of the money he had to spend, but these were gradually deserting him.

Dick was interested in the work on the punching bag, and he walked closer to note what Lew Flapp was doing. Clap! clap! clap! went Flapp's fists on the bag, which bounced back and forth with great rapidity.

"Well, how do you like that?" asked Lew Flapp, as he paused in his exercise and stared at Dick.

"It's all right," answered Dick briefly.

"I'll bet there ain't another cadet here can do as well," went on Lew Flapp boastfully.

"Oh, that's saying a good deal," said Dick. "Some of the boys can hit the bag pretty well."

"Humph!" Lew Flapp stared at the eldest Rover harder than ever. "Perhaps you think you can do it," he sneered.

"I didn't say that."

"But your words implied it."

"Dick Rover can do every bit as well," said a cadet who overheard the talk.

"I want to see him do it."

"I didn't come here to punch the bag," said Dick as calmly as ever. "I just thought I'd take a look around."

"Humph! Afraid to try, eh?"

"Oh, no."

"I dare you to show what you can do," sneered Lew Flapp.

"Very well, I'll show you," came from Dick, and he began to take off his coat, collar, and tie.



Chapter VIII

A Scene In The Gymnasium


Lew Flapp spoke in such a loud, overbearing voice that a crowd began to collect in the corner where the punching apparatus was located.

"What's up?" asked more than one cadet.

"Lew Flapp and Dick Rover are going to try to beat each other at punching the bag," was the report.

"Rover will have to do his best then. Flapp is a prime one at bag punching. It's about the only thing he can do real well."

"This isn't a fair contest," put in another student. "Flapp took lessons from a man who used to do bag-punching on the vaudeville stage."

"If that's so I wouldn't try to beat him, if I was Dick Rover."

Dick heard some of this talk but said nothing. He was soon ready for the trial, and stepping up to the punching bag he began to undo the top strap.

"That bag is all right," blustered Lew Flapp.

"Yes -- for you," answered Dick. "But you must remember, I am not quite so tall. I must have it an inch lower."

"It seems to me you are mighty particular."

"I have a right to be. When you do your punching you can raise the bag as high as you please."

"That's the talk," came from several standing near.

By this time Larry was on the floor again, and he came up to learn what Dick was doing.

"Dick, they tell me he is the best bag-puncher here," whispered Larry.

"I can't help it."

"He will crow over you if you don't do as well as he can do."

"Let him."

Dick began his punching exercise slowly, for he had not tried it for some time, and was afraid he was a little stiff. But, it may be added here, there was a punching bag in the barn at the Rovers' farm, so the youth knew exactly what he was doing.

"Oh, anybody can do that," remarked Lew Flapp presently. "That's as simple as A. B. C."

"Well, can you do this?" returned Dick, and branched off into something a trifle more difficult.

"To be sure I can."

"Then what about this?" and now Dick settled down to some real work. Clap! clap! went the bag, this way and that.

"Yes, I can do that, too," answered the tall boy.

"I'd like to see you."

Lew Flapp was only too anxious to show his skill, and having adjusted the bag to suit him, he went at the work once again, doing just what Dick had done.

"Now do this!" he cried, and gave a performance of his most difficult exercise. It was certainly well executed and at the conclusion many of the cadets began to applaud.

"Dick Rover will have to hump himself to do that," remarked one.

"I don't believe he can touch it," said another.

With care Dick fixed the bag and went at the exercise. It was something he had not practiced for a considerable time, yet he did not miss a stroke, and he wound up with a speed fully equal to that exhibited by his opponent.

"Good for you, Dick!" cried Larry heartily.

"They'll have to call it a tie," suggested another cadet.

"I'm not done yet," said Dick. "Can you do this?" he asked of Lew Flapp, and then commenced an exercise he had learned some time before, from a boxing instructor. It was full of intricate movements, all executed so rapidly that the eye could scarcely follow them. The cadets looked on in wonder, Lew Flapp staring angrily at the performance.

"Wonderful!"

"I didn't know Dick Rover could do such punching!"

"Say, Flapp, you'll have to get up early in the morning to beat that."

"Oh, you shut your mouth!" retorted Lew Flapp angrily. "I can do ten times better, if I want to."

"Let us see you."

"I -- I -- I'm in no condition to go ahead just now. Remember, I was punching the bag for an hour before Rover got here."

"How can that be, when all of us just came from the mess hall?" questioned Larry.

"He's trying to sneak out of the trial," said a voice in the rear of the crowd.

"I'll sneak you!" roared Lew Flap, in a rage. "I want you all to know that I ain't afraid of Dick Rover, or anybody else."

"Do you want the trial to continue?" questioned Dick, in an even tone.

"Didn't I just say I was tired out? But I'll show you what I can do some time," blustered Lew Flapp.

"Oh; all right."

"You needn't think you're king-pin of the punching bag," went on the tall boy, who had lost control of his temper because of the exhibition.

"Thank you, Flapp, what I think and what I don't think isn't any of your business."

"Pooh! I've heard about you and your two brothers, Dick Rover. They tell all sorts of stories about you, but I don't believe the half of them."

"Come, come, what's the use of quarreling," put in Larry pleasantly.

"I'm sure I don't want to quarrel," answered Dick. "He challenged me to punch the bag against him, and I did so, that's all."

"You're dead stuck on yourself, Rover," went on Lew Flapp slangily. "You think you're the only toad in the puddle. But you ain't, let me tell you that. As soon as I heard about you, I made up my mind I wouldn't knuckle under to you."

"This isn't right!" cried Larry. "Dick is my friend, and let me say he never asks any cadet to knuckle under to him, unless the cadet did something that wasn't on the level."

"That's true! That's true!" came from half a dozen of the students. "Dick Rover is all right!"

"So you're all turning against me, eh?" burst out Lew Flapp fiercely, his face growing dark with rage. "I was warned of this before I came here."

"Who warned you?" asked Tom, who had just put in an appearance.

"A gentleman who used to teach here."

"What was his name?" questioned several.

"Mr. Jasper Grinder. He said he had left because the Rover boys tried to run everything."

"That old fraud!" cried Larry.

"He left because he was kicked out," came from another.

"And he is a criminal," put in Dick. "I can prove it, if he wants me to do it."

"Oh, you can talk all you please," growled Lew Flapp. "I know what I know, and don't you forget it. And what is more, Dick Rover, don't you expect me to knuckle under to you. If you try that game, you'll get what you least expect," and so speaking Lew Flapp forced his way out of the crowd and left the gymnasium.

"Well, of all the idiots I ever met!" came from Tom. "He believes in meeting trouble three-quarters of the way, doesn't he?"

"I think Jasper Grinder must have stuffed him full of stories about us," said Dick. "That's the way that rascally teacher expects to get square on Captain Putnam -- by ruining the reputation of the school."

"Oh, it's mostly Lew Flapp's fault," put in a pupil who had been at the Hall for some time. "The very first day Flapp arrived he had a row with little Tommy Browne, and knocked Tommy down, and a few days after that he had a fight with Jack Raymond, and was pounding Jack good when Mr. Strong came up and made them run off in different directions. He's a good deal of the same kind of a bully that Dan Baxter was."

"If that's the case, he had better keep his distance," said Dick determinedly. "I don't want any quarrels, but I despise a bully thoroughly."

"So do I."

"I wonder if this Flipflap ever heard of Dan Baxter," put in Tom. "If he has he ought to profit by the example."

"Hullo, Tom's got a new name for Flapp," said one of the boys.

"Isn't his name Flipflap?" questioned Tom innocently. "Or is it Flapjack?"

"It will be Flopdown, if he ever gets into a fight with Dick," said Larry, and then followed a general laugh.

"I really don't want any more fights," said Dick, when he could be heard. "I came back to Putnam Hall to dig in and learn something. I've had enough adventures to last a lifetime. If the others will only leave me alone I'll leave them alone."

"But if they won't leave you alone, Dick?" asked George Granbury.

"Then they had better look out for themselves, that's all," was the reply of the eldest Rover.



Chapter IX

Settling Down To Study


Dick meant what he said concerning coming back to Putnam Hall for the sake of learning something. He felt that he had lost too much time from school already to lose more, and he pitched in with a vigor that was indeed surprising.

"I don't see how you can do it," said Tom one day. "I can't, to save my life." Yet Tom was by no means a poor scholar, and if he did not stand at the head of his class he was not far from it. Sam was also doing his best, and all of this gratified Captain Putnam exceedingly.

"It shows they can work as well as play," was what the captain told himself, and he wrote Anderson Rover a long letter, in which he praised the boys for their efforts.

The boys fell into their places at the academy with a naturalness that was surprising when one considered the adventures that had but lately befallen them. Over and over again did they have to tell of their doings while on the Pacific, and as Crusoes, and some of the cadets never tired of listening to the stories. A few, including Lew Flapp, did not believe them true, but the majority did, and that was enough for the Rovers.

Dick was now advancing in years, and he knew that before long he would either have to go into business or to college, which he had not yet fully decided. To tell the truth, the thought of separating from his brothers was exceedingly distasteful to him.

"If I went to college I'd like you fellows to be with me," he said one day to Tom and Sam. "There would be no fun in going alone."

"That's true," answered Tom. "But if you wanted us to go together you'd have to wait for Sam and me to catch up to you."

"Well, I might spend a year or so in traveling while I waited, or Sam and you might hurry up a little," answered the eldest Rover.

During those days but little out of the ordinary happened. Dick took especial care to avoid Lew Flapp, and the tall youth did not attempt to bother him. It was soon learned that Flapp was more of a braggart than anything else, and then even some of the smaller boys grew less afraid of him.

As already told, it had been decided by Captain Putnam to have the cadets elect a new set of officers for the term, and these officers were to be chosen in a somewhat different manner than heretofore.

"In the past," said the captain, when addressing the students on the subject, "you have been permitted to elect whoever you pleased to any office, from major down. This has occasionally resulted in someone being chosen who, while he might be a good scholar and a good fellow generally, was not exactly fitted to a military position. On that account I have made a change. Next Wednesday and Thursday I shall hold a general examination in military matters only, and the twenty pupils standing highest shall be the ones eligible for the positions of major, captain, and first and second lieutenants. On these twenty names you shall vote as heretofore. As we now have three companies here we shall want a major, three captains, and six lieutenants, making a total of ten officers. After that each company shall choose its own corporals and sergeants. The company marching best on parade the following Saturday shall have the honor of carrying the flag until after the annual encampment, which this year will begin a month from to-day."

At the mention of the annual encampment the cadets set up a cheer. The outing was looked forward to with great interest.

"Where are we going this year?" asked George Granbury.

"It's a secret, I believe," answered Larry Colby. "But I am pretty certain that we are going further away than usual."

"I hope we go into the mountains."

"Or along some other lake, where the fishing is fine," put in Tom.

"Yes, that would suit me, too."

The announcement concerning the examination in military matters also caused much talk, and many of the cadets began at once to study military tactics harder than ever, while drills became a pleasure instead of a hardship.

"I'm going to win some kind of a place," said Larry earnestly. "Even a lieutenantship would be better than nothing."

"I am sure I am going to win," put in William Philander Tubbs. "I am perfect in every kind of a drill."

"Good for Buttertub, the perfect man!" sang out Tom. "Billy, you ought to have your picture done in oil, to hang alongside of Washington's, in the library."

"Don't you dare to call me Buttertub, or Billy either, you rude thing!" snorted Tubbs, and walked away in outraged dignity.

"Dot examinations vos dickle me alretty," said Hans. "Vot I don't know apoud dem military tictacs you don't know, ain't it. I vill pe by der top of der class so kvick as neffer vos, you pet yourself!" And he nodded his head as if he meant every word of it.

Dick Rover said but little on the subject, but he meant to win if he possibly could, and so did Tom. Sam felt he was as yet too young to become anything but a sergeant, so he did not enter the competition with much vigor.

Lew Flapp was not a particularly bright pupil, but there was one thing, outside of bag punching, that he could do well, and that was to drill. He took to military tactics naturally, and knew nearly every rule that the book of instructions contained.

"It's going to be an easy matter to get into the chosen twenty," the tall boy told himself. "But after that, will the cadets elect me to one of those positions?" He wanted to be major of the battalion, but doubted if he could muster up sufficient friends to elect him.

The examination in military matters came off on the afternoon of the following Wednesday and on Thursday morning. Captain Putnam was very thorough in the work, and made the pupils do certain things over and over again, and write the answers to long lists of questions.

"It has given me great pleasure to conduct this examination," he said, on the day following. "It shows that the average in military knowledge is much higher than it was last term. The following are the pupils who have passed, given in the order of merit." And then he read the list of names. Lew Flapp came first, Dick Rover next, Larry Colby third, George Granbury fourth, and the others, including Tom and Fred Garrison, followed. Neither William Philander Tubbs nor Hans Mueller were mentioned.

"I dink me dere vos a mistake py dot," said the German boy. "Or else I vos know so much der captain didn't vont nobody to know apout it," and this raised a laugh.

"It's an outrage!" declared Tubbs. "An outrage! I shall request my parents to withdraw me from the institution." And he wrote a letter home that very night. But his parents refused to grant his request. Probably they knew of his shortcomings, and thought a few terms at Putnam Hall would do him good.

Lew Flapp was much pleased over the fact that he headed the list of those who had passed, and nobody could blame him for this. But he immediately made himself more obnoxious than ever by going around among the cadets and declaring that he was the only one to be elected to the office of major.

"It's mine by right," he said. "It wouldn't be fair to elect anybody else."

"But Dick Rover and Larry Colby stand almost as high," said one of the cadets. "Captain Putnam said your average was 96 per cent., while Rover's average was 95 per cent., and Larry Colby's was 94 per cent. A difference of one or two per cent. out of a possible hundred isn't much."

"I don't care," retorted Lew Flapp, "I ought to be elected major, and that is all there is to it."

When Dick was approached he had but little to say.

"I didn't expect to stand so high," he declared. "I don't know that I care to be made major. If I get to be a captain or a first lieutenant I shall be well content. You know I was a second lieutenant once."

"My percentage is more than I expected," said Larry. "I really didn't think I was so well up in military matters. Now, if the boys want me for an officer I'll take whatever they give me."

"And that is what I say," added George Granbury.

"Ditto, myself," put in Tom. "Even a second lieutenantship will not be declined by yours truly."

After this there was a good deal of canvassing and "log rolling" as it is called. Lew Flapp spent much money in secret, treating boys when at the village and elsewhere. By this means he gathered quite a band of followers around him.

"He is going to win, by hook or by crook," observed Songbird Powell. "He acts just like some of those politicians who don't care what they do so long as they win."

"I am not going to spend a cent on the boys," declared Dick. "I don't believe in buying votes."

There was a strict rule at Putnam Hall that no cadet should touch liquor of any kind excepting when ordered by the doctor. This rule had been broken in the past by Dan Baxter and a few others, but the majority of the cadets respected the rule and kept it.

But Lew Flapp had always been allowed to drink when at home and now he frequently drank on the sly when down to Cedarville. On these excursions he was generally joined by a weak-minded boy named Hurdy, who was usually willing to do whatever Flapp desired done.

One day, just before the election for officers was to come off, Lew Flapp called Ben Hurdy to him.

"I am going down to Cedarville this evening," he said. "I want you to go along and invite Jackson and Pender and Rockley."

"Going to have a good time?" asked Ben Hurdy.

"Yes and you can tell the others so, and tell them if they know some others who want a good time, and can keep their mouths shut about it, to bring them along. But mind, Hurdy, we want no blabbers."

"All right, Flapp, I'll get the right fellows," answered Ben Hurdy, and ran away to fulfill his questionable errand.



Chapter X

An Adventure In Cedarville


On the same evening that Lew Flapp and his particular cronies went down to Cedarville to have a good time in a very questionable way, Dick Rover and Songbird Powell also visited the village, one to buy some handkerchiefs, and the other to invest in a book he had ordered from the local bookseller and newsdealer.

"I heard that Lew Flapp was going to Cedarville," said Powell, while on the way. "Do you know, Dick, I don't like that fellow at all."

"Neither do I, Songbird."

"It will make me sick if he is elected major of the battalion."

"Nevertheless, the cadets have a right to elect whom they please."

"I know that as well as you do. But I can't stand Flapp's domineering ways. And he is bound to grow worse if he is put in authority."

"As to that, I shall not stand being bullied," came from Dick, with flashing eyes. "I'll let him go just so far, and if he goes any further he'll have to beware."

Both boys were excellent walkers and it was not long before Cedarville was reached. Dick soon had the handkerchiefs wanted, and then Powell led the way to the bookstore, to obtain a volume of humorous verses he had ordered the week previous.

"I don't see why you buy verses, since you can make them up so readily," said Dick with a smile.

"Oh, I like to see what the other fellows are doing," answered his friend.

"I saw some more of your cadets in town to-night," said the bookseller, while wrapping up the book.

"Yes, I believe half a dozen or more came down," returned Powell.

"Having a special celebration to-night?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"Why do you ask?" put in Dick, who knew the bookseller well.

"Oh, I only thought some of the boys were flying their kite pretty high, that's all," and the man closed one eye suggestively.

"Where did you meet the fellows?"

"Well -- er -- I'd rather not say, Rover. You see, I don't want to make trouble for anybody."

"Are they in town yet?"

"I presume they are. But don't say I mentioned it, please," pleaded the bookseller.

No more was said, and having paid for the book Powell walked out, with Dick behind him.

"If those fellows are drinking it's a jolly shame," declared Dick, when they were out of hearing. "What do you think about it, Songbird?"

"Exactly as you do, Dick."

"Shall we hunt them up?"

"What good will it do? Lew Flapp won't listen to what you say, and I'm sure I don't want to play the spy and report him."

"But what if he is leading some innocent students astray? He has had half a dozen young chaps dangling at his heels lately."

"I know that." There was a pause. "We might look into some of the places as we pass them."

Very slowly they walked up and down the main street of Cedarville, a thing easy to do, since the stores extended only a distance of two blocks. Then they passed to a side street, upon which two new places had recently been built.

One of the new places was a butcher shop, and this was dark and deserted. Next to it was a new resort known as Mike Sherry's Palace, and this was well lit up and evidently in full blast.

"If Flapp is drinking he is evidently in this place," remarked Dick. "But I don't see anything of him," he added, after peering through the swinging doors.

"They tell me this Sherry has a room upstairs, also for drinking purposes," returned Powell. "Maybe Flapp and his friends are up there. They wouldn't want to be seen in public, you must remember."

"That is true. But how do they get upstairs -- through the saloon?"

"There may be a back way. Let us look."

They walked around to the rear of the building and here found a door leading into a back hall. But the door was locked.

"This is the way up, I feel sure," said Dick. "Somebody has locked the door as a safeguard."

"Then, I'm afraid, we'll have to give it up."

"Not yet, Songbird." Dick had been looking over toward the rear of the butcher shop. "See, the painters are at work here and have left one of their ladders. Wonder if we can't move it over and put it up under one of those windows?"

The matter was talked over for a minute, and then the two boys took hold of the long ladder and did as Dick desired.

"This may be a wild goose chase," was Powell's comment. "And if it is, and Mike Sherry discovers us, he'll want us to explain. Maybe he'll take us for burglars."

"You can keep shady if you want to, Songbird. I'm going up," and so speaking Dick began to mount the ladder.

The window under which the ladder had been placed was open from the top only, and a half curtain over the lower portion hid what was beyond from view. So, in order to look over the curtain, Dick had to climb to the very top of the ladder and then brace his feet on the window sill.

He could now hear voices quite plainly, and presently heard Lew Flapp speak.

"I'm on the right track," he called softly to Powell. "They are in the room next to this one, but the door between is wide open."

"Shall I come up?"

"Suit yourself. I'm going inside."

As good as his word, Dick slipped over the top of the lowered window sash, and an instant later stood in the room, which was but dimly lit. Then he tiptoed his way behind a door and peeped into the room beyond.

Seven cadets were present, including Lew Flapp, Ben Hurdy, and their particular cronies Jackson, Pender, and Rockley. The others were two young cadets named Joe Davis and Harry Moss.

On the table in the center of the room stood a platter of chicken sandwiches and also several bottles containing beer and wine, and a box of cigars. Evidently all of the crowd had been eating and drinking, and now several were filling the apartment with tobacco smoke.

"Come, smoke up, Moss," cried Lew Flapp, shoving the box of cigars toward one of the younger cadets. "Don't be afraid. It won't kill you."

"Thank you, Flapp, but I -- I guess I won't to-night," pleaded Harry Moss, whose face was strangely flushed.

"Why not?"

"I -- I -- don't feel well. The drinking has made me feel sick."

"Oh, nonsense! Here, take this cigar and smoke up. It will brace your nerves. And you, Davis, have another glass of something to drink," went on Lew Flapp, pouring out a glassful and handing it to the one addressed.

"Thank you, Flapp, but I don't want any more," answered Joe Davis. He looked as ill at ease as did Harry Moss.

"Don't you want to be sociable?" demanded the tall boy.

"It isn't that, Flapp. I -- I guess I've had enough already."

"Oh, don't be a sissy, Davis. Here, I'll drink with you, and then I'll smoke a cigar with Moss. If you are going to be men you want to start right in. Eh, Rockley?"

"That's right, Lew," answered Rockley, as he lit a fresh cigar.

"What you need is another glass, Davis," came from Pender. "It will act as a bracer. Just try it and see."

"I -- I don't want to get -- get -- " faltered Davis.

"Get what?"

"Intoxicated -- really I don't -- "

"Who said anything about that?" demanded Lew Flapp in apparent anger. "Don't be a fool. One more glass won't hurt you. Here, take it," and he almost forced the liquor to Joe Davis's lips.

But before he could accomplish his wicked design Dick Rover leaped quickly into the apartment and hurled the glass from the big boy's hand.

"For shame, Flapp!" he cried. "For shame!"

"And that's what I say, too," came from Powell, who was close behind Dick.

Every cadet in the room was astonished, and all leaped to their feet.

"What's up?" cried Rockley.

"They have been spying on us!" came from Jackson.

"Talk about meanness! This is the limit!" added Pender.

"I want you to leave Joe Davis and Harry Moss alone," went on Dick, as calmly as he could. "It's an outrage to get them to drink and smoke against their will."

"Are you two alone?" asked Lew Flapp, glancing nervously over the newcomers' shoulders.

"We are."

"What right had you to come here?"

"Well, we took the right."

"Then you enjoy playing the spy?"

"No, Flapp," said Dick boldly, "but I do enjoy doing Davis and Moss a favor."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I am going to stand by them, so you shall not get them to drink any more or smoke."

"Humph! What right have you to interfere?"

"Maybe he's going to squeal to the captain," put in Jackson.

"If he does that I'll punch his head for him!" roared Lew Flapp, who had been drinking just enough to make him ugly and unreasonable.

"I did not come here to squeal on anybody," answered Dick.

"I know you did -- and I'm going to pound you well for it!" howled Lew Flapp, and on the instant he leaped forward and aimed a savage blow with his fist at Dick's head.



Chapter XI

A Quarrel And Its Result


Had the blow landed as intended Dick Rover would have received a bloody nose and might perhaps have lost one or two teeth.

But Dick was on the alert and he dodged to one side, so the blow landed on Songbird Powell's shoulder.

"See here, what do you mean by that, Flapp?" demanded Powell, who was no weakling.

"I meant to hit Rover," was the answer.

"Hands off, Flapp!" cried Dick. "I didn't come here to fight, but I can defend myself."

"We'll see!" roared the unreasonable tall boy, and made another rush at Dick. But in a twinkling he found himself flat on the floor, where he had been thrown with a suddenness that took away his breath.

"Hi! that ain't fair," put in Rockley. "You let Lew alone."

"I will, when he leaves me alone," retorted Dick. He turned to Harry Moss and Joe Davis. "Do you want to stay here any longer?"

"No," answered both of the small cadets promptly.

"I didn't wish to come at all, but Ben Hurdy urged it," continued Harry Moss.

"And Pender said it would do no harm," added Joe Davis. "He said we were going to have nothing but sandwiches, root beer, and soda."

"Look here, Davis, you keep your mouth shut!" cried Pender. "You knew exactly what to expect. You know Mike Sherry don't run a temperance hotel," he continued, with a sneer.

At these words Joe Davis grew pale.

"Yes, I know it -- now, and if I ever get out of it, I shan't come again."

"Oh, you're too good to live!" broke in Jackson. "You ought to be laid away in a glass case for safe keeping."

"Davis is all right, and he has more brains than you, Jackson," came from Dick. "If you want to make a fool of yourself by drinking and smoking, I shan't stop you. But you shan't drag Joe and Harry into it against their will."

"That's the way to talk, Dick," said Powell. "Let us clear out, and take the youngsters with us."

By this time Lew Flap had recovered from the flooring received and now he approached Dick once more.

"Do you want me to hammer you good, Rover?" he panted.

"As I said before, Flapp, I didn't come here to fight, but I can defend myself. I propose to leave quietly, and take Harry and Joe with me."

"Supposing I won't let you leave?"

"I don't think you'll stop me."

"Come, Flapp, don't make a fool of yourself," put in Powell. "We didn't come here to quarrel, but to urge all of the crowd to quit drinking. You know it's against the Hall rules and regulations."

"And you intend to blab on us?"

"Not at all. I'm not that kind. And Dick Rover isn't either."

"I know how to fix 'em," came from Pender, with a cunning look in his eye.

"How?" asked Flapp and Rockley, in concert.

"Our word is as good as anybody's. If they say they found us at Mike Sherry's we can say that we found them there, too. For all we know they were drinking below before they came up."

"That's it!" interrupted Lew Flapp, thinking he saw a way of implicating Dick and Powell. "Mike Sherry never lets anybody in his saloon without they drink something."

"It's as plain as day," came from Rockley.

"They had all the liquor they wanted before they came up, and now they want to stop our sport."

"Your story might be believed were it not for one thing," said Dick, trying to keep calm. "Come on, Harry, come, Joe." And he whispered something into their ears.

"Oh, all right," said Harry Moss, and he retreated from the room, speedily followed by Joe Davis.

"Hi! come back here, you young scamps!" roared Lew Flapp. And then he made for the doorway leading to the next room.

"Not so fast, Flapp!" said Dick, and blocked the opening with his own form, while Powell stood directly behind.

"Say, fellows, Moss and Davis are getting out of the window!" cried Flapp, in astonishment.

"That's the way Rover and Powell must have gotten in," came from Pender.

"Exactly," answered Dick, "and that proves we didn't have to stop below for liquor," he added triumphantly.

"Look here, I don't mean to let those fellows go yet," blustered Lew Flapp. "Let me get at them."

"Not to-night, Flapp."

Scarcely had Dick spoken when the tall boy flung himself forward. The pair grappled, and a moment later both went down, with Dick on top.

"Hit him, Dick, don't let him get the best of you!" cried Powell, and an instant later found himself tackled by Pender and Jackson. For the moment Ben Hurdy, who had remained silent during the most of the talk, did nothing, but then he ran forward, and watching his chance, kicked Dick in the side of the head with his foot.

The quarrel was now on in earnest, and in the midst of the melee a burly waiter came rushing from below, demanding to know what was the matter.

"A pair of spies!" shouted Pender. "Help us to give them a sound thrashing, Pat."

"Sure, Oi will that!" was the answer, and the waiter joined in the attack on Dick and Powell.

It was with a mighty effort that Powell managed to throw off his assailants. Then he leaped for the window, reached the ladder, and fairly slid to the ground.

"Let up on Dick Rover!" he called, when safe. "If you don't, I'll rouse the constable and have somebody locked up."

"Confound him!" muttered Rockley. "We had better dust out. If he calls a constable the jig will be up."

With a parting kick at Dick he rushed down the back stairs to the resort, and unlocked the door. Taking care that Powell should not see him, he darted into the gathering darkness.

Ben Hurdy followed Rockley, and a moment later Pender and Jackson did the same. Then Flapp came staggering down the stairs, holding his nose, from which the blood was flowing freely.

"Let's get back to the Hall as quickly as we can," he said to the others. "And if we are examined, we can deny everything."

"All right," said Pender. "But what did you do to Rover?"

"Somebody kicked him and he's about half unconscious. I left him to the tender mercies of Pat the waiter." And then Lew Flapp and his cronies hurried away on the road leading to Putnam Hall.

Dick might have defended himself, but he was cruelly kicked several times, and partly lost consciousness, as already told. In a dim, uncertain manner he felt himself raised up and carried below, and then put on the grass of the yard behind Mike Sherry's resort.

When he was able to move he sat up and then arose to his feet slowly. At that moment Songbird Powell discovered him. Powell had been up the ladder a second time, to find the window closed and locked.

"Dick!" he exclaimed. "Are you badly hurt?"

"I -- I don't know," was the slow reply. "How are you?"

"I'm all right?"

"Where are Flapp and the rest?"

"They ran away."

"And Harry and Joe?"

"They are waiting for us, down at the turn in the road."

Dick put his hand to his head, to find a big lump directly back of the ear. His ear was cut, and there was a scratch on his chin.

"They didn't fight fair," he explained, when he felt a little stronger. "They kicked me when I was down."

Aided by Powell he made his way to a pump and there bathed his head and procured a drink of water.

While both boys were recovering from the adventure all the lights in Mike Sherry's resort were put out and every door and window was locked.

"He wants to steer clear of trouble," said Powell.

"I put the blame on Lew Flapp," answered Dick. "To my mind he is about as mean as any boy around here."

"Of course we can't report him, Dick."

"No, I'm no tale-bearer, Songbird. But he ought to be punished."

"He'll make a fine major, if he's elected," went on Powell, as he and Dick started for the road leading to the academy.

"He shall never be elected, if I can help it."

"I am with you on that."

They found Harry Moss and Joe Davis walking slowly toward Putnam Hall. Joe seemed to feel all right now that he was out in the fresh evening air, but Harry complained of a strange sickness at the stomach.

"It was horrid of Lew Flapp to make us drink," said the young cadet. "I told him I didn't want anything stronger than soda. But he and Pender made me take it."

"I think the walk will do you good, Harry," answered Dick kindly. "Here, take my arm, and Songbird can take your other arm."

When the Hall was reached they found that Lew Flapp and his cronies had already gone to bed. Dick took Harry and Joe to their dormitory and then rejoined Powell.

"Going to keep mum?" asked the latter.

"For the present," answered the eldest Rover. "But after this let us keep a sharp eye on Flapp, Pender & Company."

And so it was agreed.



Chapter XII

The Election For Officers


On the following morning all of the cadets but Harry Moss appeared in the messroom.

"Joe Davis says Harry is quite sick," said Powell to Dick.

"That's too bad. Have they sent for a doctor?"

"I don't know."

When Lew Flapp heard that Harry was sick he grew pale, and during the morning session could scarcely fix his mind on his studies.

"I hope the little fool don't blab on us," was his thought. "If he does there is no telling what the captain will do. He's altogether too strict for comfort in some things."

No doctor was sent for, so it was finally agreed that Harry Moss was not as ill as had been supposed. But the young cadet did not enter the schoolroom for all of that day.

The sickness had frightened Captain Putnam, who was not yet over the scarlet fever scare, and he questioned Harry thoroughly about what he had been doing, and about what he had been eating and drinking.

At first the young cadet did not dare to tell the truth, but finally he blurted out that he had taken a glass of liquor against his will and it had turned his stomach in a most painful manner.

"Where did you get the liquor?" demanded Captain Putnam sternly.

"I -- I -- oh, must I tell you, sir?"

"Yes, Harry."

"I -- that is, Lew Flapp -- Oh, sir, I don't want to be a tattle-tale."

"Did Lew Flapp give you the liquor? Answer me at once."

"Yes, sir, he and another cadet named Pender. But, sir, I don't want to hurt them. I -- I -- " and here Harry burst into tears.

"Where was this?"

"Down in Cedarville, sir. But, I -- I -- I shan't say any more, Captain Putnam," and after that Harry remained silent. As it was plain to see that he was suffering, Captain Putnam did not push the matter. But he called Lew Flapp and Pender into his private office and interviewed the unworthy pair for fully half an hour.

"To do such a thing is outrageous," said the captain. "If I hear of it again I shall dismiss you from the Hall at once."

On the following morning one of the assistant teachers made a brief announcement that filled the entire school with curiosity.

"On next Monday you are to have an election of officers for the term," said he. "As you know, twenty cadets were selected as worthy of being elected. The list has since been cut down to eighteen. Lew Flapp and Augustus Pender will not run."

At this announcement Dick and Powell looked at each other significantly. All of the other cadets looked around to find Flapp and Pender, but the pair were absent, nor did they put in an appearance at all until the next school session.

"The captain found it out in some way," said Dick to Powell.

"Shouldn't wonder if Harry Moss let the cat out of the bag," was the answer.

"It's queer about Flapp and Pender," declared Tom to his older brother. "Do you know why they were dropped?"

"Yes, Tom, but I don't want you to say anything about it."

"There's a report around that they were found cutting loose in the village," put in Sam.

"Well, as I said before, I don't want to speak about it," went on Dick.

A few of the boys dared to question Flapp and Pender, but got no satisfaction.

"If I want to drop out I reckon I can do it," growled Flapp, and that was as much as either he or his crony would say.

With Flapp out of the race there was considerable curiosity to know who would be elected for the term. Each set of cadets had their favorite candidates and the spirit of rivalry ran high. But most of the candidates were good-natured about it, and especially Dick and Tom Rover and George Granbury, Fred Garrison, and Larry Colby.

It had been decided that the cadets should first elect the major, then the three captains, and then the six lieutenants, all to be selected according to the highest number of votes received.

The voting began on Monday immediately after breakfast. Captain Putnam had slips passed around and on these each cadet wrote down his choice for major.

"I will read the result," said the captain, a few minutes after the poll was declared closed. And he read as follows:

"Whole number of votes cast -- 96.

"Lawrence Colby has 67.

"The next highest student has 19.

"Lawrence Colby is declared elected major of the battalion for the present term, including the annual encampment."

"Hurrah for Major Larry Colby!" cried Tom, and a rousing cheer followed, while Captain Putnam strode over and shook hands with the newly elected commanding officer.

"I must congratulate you, Major Colby," he said warmly. "I must say I am well satisfied with the choice of our students."

"Thank you, sir," answered Larry, and blushed in spite of himself.

"We will now proceed to the election of the three captains," went on Captain Putnam. "Remember, the three standing highest on the list will be declared elected respectively."

Again slips were passed around and again the students marked down the names of their favorites, three upon each slip.

Counting up the vote for captains took longer than that for major, but soon the captain had his statement ready and the cadets listened in silence as he proceeded to make his announcement:

"Whole number of votes cast, 288.

"Richard Rover has 82.

"Fred Garrison has 67.

"Mark Romer has 59.

"The next highest student has 28.

"Richard Rover is elected captain of Company A, Frederick Garrison captain of Company B, and Mark Romer captain of Company C, for this term and during the annual encampment."

"Hurrah for Dick Rover!"

"Hurrah for Fred Garrison and Mark Romer!"

And then the students cheered as wildly as ever, while Captain Putnam once more offered his congratulations.

"Captain Rover, my hand," said Larry, coming up.

"Thank you, Major Colby," answered Dick, and then both gave a grip that meant a good deal.

"We seem to be right in it," observed the newly elected major.

"That's true," answered Dick.

"We shall now proceed to the election of six lieutenants," went on Captain Putnam, and once more the slips went the rounds, and the boys did a lot of writing and speculating as each put down the six names required.

This vote was rather a long one, and Captain Putnam had two teachers help him in tabulating the result.

"This contest must make Flapp feel sick," whispered Powell to Dick, while the students were taking it easy on the parade ground.

"Well, he brought it on himself," was the brief reply.

"I'll wager he tries to square up with us, especially if he thinks we told on him."

A bugle sounded, calling the cadets together, and once more Captain Putnam read the result:

"Whole number of votes cast, 576.

"John Powell has 83.

"William Merrick has 76.

"Walter Durham has 71.

"Thomas Rover has 68.

"George Granbury has 51.

"Raymond Hollbrook has 43.

"The next highest cadet has 38.

"John Powell is declared first lieutenant of Company A, William Merrick first lieutenant of Company B, Walter Durham first lieutenant of Company C, Thomas Rover second lieutenant of Company A, George Granbury second lieutenant of Company B, and Raymond Hollbrook second lieutenant of Company C, for this term and during the annual encampment."

As this announcement was made there was a breathless silence. Then came a rousing cheer and the various successful ones were congratulated by the captain and their friends.

"Well, Songbird, it seems you are to be my first lieutenant," said Dick as he shook hands with Powell. "That suits me first-rate."

"And I am to be second lieutenant," said Tom, coming up. "With Sam in the company as private this begins to look like a family affair."

"Oh, I'm going to make you fellows toe the mark now," laughed Dick. "No more skylarking, if you please, Lieutenant Rover."

"All right, Captain Rover," replied Tom, with a stiff salute that was side-splitting.

Taking it all the way through the election was declared to be a popular success. Of course some of the defeated candidates were bitterly disappointed, but they did their best to hide their true feelings. William Philander Tubbs had declined to vote and Lew Flapp and Gus Pender had kept entirely out of sight while the voting was going on. The two cronies took themselves to the gymnasium and there declared their hatred of Dick Rover.

"He is responsible for this," muttered Flapp, clenching his fists and grating his teeth. "But for him I might at this minute be major of the battalion, or one of the captains. Oh, but won't I square up some day!"

"What will you do?" questioned Pender. "Remember, I'm just as down on him as you are."

"I don't know yet, Gus. But I'll do something."

"All right; when you are ready to act, let me know, and I'll help you all I can," answered Gus Pender.



Chapter XIII

The Fight At The Boathouse


Inside of a week the newly-elected officers felt perfectly at home in their various positions. Captain Putnam's idea of allowing only such cadets to be candidates as could fill the positions properly had borne good fruit, and the battalion was now in better condition than ever before.

Contrary to general expectations, Larry Colby, as major, proved a strict disciplinarian when on parade. In the playground he was as "chummy" as ever, but this was cast aside when he buckled on his sword and took command.

"This is as it should be," was Captain Putnam's comment. "And it is the same throughout life: play is play and business is business."

As a captain Dick was equally successful and Tom also made a good second lieutenant. Company A was speedily voted superior to the others, when drilling and when on the march, and consequently became the flag bearer for the term.

"This is splendid!" said Dick, when the announcement was made. And then he went at Company A, to make the cadets drill and march better than ever.

But though the students gave considerable time to military matters, they were not permitted to neglect their regular studies, and to their honor be it said that the three Rover boys pitched in with a will.

"If I can't be an officer I'm going to be a high grade student anyway," said Sam, and kept his word. Books suited him better than did military glories, and soon he was at the top of his class in almost every branch of learning.

Many of the cadets were anxious to know where the annual encampment would be held, but for the time being Captain Putnam declined to discuss the subject.

"We will talk about that as soon as lessons are done for the term," said he.

"I don't believe we'll go to Brierroot Grove again," said Powell to Dick. "A farmer has built a house up there and is clearing off the land as fast as he can."

"I wish we could go to some place at a distance," returned Dick. "All of us know this territory pretty well. I like to visit new localities."

"So do I."

During those days the Rover boys received a letter from their father which proved unusually interesting. Anderson Rover wrote, in part, as follows:

"You will be surprised to learn, at this late day, that something had been heard about Arnold Baxter. A man who knows him fairly well met him a few nights ago in Owego. The news was telegraphed to me at once, and the local police were informed, but since that time nothing more has been seen or heard of the rascal. The man said he was well dressed and had been stopping at a leading hotel. Evidently he is using what was stolen."

"In Owego!" cried Sam. "Why, that city isn't over fifty miles from here."

"This is his old stamping ground," put in Tom. "For all we know he may now be hanging around Ithaca or Cedarville."

"I don't believe he'll come here," said Dick. "He is too well known."

"Oh, if only we could lay hands on him, Dick!"

"Wish we could, Tom. But Arnold Baxter knows enough to keep out of our clutches."

"Wonder if he knows what became of Dan?"

"Like as not our story was in all the newspapers, and they mentioned Dan too."

"If that is so, it's more than likely he thinks we are responsible for Dan being left behind on the island."

"I'm not going to bother my head about Arnold Baxter," put in Sam. "If he shows himself I'll have him arrested, that's all."

One day after another slipped by and all of the boys continued to study with a will. Once they received long letters from Dora Stanhope and Nellie and Grace Laning, and sent long letters in return.

"Wish the girls were back here," said Dick. But this could not be, as they had decided to remain in California for a while longer, and the boys had to content themselves by sending the girls keepsakes by which to be remembered.

On the Friday afternoon preceding the final week of the term Tom and Sam walked down to the lake, intending to go out in a boat for a short row.

As they drew close to the boathouse they heard loud talking and then a cry of pain.

"Please don't," came in the voice of a young cadet. "Please, please don't, Flapp!"

"But I just will, you little imp!" came in Lew Flapp's harsh voice. "I'll teach you to play the sneak!"

"But I -- I didn't mean to do anything, really I didn't," answered the other. "But I felt so sick, and I -- "

"Oh, I know you, Moss. For two pins I'd break your head for you!" And then came the sounds of several blows in quick succession.

"It's Flapp!" cried Sam. "He is beating somebody most shamefully."

"It's little Harry Moss," returned Tom, leaping to the front. "The big bully! Why can't he take a fellow of his own size?"

He rushed around the corner of the boathouse and there beheld a scene that aroused his warmest indignation. Harry Moss was crowded into a corner and over him stood Lew Flapp, beating him with a heavy boat chain.

Flapp had just raised the chain for another blow when Tom ran in and caught his arm.

"Stop!" he cried. "You let Harry Moss alone!"

Startled at the interruption Lew Flapp turned. When he saw both Tom and Sam his face fell.

"What do you want here?" he asked sulkily.

"I want you to leave Harry Moss alone," answered Tom.

"Oh, Rover, please make him stop," pleaded Harry. "He's trying to kill me!"

"No, I ain't," retorted Flapp. "I'm only giving him a whipping that he deserves."

"It's an outrage to strike anybody with that chain," said Sam.

"You needn't put your oar in, Sam Rover!"

"But he just will, and so will I," said Tom. "Give me that chain," and he tried to pull it from Lew Flapp's hand.

"Let go!" screamed Lew Flapp, and began a struggle to keep the chain in his possession. He struck at Tom, hitting him in the shoulder. Then Tom got mad, doubled up his fist, and Lew Flapp received a blow in the left eye that made him see stars.

"Oh!" he howled and dropped the chain. "Tom Rover, I'll get even for that, mind that!"

"What do you mean by attacking Harry Moss in such a disgraceful fashion?"

"Because he's a sneak, and you know it."

"I know nothing of the kind."

"Didn't he go and blab on me to Captain Putnam?"

"About what?"

Lew Flapp paused and eyed Tom and Sam curiously.

"I reckon you know well enough," he remarked slowly.

"But I don't know anything. Do you, Sam?"

"Not a thing. So far as I know Harry is all right."

"Is he?" sneered Flapp. "Well, I don't think so."

"What was the trouble about, Harry?" asked Tom, turning to the small boy.

"Don't you say a word!" shouted Lew Flapp, in alarm. "If Tom and Sam Rover don't know already they needn't know at all, so there."

"Evidently you don't want Harry to talk," said Sam suggestively.

"He's a sneak, I tell you."

"And you are a big, long-legged bully," retorted Tom. "For two pins I'd give you a good drubbing."

"Humph! Do you think you can lick me?" blustered Flapp, who felt certain he could best Tom at fisticuffs.

"I don't think so -- I know it," said Tom coolly.

"Don't you fight him, Tom," said Sam, in alarm. "He only wants to get you into trouble. He'd like nothing better than to see you lose your position as lieutenant."

"He's afraid," sneered Lew Flapp. "All of you Rover boys are mere bags of wind."

"I don't think you found Dick a bag of wind, Flapp."

"Yes, I did. Now you clear out and let Moss and me settle this affair between us."

But this was not to be, for Harry Moss was already at the doorway of the boathouse and now he retreated to a safe distance.

"If you hit Tom Rover, or Sam, I'll call Mr. Strong?" cried the little cadet.

"Don't you do it," said Tom. "I am not afraid of Flapp."

"But he's so big, Tom."

"I don't care for that."

Tom had scarcely spoken when Lew Flapp, watching his opportunity, leaped forward and planted a blow on his chin that sent him staggering back into Sam's arms.

"Now come on, if you dare!" he cried.

"All right!" came from Tom, as he recovered. And like a flash he flew at Lew Flapp, before Sam could do a thing to stop him. Blow after blow was taken and given by each of the cadets, and Tom was hit in the chest, on the shoulder, and in the left cheek. In return Flapp got one in the right eye that almost closed up that optic and then came a blow on the nose that made the blood spurt in all directions.

"Good for you, Tom!" cried Sam, dancing around, forgetful of what he had just said about his brother getting into trouble. "That's the time you did it. Now give him another!"

Again the two boys went at it and once more Tom was struck in the shoulder. Then Lew Flapp aimed for Tom's face, but the latter ducked and, recovering, hit the big boy a heavy blow in the chin that made his teeth rattle and sent him staggering over the side of an upturned boat and flat on his back.

"Hurrah!" cried Sam. "That was almost a knockout, Tom. Now give him to understand -- "

Sam broke off short, as a warning cry from Harry Moss reached his ears. All eyes turned toward the doorway of the boathouse and a second later George Strong, the head teacher, stepped into view.



Chapter XIV

Getting Ready For The Encampment


For fully ten seconds after the head teacher appeared nobody spoke. Lew Flapp arose slowly to his feet, and bringing out his handkerchief applied it to his bleeding nose.

"What does this mean?" demanded George Strong sternly.

"He -- he pitched into me," faltered Flapp.

"That is hardly true," returned Tom hotly.

"Both of you are well aware that it is against the rules of this school to fight," went on the teacher.

"I know that, Mr. Strong," answered Tom. "But Flapp struck me first."

"It isn't so!" cried the big boy. "I wasn't doing anything, when Rover came along and started to quarrel."

"My brother Sam and Harry Moss can prove that Flapp struck me first."

"That is true," said Harry Moss, while Sam nodded.

"What was the quarrel about?"

"I caught him here, beating Harry with this boat chain. I told him to stop and then he pitched into me."

"Is this true, Moss?"

"Ye -- yes, sir, but -- I -- I -- didn't want to say anything about it, sir."

"Do you mean to say that Flapp attacked you with that chain?"

Harry Moss was silent.

"Answer me."

"He did. But, Mr. Strong, I don't want to make any complaint. He and some of the others think I'm a -- a sneak already," and now Harry could hardly keep back his tears.

"I don't know why he attacked Harry," put in Tom. "But I couldn't stand it, and I took the chain away from him and told him to stop. Then he struck me, and we pitched into each other -- and I guess he got the worst of it," added Tom, a bit triumphantly.

"Hum! Flapp, you may go and bathe your nose, which I see is bleeding, and then come to Captain Putnam's office. The others can come to the office with me."

George Strong led the way, and Tom, Sam, and Harry Moss followed. The teacher took along the boat chain and made Harry show where he had been struck.

Captain Putnam looked very grave when the affair was explained to him. He questioned Harry in private and learned that the attack was made by Flapp because of what the young cadet had told about drinking and smoking.

"Rover, it was wrong to fight," said the captain to Tom. "But under the circumstances I am inclined to be lenient with you. You can retire, and this evening during off time I want you to write one hundred times, the proverb beginning, 'Blessed are the peace-makers.'"

"Yes, sir," said Tom humbly. He was glad to escape thus easily, for he knew that the captain was very strict concerning fighting.

A little later the others were sent off, leaving Lew Flapp alone with Captain Putnam.

"Flapp," said the owner of the school, with a hardness that made the big boy's heart sink into his shoes. "I hardly know what to say to you. Your former conduct was mean enough, and this appears to be on a level with it. With such a heavy boat chain you might have injured Moss very seriously. Do you want me to give you another chance or not?"

"Wh -- what do you mean, sir?" asked Flapp, much frightened.

"Do you want to remain at Putnam Hall, or shall I send you home in disgrace?"

"I -- I don't want to go home," said the big boy. His father was a rough man and he knew that if his parent heard of this trouble he would make him pay dearly for it.

"I expect my pupils to be young gentlemen," went on Captain Putnam. "This is an academy for the better class of boys only. Bad boys do not come here, but are sent to the reformatory. If I give you another chance will you promise to do better in the future?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well then, I will give you one more chance. I believe you are somewhat behind in your arithmetic. During the next four days you will remain in during all off time and apply yourself to such examples as your teacher gives you."

"Yes, sir."

"Now you can go, and remember, I want to hear of no further fighting, and no further molesting of Harry Moss."

"I'll remember, sir," answered Lew Flapp meekly, and then left the office and ran up to his dormitory, to bathe his nose and put witch-hazel on his hurts. Although outwardly humble he was in reality burning with rage.

"I'll have to be careful in the future," he told himself, with clenched fists. "But I'll get square -- oh, I'll get square!"

"Hullo, hurt yourself?" asked Pender, as he came in.

"Yes, I fell over a boat down at the boathouse," answered the big boy.

"Is that so? I heard something of a fight, and came up to see about it."

"Oh, I had a row with Harry Moss and Tom Rover, but it didn't amount to much, Gus. But, say, I just wish I could square up with Dick Rover, and Tom, too!"

"You said something like that before."

"I'm going to watch my chances."

"Perhaps something will turn up during the encampment."

"Yes, I was thinking of that. A fellow has more of a chance in camp than he does in school."

"It would be a fine thing to get Dick Rover into trouble and make him lose his position as captain," went on Gus Pender.

"Yes, and make Tom Rover lose his position as lieutenant, too," added Flapp.

The term at Putnam Hall was now drawing to a close and it was not long before the semi-annual examinations began. All of the Rovers worked hard over their papers, and with more or less success. Sam came out at the top of his class, while Tom stood third in his grade, and Dick third in a still higher class. The boys lost no time in sending the news home, and received word back that not only their father, but also Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha, were much pleased with the result.

"Now we'll feel as if we deserve an outing," said Tom, and Sam and Dick agreed with him.

It was on the following morning that Captain Putnam made an announcement that filled all of the cadets with interest.

"You are all anxious, I know, to learn where the annual encampment is to be held," said he, during general assembly. "I am pleased to be able to announce that I have arranged to hold it at Pine Island, a fine bit of ground, located close to the south shore of Bass Lake. The lake is situated about thirty-five miles from here, and we will make a two-days' march to the spot, stopping on the road over night, in true soldier style, weather permitting."

"Hurrah!" burst out half a dozen cadets.

"Three cheers for Captain Putnam!" called out Tom, and they were given with a will.

"I am told that the lake is an excellent one for fishing and for bathing, and I have already engaged six boats which the cadets will be allowed to use from time to time."

Again there was a cheer and with it a loud clapping of hands.

"While in camp you may play such games as you please, during off time, and we will see if we cannot arrange for contests at swimming, rowing, and running, and to the winners suitable prizes shall be given."

"Hurrah for Captain Putnam!" came the cry once more, and again a cheer arose.

"When will we start, captain?"

"Wish we were going right now!"

"We shall start Monday morning," was the answer. "To-morrow we will get out our tents and camping outfits and see that all are in first-class order. It is perhaps needless to add that during this encampment the officers will be in authority during all but off hours, when myself and my assistants will take charge."

This ended the talk, and the students immediately broke up into little groups to discuss the good news.

"We ought to have just a boss good time while in camp," cried Sam. "Think of living in tents, and having nothing to do but fish, and swim, and make yourself comfortable."

"Sam must be getting lazy," returned Dick. "But I grant you I think it will be first-class myself."

About the only pupil who did not relish going into camp was William Philander Tubbs.

"It will be beastly to live out in the open, on the ground," said Tubbs. "Supposing it should rain? Why, we'll all get wet!"

"Never mind, that will make you grow, Tubby," said Sam.

"Sam Rover, how often must I tell you not to address me as -- ah -- Tubby. My full name is -- "

"Oh, I know that -- William Longfellow Washington Hezekiah Philander Salamander Tubbs. But you can't expect me to say that every time, can you?" questioned Sam innocently.

"Mine cracious! vos dot his hull name?" burst in Hans Mueller. "It's apout as long as a freight drain, ain't it, alretty!"

"No, my name is -- "

"Perhaps I forgot one or two syllables," interrupted Sam. "Very sorry, I'm sure."

"I said my name -- "

"I know you said it, half a dozen times, Billy. But you see life is so very short, and time so precious -- "

"I meant to say -- "

"Sorry, Billy, but I can't wait to hear it all," cried Sam, and ran away.

"He is -- er -- extremely rude," murmured Tubbs.

"Put dot's a long name, ain't it?" said Hans, "I couldn't remember dot no more as I can remember der names of all der kings py England alretty."

"Oh, I am disgusted!" sighed William Philander, and started to walk away.

"Vot is you disgusted apout, Mr. Dubbs?"

"Because they won't call me by my proper name."

"Do da call you by your imbrober name?" asked Hans innocently.

"Eh?"

"I said, do da call you py your imbrober name?" repeated the German youth.

"Oh, don't talk to me," howled Tubbs, and walked away more disconcerted than ever.

"Dot fellow vas so sharp like a pox of bebber, ain't it?" sighed Hans to himself.

The preparations for the annual encampment went forward rapidly. All of the outfit was inspected with care and found to be in good order. Each cadet was provided with a blanket, and a knapsack full of extra underclothing and other necessary things. The captain had already engaged three big wagons to carry the tents, poles, and cooking utensils, including several camp stoves, and from another quarter cots were to be sent to the camp direct, so that the cadets would not be compelled to lie upon the ground.

"Now, I guess everything is ready," said Dick; late Saturday evening.

Sunday was a day of rest for the most part. In the morning the majority of the students marched to church under the directions of the captain and Mr. Strong, and part of the afternoon was spent in writing letters to the folks at home. "Lights out," sounded half an hour earlier than usual, so that the cadets might get a good sleep before starting out on the two days' march.



Chapter XV

On The March To Camp


Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat!

The cadets got their first taste of the annual encampment early in the morning, when, instead of hearing the familiar bell, they were awakened by the rolling of the drum.

"Time to get up, everybody!" cried Sam, flinging the covers from him. "It won't do to be late this morning."

"That is true, Private Rover," came solemnly from Dick. "I will fine any soldier of my command who is behind time."

"Thank you, Captain Rover, I'll remember that," came from one of the other cadets. "And how is Lieutenant Rover this morning"?

"Fine as silk," came from Tom, who was already splashing in the cold water of his washbowl. "I'll bet a big red apple against a turnip that I'm down first," and he began to don his uniform with remarkable rapidity.

All of the students were soon below, and then the various companies marched into the messroom for their last breakfast at the Hall for some time to come.

"I see the wagons have already left," said Sam.

"Yes, the drivers are to get the camp in readiness for to-night," answered his big brother.

Knowing that they had a long march before them, the majority of the cadets ate a hearty breakfast. Mrs. Green, the housekeeper, was sorry to have them leave, and had prepared an unusually fine repast.

"Mrs. Green is just all right," declared Tom. "I move we give her a vote of thanks." And this was later on done, much to the old lady's delight.

It was a perfect day. The sun shone brightly, and there was just enough breeze to keep the atmosphere fresh and exhilarating. Captain Putnam was to accompany the students on horseback, and the teachers had already gone off with the wagons.

"Battalion, attention!" shouted Major Larry Colby, when the cadets were assembled on the parade ground. And the order was immediately obeyed.

"Shoulder arms!" was the next order given, and up went every gun in unison. The movement was so pretty that the spectators who had gathered to see the boys march off clapped their hands in approval.

"Forward -- march!" came next, and the drums and fifes struck up, and away went the cadets, company front, toward the road.

"By column of fours!" was the next command, and Captain Dick Rover turned to his company.

"By column of fours!" he repeated, and Company A broke up into four abreast and turned into the road leading off in the direction of Pine Island. The other companies also broke up, and in a minute more the cadets were really and truly on the march for the camp.

The drums and fifes sounded well on that bracing morning air, and quite a crowd of boys and not a few girls followed the students over the first of the hills back of Putnam Hall. But here the crowd dropped gradually away, until the young soldiers had the country road practically to themselves.

For a full mile the cadets were made to keep in step. Then came the order, "Route step!" and they moved forward as pleased them, keeping together, however, by companies. The route step is given that one may take the step that is most natural to him, be it longer or shorter than the regulation step.

Farms were rather scattered in that neighborhood, but occasionally they passed country homes, when all the folks would rush forth to learn what the drumming and fifing meant.

"They are the Putnam Hall cadets," said one farm woman. "How neat they look and how nicely they march!"

"Puts me in mind o' war times, Mirandy," said her husband. "Don't you remember how the boys marched away in them days"?

"Indeed I do, Ira," answered the woman. "But that was real, while this is only for fun."

"Well, I reckon some o' those lads would make putty good soldiers, were they put to it. They handle their guns like veterans."

The cadets marched until ten o'clock and then stopped for a brief rest near a fine hillside spring, where all procured a drink. Then they moved forward again until noon, when they reached a small village where dinner already awaited them.

"We have covered twelve miles," said Captain Putnam. "Eight more, and the day's march will be over."

The cadets were glad enough to eat their dinner and take it easy on the porch of the old country hotel at which they had stopped.

"Imagine us marching off to war," observed Sam. "How would you like it, Tom"?

"Oh, I don't think I would complain," was the answer. "Anything for a bit of excitement."

The day's march was completed long before sundown, and the battalion came to a halt in an open field through which flowed a shaded brook.

The tents were at hand and the students lost no time in putting up the shelters.

Food was supplied for the occasion by a farmer living near, for it was not deemed advisable to unload the cook stoves and build the necessary fires.

The farmer gave the students permission to visit his apple orchard, and this the majority did, returning to the temporary camp with their pockets fairly bulging with apples.

The weather remained clear and warm, so the first night in the open proved very agreeable. A camp-fire was lit just for the look of things, and around this the cadets gathered, telling stories and singing songs until it was time to turn in.

Sleeping in a tent just suited the Rover boys and none of them awoke until sunrise. Soon the whole camp was astir, and each cadet took a good washing up at the brook. Breakfast was supplied by the farmer, and by nine o'clock the column was once again in motion on its way to Pine Island.

"Dot sleeping out in der air vos a funny dings," said Hans Mueller to Sam. "I vake up der middle of der night in und find a pig mouskeeter mine toe on alretty!"

"Be thankful that it wasn't something worse, Hans," said Sam. "What would you do if you woke up and saw a big black bear standing beside your cot"?

"I dink I cofer mine head kvick, Sammy."

"But the bear might chew the cover up."

"Den I vos rund for mine life und holler like sixty!"

"Well, you want to keep your eyes open for bears," added Sam, thinking he scented fun ahead.

"How vos I going to keep mine eyes oben of I go to sleep, tell me dot"?

"You'll have to figure that out yourself, Hansy, old boy;" and here the talk had to come to an end.

By the middle of the afternoon they came in sight of Bass Lake, a beautiful sheet of water about two miles and a half long by nearly half a mile wide. Close to the south shore lay Pine Island, so called because it was covered in spots with tall pine trees. Between the main shore and Pine Island were two smaller islands, and there were low wooden bridges from one to the other, connecting the big island with the mainland.

The wagons had already gone over the bridges to the spot selected for the camp, and now the battalion marched across, from island to island, under low arching trees and over ground covered with fallen leaves and moss.

"What a grand spot for a camp!"

It was Dick who uttered the words when the final halt was made. His words were true, and his fellow students agreed with him that Captain Putnam could not have made a better selection.

There was an open space nearly an acre in extent, covered with short grass and sloping slightly toward the lake. At the water's edge was a small wooden dock, where the boats were tied up, and next to this a sandy strip excellent for bathing purposes. Back of the open space was a fine grove of trees, to which the students could retire when the sun became too hot for them. More trees lined the north shore, some hanging out far over the water, making ideal spots for reading or fishing. There were beautiful walks through the woods, and in the center of the island was a rocky hill from the top of which one could obtain a view of the country for several miles around.

Captain Putnam insisted upon it that the camp be laid out in true military fashion, and two students who knew a little about civil engineering put down the necessary stakes. There was a street for each company, with a tent for the captain and his lieutenants at the head. Each tent was of the wall pattern and large enough to accommodate four soldiers. That the flooring of the tent might be kept dry around each a trench was dug, by which the water could run off when it rained. On the bottom pine boughs were strewn, giving a delicious smell to the interior.

"This smell of pine is very good for a cold in the head," said Major Larry to Dick. "My sister always uses a pillow filled with pine needles for that purpose."

The students worked hard that evening getting their tents ready for occupancy and as a consequence all were glad to retire when the proper time came. Captain Putnam had expected that there would be some skylarking, but he was mistaken. That was to come later -- when the lads felt more rested.



Chapter XVI

The First Day On Pine Island


"Can anybody tell me where the -- er -- looking glass is"?

It was William Philander Tubbs who asked the question. He stood in the middle of one of the tents, gazing helplessly about him.

"Beastly way to live, really now it is," he continued. "How is a fellow to arrange his toilet without a glass"?

"Better run down to the lake and look into the water," suggested Sam, who occupied a cot in the tent.

"Look into the water? Beastly!" murmured Tubbs. "Really now, this isn't like home, is it"? he continued.

"It suits me well enough," went on Sam, leaping up and beginning to dress. "You'll get used to it before long."

"Never, my dear boy, never!"

As Tubbs spoke he began to put on his coat, but failed to get either of his hands further than the elbows of the sleeves.

"What's the matter with this coat"? he ejaculated. "Well, I declare!"

"What's up now"? asked another cadet.

"Somebody has gone and sewed up the sleeves."

There was a roar of laughter at this.

"Mustn't mind a little thing like that," said Sam, and he sat down on the edge of his cot to put on his shoes. "Great Scott, what's this"?

He had forced his foot into one shoe and now withdrew it covered with soft soap.

"Haw! haw!" roared Tubbs. "Rather fancy the laugh is on you now, Rover."

"That's a fact," muttered Sam, and began to clean out the shoe as quickly as he could.

Several other small jokes had been played, showing that the cadets were "tuning up," as Major Larry expressed it.

"I guess I'll have my hands full before the week is out," he said to Dick, in private. "Keeping order will be no fool of a job."

"Well, you must remember that you liked to have your fling too, when you were a private, major," answered the captain of Company A.

The cooking detail were already preparing breakfast and the aroma of hot coffee floated throughout the camp. Immediately after roll-call breakfast was served, of fruit, fish, eggs, bread, and coffee, and the cadets pitched in with a will.

"Gives one an appetite to live out in the open," said Lieutenant Tom.

"As if you didn't carry your appetite with you wherever you go," grinned Sam.

"Silence, Private Rover, or I'll fine you half a day's pay," flung back Tom with a similar grin.

"My, but we are some pumpkins," went on Sam, squaring his shoulders. "Wonder how soon we'll get to be a general."

"Perhaps at the next general election," suggested George Granbury.

"Lieutenant Granbury is fined a peanut for punning," said Tom severely. "Don't do it again and the fine will be remitted."

"That's a fine way to do," murmured George, and then Sam shied a tin plate at him.

As soon as the meal was over there was a drill lasting half an hour, and then the cadets were permitted to do as they pleased until noon. Some went boating, some fishing, while others took a swim, or simply "knocked around" as Sam expressed it.

"I shouldn't mind a swim," said Tom. "Who will go in with me"?

A dozen cadets were willing, including Dick, Larry, and Fred Garrison. As it was off time, Larry, even though major, did not feel it necessary to "stand on his dignity."

"I'm just going to be as I've always been," he told the others. "If I can't be that, I don't want to be major."

Several tents had been erected close to the water's edge, where the cadets might undress and don their bathing suits. Tom was the first ready, and with a run he plunged into the lake head-first.

"It's glorious!" he shouted, as he came up and shook the water from his head. "Worth a dollar a minute. Come on in!" And they came, one after another, without loss of more time. The water was slightly cool, but the students at Putnam Hall were required to take cold baths weekly, so they did not mind the temperature. Laughing and shouting gleefully they dove around in all directions, and then Tom suggested a race.

"Just the thing!" said another cadet. "Where shall we race to"?

"Over to yonder rock and back," answered Tom. "Line up, everybody. A stale biscuit to the winner and a sour cream puff for the last man. All ready"?

There was a pause.

"Start!" yelled Tom, and made a wild splash that sent the water flying in all directions.

"A race! A race!" shouted one of the students on the shore, and his cry soon brought a score or more of the others to the spot.

"I think Tom Rover will win that race."

"I'll bet on Major Larry."

"Fred Garrison is ahead. He's the best swimmer in the school."

"He can't swim as well as Dick Rover."

"I'll bet Jackson wins," came from Lew Flapp, who was in the crowd on the beach. Jackson, it will be remembered, was one of his particular cronies.

"Jackson can't swim against Dick Rover," came from Songbird Powell, who had hardly spoken to Flapp since the row at Mike Sherry's resort.

"I'll bet you a dollar he beats Rover," replied the tall boy, in a low tone.

"I don't bet, Flapp."

"You're afraid to bet," sneered the tall boy.

This statement angered Powell and he quickly dove into his pocket and pulled out the sum mentioned.

"This is the time you lose, Flapp," he said quietly.

Another student was made stakeholder and each boy passed over his money.

By this time the race was well underway. Tom was still in the lead, but Jackson was close behind him, with Larry Colby third and Dick fourth.

"Go it, Tom, you are sure to win!" shouted one of his friends.

"Don't know about that," Tom returned pantingly. "Guess I started too hard!" And soon he began to drop behind.

"Jackson is ahead!" was the next cry.

"Major Colby is a close second!"

"That is true, but Dick Rover is crawling up!"

So the cries went on until the big rock that was the turning point was gained.

Jackson touched the rock first, several seconds before either Larry or Dick came up. It certainly looked as if Lew Flapp's crony had a good chance of winning.

"Told you he would win," said Flapp to Powell.

"The race isn't over yet," answered Songbird briefly.

"Humph! Do you think Dick Rover can catch Jackson when he is five yards behind"?

"Not quite as much as that, Flapp, and he is gradually crawling up."

"He won't make it, I tell you."

"Perhaps he will."

"I'll bet you five to one that he won't," insisted the big boy.

"I won't bet any more."

"You're afraid," sneered Flapp.

Again Powell went down into his pocket and drew forth another dollar.

"There you are," he said to the stakeholder.

Lew Flapp had not expected this, but he quickly covered the one dollar with a five, feeling sure he was going to win.

"You'll never see your two dollars again, Powell," he said.

"Perhaps you'll never see your six again," answered Songbird, and moved away to watch the race from another point along the island shore.

Jackson was certainly swimming well, although the terrific strain was beginning to tell upon him.

"Go it, Jackson," roared Lew Flapp. "Go it, old Moneybags!"

"Moneybags" was a signal among many of the cadets, signifying that the speaker had bet money on the result. Betting at the academy was strictly prohibited, but wagers were often made on the sly.

Hearing this cry, Jackson renewed his struggles and for a few seconds held his lead.

But now Dick Rover was crawling up inch by inch. He had passed Tom, who was left hopelessly in the rear, and now he was pressing Larry.

"The major and the captain are tie!"

"See, Captain Rover is crawling ahead!"

"Swim, Jackson, swim!" yelled Lew Flapp frantically. "You must win!" And Pender took up the call, and so did Rockley.

Again Jackson did his best. The finish of the race was now but twenty yards off.

"Go in and win, Dick," came from Larry Colby. "I'm about used up," and he let Dick go ahead.

Dick was almost as fresh as at the start and slowly but surely he kept gaining upon Jackson until the two were not over two yards apart.

"Hurrah, Captain Rover is crawling up!"

"Don't give up, Jackson, you can win out yet!" screamed Lew Flapp.

"Go it, Dick!" yelled Sam. "Go it, I say! The race is yours!"

Cheered by the last cry Dick increased his stroke and in a second more he was alongside of Jackson.

The latter made a side kick, intending to catch Dick in the stomach, but the eldest Rover was wise enough to keep out of his opponent's reach.

The kick made Jackson lose ground, and like a flash Dick passed him.

"Dick Rover is ahead!"

"See, Jackson is played out! He can hardly take another stroke!"

"Major Colby is crawling up! See, he is passing Jackson!"

"And here comes Tom Rover, too."

"Wake up, Tom!" cried Sam. "You can beat Jackson yet!"

At this cry Tom did wake up, and seeing Jackson floundering around put on a final spurt and passed him.

"Dick Rover has won the race!"

"And Major Colby is second, and Tom Rover third."

"Poor Jackson wasn't in it, after all!"



Chapter XVII

The Enemy Plot Mischief


The most disgusted cadet on Pine Island was Lew Flapp, and when Jackson walked out of the water and entered one of the bath-tents he followed his crony with a face full of bitterness.

"Why didn't you try to keep up and win out"? he asked bitterly, while Jackson was dressing.

"I did try. But Rover came up like a steam engine."

"You seemed to play out all in a minute."

"And that is just what I did do. The pace was too hot for me, and I just about collapsed. Those fellows are good swimmers, no two ways about that."

"Bah! I could have beaten them with ease."

"I'd like to see you do it."

"Do you know I lost six dollars on that race," went on Flapp, after a pause.

"Who won the money"?

"Songbird Powell."

"How did you come to put up such an odd figure, Lew"?

"I bet a dollar even first, and then, when I felt certain you would win, I gave him odds of five to one. I was a chump."

"Well, I did my best -- honestly I did," returned Jackson, who hated to have his crony lose.

"I ought to make you pay me back."

"I'd do it if I had the money," said Jackson. He rarely had money in his pocket, spending everything as fast as received.

"Well, that is one more we owe that crowd," observed Flapp with increased bitterness.

When Jackson was dressed he and Flapp took themselves to another part of the camp, and there met Pender, Rockley, and Ben Hurdy.

"Let us take a walk," said Jackson. "I am sick of staying around where the others can stare at me."

"Come with me," put in Pender. "I have found something I want to show you."

"A gold mine, perhaps," said Flapp. "I need one just now. Betting on Jackson nearly cleaned me out."

"It's no gold mine, but it may prove useful to us," answered the other cadet.

The crowd started off, and Pender led the way through the woods and partly around the rocky hill in the center of the island.

"I ran into it quite by accident," he said. "You'd never suspect it was there unless you knew of it."

"Knew of what?" asked Rockley. "What sort of a mystery are you running us into now?"

"Just wait and see."

Pender stepped from the path they had been pursuing and pushed aside some overhanging bushes. Beyond was a small clearing, backed up by a high, rocky wall. In the wall was an opening, blocked up by a heavy door secured by a rusty iron chain that was passed through a ring in the rocks.

"Well, this is certainly odd," exclaimed Flapp. "What kind of a place is it"?

"It's a den of some sort," said Hurdy. "Maybe some counterfeiters belong here."

"Bosh, you talk as if you were in a dime novel," came from Jackson. "More than likely some old hermit lived here. When some men get queer in the head they come to just such a spot as this to end their days. They hate the sight of other human beings."

"I reckon it is a hermit's den," said Pender. "But if so the hermit left it years ago, for everything inside is covered with dust and cobwebs and mildew."

Pender walked up to the stout wooden door, unfastened the iron chain, and threw the barrier back.

One after the other the boys entered the opening beyond. At first they could see but little, but gradually their eyes became accustomed to the gloom and they made out a rocky chamber about twelve feet wide and running back in irregular shape for a hundred feet or more. At some points the ceiling was so low they had to stoop, while elsewhere it was far above their reach. The flooring was fairly level, with rock in some places and hard dirt in others.

The opening was rudely furnished with a heavy table and a bench, and close to one wall was a box bed, still filled with pine boughs. On a big wooden hook hung a man's coat, so decayed that it began to fall apart when they touched it. The table contained several tin cups and plates, all rust eaten.

"This is certainly a curious find," said Flapp. "How did you happen to hit it, Gus?"

"I was exploring the cliff above when I happened to slip and fall into the bushes just in front of the door. I was shook up but not hurt, and when I got up I saw the door and wondered what it meant. Then I looked inside and after that went back to camp to tell you fellows about it."

"It will make a dandy place for secret meetings," suggested Rockley. "We can come here and do what we please."

"Just what I thought," said Pender. "We can smuggle no end of good things here from the nearest village and come whenever we have our off time."

"Perhaps we can do more than that," said Flapp, struck with a sudden idea.

"What"? asked the others.

"I'll tell you some other time. It's a great find," continued the tall boy.

In the meantime those left at the camp had surrounded Dick and were congratulating him on his victory.

"I knew you would win," said Powell, when the excitement was over. "I bet with Lew Flapp on the result. Garling was stakeholder."

"What did you win, Songbird"?

"Six dollars."

"Gracious! You went in pretty deep.'

"Flapp called me a coward when I told him I didn't want to bet, so I had to take him up," went on Songbird. "Had it been anybody else I might have given the money back. But I won't give it back to that bully."

"It's against the rules to bet, Songbird."

"But you are not going to tell on me, are you?"

"You know me better than to ask the question. Just the same, I am sorry you bet," said Dick.

"I'm going to treat the boys as soon as I get the chance," went on Powell. "Six dollars will buy a whole lot of ice cream and cake, not to mention soda and candy and peanuts." And then he began to hum to himself:

"Peanuts and candy and raspberry ice, Chocolate cake, and all that's nice, Ev'ry student can come if he will, And ev'ry student can eat his fill!"

"I believe you'd sing at a funeral," said Dick, laughing.

"I wouldn't sing at my own funeral," answered Powell, and stalked off, humming as gayly as ever.

The remainder of the day passed quietly enough, although by the whispering in various tents it was easy to see that something unusual was in the air.

"Hazing to-night, as sure as guns," said Major Larry to one of the officers.

"Shall we arrest the hazers"? asked the officer, with a twinkle in his eye.

"You must obey orders," answered the youthful major, non-committally, since he had given no orders on the subject.

He could well remember his first year in camp, when he had been dragged from his cot at midnight, almost stripped, and thrown into a brook of icy spring water, and then made to run over a rough road in his bare feet for half a mile, "just to warm up," as the hazers told him. It was rough sport, not to be approved, but "boys will be boys," and it is practically impossible to stop hazing even in the highest of our institutions of learning.

It was poor Hans Mueller who was the first to suffer that night. In the midst of the darkness, for there was no moon, Hans found himself suddenly aroused from his slumbers by being dragged out of his cot by the feet.

"Shtop!" he began, when a hand was thrust over his mouth. Then he was raised up by six cadets, shoved out of the back of the tent and carried away to the grove in the rear of the camp. The party had to pass two sentries, but the sentries were evidently posted, for they appeared to see nothing wrong.

Hans was not allowed to speak until he was out of hearing distance of the camp. Then he was dumped on the ground with a dull thud.

"Mine cracious! vot does dis mean annahow"? he demanded, as he struggled to his feet. "Does you vants to kill me alretty, drowing me aroundt like a log of vood, hey"?

There was no answer, and now he looked at the cadets, to discover that each wore a black mask, with a hood from which two black horns protruded.

"Who you vos alretty"? he spluttered, staring in open-mouthed amazement at the party. "You vos all look like der Oldt Boy, ain't it! I guess I go me back to der camp kvick!" and he started to run.

Hans did not get far, for a foot send him sprawling, and by the time he was again on his feet four masked cadets had him by the hands and arms, so that he could not get away. He started to yell when of a sudden somebody threw a handful of dry flour into his wide open mouth.

"Wuog!" he gasped. "Wuog! Do -- you -- wants -- to choke me alretty!" And then he started to sneeze, as some of the flour entered his nose.

There was a moment of silence and then one of the masked figures advanced slowly.

"Hans Mueller, are you prepared to meet your doom"? was the question put, in a deep bass voice.

"Doom? Vot's dot?" asked the German boy, slightly frightened.

"Are you prepared to die?"

"Die? Not by a jugful I ain't. You let me go!"

"Are you prepared to become a full-fledged member of the Order of Black Skulls."

"Not much, I ton't belong to noddings," gasped Hans.

"Then you must prepare to meet your fate. Away with him, fellows, to his doom!"

Before Hans could resist he was caught up once again. One of the cadets had brought with him a large blanket and into this the German youth was thrown. Then the others caught the blanket around the edges.

"Stop!" roared Hans, and tried to climb out of the blanket. But before he could manage it, the thing was given a toss and up he went, high into the air.

"Oh! Mine cracious!" he gasped and came down with a crash, to go up again an instant later. Then up and down went the boy, turning over and over, until he was all but dazed.

"Stop! Murder! Fire! Robbers!" he roared. "Let me owid, kvick! I vos turning outsides in alretty! Oh, stop, von't you, blease!"

"Will you join the Order of Black Skulls"? he was asked again.

"Yah, yah! Anydings, so long as you lets me town kvick!"

"And you will not breathe a word about what has taken place here"?

"I say me noddings, upon my honor, ain't it!"

"Then let him go, fellows," and a moment later Hans was lowered.

"Now you are one of us," said another student, and handed him a mask, skull-cap and pair of horns, the latter made of stuffed black cloth. "Do you promise to help us"?

"Anydings vot you vonts."

"Then come with us, and don't dare to open your mouth."



Chapter XVIII

Hazers At Work


William Philander Tubbs was dreaming of a fashionable dance he had once enjoyed when he suddenly found himself bound and gagged and being carried he knew not where.

"This is awful!" he thought. "What in the world does it mean?"

Then he remembered that some of the cadets had spoken about hazing, and the cold perspiration came out on his forehead.

The gag in his mouth was made of nothing more than a knot in a clean towel, but it worried him a good deal and he was afraid he would be choked to death by it. But nothing of the sort happened, and soon the gag was removed.

"What does this mean?" he asked, as many cadets had done before him.

He received no answer, and tried to break away from his tormentors. But their hold on him could not be shaken, and before he was set down he found himself well out of sight and hearing of Camp Putnam, as the spot had been named.

"This is a beastly shame," he murmured. "Why do you dare to break into my night's rest in this fashion?"

He had heard of the mysterious society of Black Skulls before, but so far had never been hazed by the members. He looked curiously at the masked cadets, wondering if he could recognize any of them.

"Are you prepared to meet your doom?" he was asked.

"I am prepared to go back to my tent," he answered.

"Away with him!" was the cry.

"Where are you going to take me?" he asked anxiously.

There was no reply, but in a twinkling his hands were caught and bound tightly behind him, and a bag was thrust over his head and fastened around his throat. The bag was so thick that he could not see a thing before him.

"Let him take the cold water cure," said a voice, and he was forced to move forward.

"It's rather deep there," whispered a voice, just loud enough for him to hear.

"Not over his waist," whispered another voice.

"What! It's twice over his head," was the answer. "I tested the water this afternoon."

"Never mind, he's got to take the test anyway."

Now Tubbs was by no means a good swimmer, and the idea of being thrown into the water with his hands tied behind him and his head in a sack was frightful in the extreme.

"Le -- let me go!" he whined. "Let me go, I say!"

"Forward with him!" was the heartless reply, and he was pushed on until he suddenly found himself in water up to his ankles.

"Stop! stop!" he cried, in a muffled voice. "Stop! I don't want to drown!"

"Will you obey your superiors?"

"Yes, yes -- anything!"

"Will you join the Order of Black Skulls?"

"Anything, I told you, only don't let me drown!" cried the frightened William Philander.

"And will you promise to keep mum about what has happened here to-night?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Very well, you shall not be allowed to drown. But you must take the plunge."

"Oh, dear me! I can't -- "

"Forward, and be lively about it. We will fish you out with a crab net."

"But I -- I can't swim with my hands tied behind me!" chattered poor Tubbs.

"Yes, you can. Forward now! Ha, fellows, he will not go. Jab him with the pitchfork!"

At this a student stepped behind Tubbs and pricked his back with a pin.

The fashionable youth let out a yell of terror, and then, certain that he was about to take an awful plunge into some deep part of the lake, made a desperate leap forward.

A wild shriek of laughter rang out as Tubbs made the leap. He had jumped across a narrow brook not six inches deep and landed sprawling on the grass beyond.

"You are now initiated," said one of the masked cadets, when the laughter had somewhat died away. And at once Tubbs' hands were untied and the bag was taken from his head.

"Well, I never!" he murmured, as he gazed in amazement at the brook. "Thought it was the lake front sure!"

"As you are now one of us, Tubbs, you must wear these," said a cadet, and furnished the fashionable youth with a mask, cap, and pair of horns.

"We have now disposed of number two," said another cadet. "What of number three?"

"Number three must -- "

At that moment a gun-shot rang out on the still night air.

"Hullo, something is wrong!" cried one of the hazers, in quick alarm.

"There goes the drum, fellows!" came in the unmistakable voice of Sam Rover. "We've got to hustle back to camp or we'll be exposed!"

"Right you are," came from Songbird Powell. "Come, fellows, and mind you don't let anybody see the masks and other things."

And away they scooted, under the trees and then along a row of bushes running fairly close to the first line of tents. In the meantime the drum continued to roll and the whole camp was astir. Captain Putnam himself was out and was soon followed by Major Larry and Captain Fred Garrison. Dick Rover knew what was up and took his time about showing himself, since he did not wish any of the hazers to be captured.

"Call the roll!" said Major Larry, after making a round of the company streets. But he himself was in no particular hurry.

Almost out of breath with running, the hazers came into camp, accompanied by Hans and Tubbs. Masks, caps, and horns were pushed out of sight under cots, and then all sallied forth to join their various commands. Calling the roll was already in progress.

"All present or accounted for," came the declaration, five minutes later.

"All present, eh?" mused Captain Putnam. "That's queer. Who fired that gun?"

"Private Jackson."

"I will interview Jackson," said the master of the school, and he ordered Jackson to his private tent.

"What made you raise the alarm, Jackson?" he questioned sharply.

"I thought some of the cadets were out of camp, sir," was the answer.

"Did you see them go?"

"Not exactly, sir, but I thought I saw three or four of them sneaking along near the woods."

"Humph! You should be sure of what you are doing, Jackson. It is not commendable to arouse the whole camp at midnight for nothing."

"Well, I thought I was sure," insisted the crestfallen cadet. He knew for a certainty that some of the cadets had been out but saw no way to prove it.

"In the future be more careful while on guard duty," said Captain Putnam coldly; and there the subject was dropped.

"Who fired that shot?" asked Sam, on the morning following the hazing.

"Jackson," replied a cadet named Gilson, who had been one of the hazers.

"The sneak!" murmured the youngest Rover.

"That's what I say, Rover."

"Guess he did it to get square for losing that swimming race," put in another of the hazers.

"More than likely. We ought to square up with him for it."

"That's the talk."

"Vat's der madder mit tossing him a blanket up?" asked Hans earnestly.

"Think that's a good way to get square, eh, Hans?" laughed Sam.

"Dot's der vorst bunishments vot I know of," said the German boy with deep conviction. "Makes you feel like you vos going to preak abard alretty kvick!"

All of the boys knew that it would not do to try any more hazing for the next few nights. Even if the guards gave no alarm, Captain Putnam or one of the teachers might be on the watch to catch them.

On the following day it rained and the majority of the cadets were glad enough to remain under shelter. A few went bathing or fishing and the latter brought in quite a respectable mess of fish. Even in fishing the boys were rivals and a new tin cup was voted to the cadet bringing in the string that weighed the most.

The rain began about ten o'clock and by noon the water was coming down in torrents.

"This is beautiful," remarked Tom, as he looked at the puddle in the company's street.

"We ought to have dug another ditch to let that water run off," remarked Dick.

"Well, nobody wants to go out now and dig."

"That is true."

Instead of abating the rain became more violent as the afternoon advanced.

"This looks as if we were going to have some wind." remarked Major Larry with a doubtful shake of his head.

"I hope it doesn't blow too heavily," said Captain Putnam.

"Don't you think I had better caution the fellows to pin down their tents extra hard?"

"It would do no harm, Major Colby."

"Then I'll do it," said Larry, and issued the order without delay. Some of the cadets grumbled at being driven out into the wet, but the majority knew they were doing the work for their own good and went at it without a murmur.

At about sundown the wind fell and after supper it was as calm as it had been before the storm started.

"Told you there wasn't any use of getting wet pounding down stakes," growled Lew Flapp. He had done his work in a slip-shod fashion, staying out but a minute or two for that purpose.

It still rained, so building camp-fires was out of the question. This being so, the cadets turned in early, glad to seek the shelter of their cots and their warm blankets.

An hour went by, when of a sudden the rain increased once more. Then came a rush of wind that shook all of the tents violently.

"We are not out of it yet, it would seem," said Dick, as he sat up on his cot to listen to the flapping of the canvas in the company street.

He had hardly spoken when another gust of wind tore down on the camp. There was a ripping of cloth and a crashing of poles, and then a cry for help sounded from several places at once.



Chapter XIX

A Storm In Camp


"Say, fellows, are we all going up in a balloon!" cried Sam Rover, as he rolled off his cot in a great hurry.

One whole side of the tent was loose and the structure was in danger of tumbling down on the inmates' heads.

"Help!" came from the next tent. "I'm being smothered!"

"That's Lew Flapp!" said a cadet. "What's up now, Flapp?" he called out.

No answer came back, and now canvases could be heard ripping in all directions.

"Fasten down the pegs!" came the order. "Fasten them down, quick!"

The cadets were already at work, and Sam and his tent-mates set at their task with a will, realizing that every moment was precious. While one student held the peg upright the other would pound it down into the wet ground with a hammer or the back of a spade.

"The confounded pegs won't hold," cried out one cadet. "There she goes!" and the next instant the tent went flying skyward, to land on another tent some distance away.

It was still raining "cats, dogs, and hammer handles" as Tom Rover expressed it. All was dark, the only light being that given forth by the lantern which had not been blown out. Occasionally came a flash of lightning, followed by the distant rolling of thunder.

"This is one of the real comforts of camp life," said Songbird Powell sarcastically. "So much nicer than being under the roof of the Hall, you know!"

"Never mind, Songbird, you need a washing off at least once a year," replied a fellow sufferer.

A minute later came another yell from Lew Flapp. He and his tent-mates had tried in vain to hold down their canvas. Now it went up with a rush. One of the peg ropes caught around Flapp's leg and he was dragged over the wet ground, with his head splashing into every pool of water that he passed.

"Help me! I'll be killed!" roared the tall youth.

The tent was blowing along the company street and half a dozen cadets ran to the rescue, Tom with them. Some leaped on the canvas, while others held Flapp. Then the rope was cut with a knife.

"Wha -- what a fearful wind!" groaned the tall boy, when he could speak. "This is the worst storm I ever saw!"

"Oh, but I'm sorry I ever came to camp," groaned William Philander Tubbs. "I'm so wet the water is actually running out of my shoetops!"

"Ton't said a vord," came from Hans. "I dink me I half a rifer floating mine packpone town alretty! Of dis keeps on much longer der whole camp vos in der schwim, ain't it!"

"I reckon we're in the swim already," broke in Sam. "Some of us had better bring the rowboats up."

The high wind lasted for fully half an hour and during that time six of the tents were literally blown to ribbons, while many others suffered to a lesser extent. A quarter of the shelters laid flat in the mud, and nothing could be done with these until the wind went down.

"It's the worst blow I have seen since we have held our encampments," was Captain Putnam's comment, and he and the teachers went around with lanterns to aid the students as much as they could.

By three o'clock in the morning the storm was over and the stars began to peep forth from behind the clouds. As tired as they were the cadets had to set to work to put up the tents and arrange their cots as best they could. Camp-fires were lit in half a dozen places and the students huddled around these to dry themselves and get warm.

"I guess this is a touch of real army life," said Dick. "And I must say I don't like it overly much."

"We'll have to make the best of it, Dick," answered Tom, who had come over to see how his brother was getting along.

"How is Sam?"

"Oh, he's all right, although as wet as any of us."

"This storm reminds me of the one we experienced when in the jungles of Africa," went on the eldest Rover. "Do you remember how it blew, Tom?"

"Indeed I do," was the answer, as Tom's mind went back to that thrilling experience, as related in "The Rover Boys in the Jungle."

On the following day the cadets were glad enough to remain in camp, cleaning out their tents and drying the things that had become wet. But the storm was a thing of the past and the sun shone as brightly as ever. Big fires were kept burning, and hot coffee could be had whenever wanted, so scarcely anybody suffered from the drenching received.

The storm had somewhat disarranged the plans made by Flapp, Rockley, and their particular cronies. But two days later Flapp, Rockley, and Pender got permission to go to the village of Oakville, two miles distant, one to buy some corn salve he said he wanted and the others to do a little trading.

The boys had collected nine dollars from various members of their crowd and this was to be spent for liquor, cigars, and for several packs of cards. All of these things were to be smuggled to the hermit's den Pender had discovered.

"We can get enough to last us during the encampment," said Flapp. "And then we can have a good time whenever we wish, and Captain Putnam will never suspect what is going on."

It did not take the cadets long to reach Oakville, a pretty place located among the hills. There were a dozen stores, a blacksmith shop, two churches, and perhaps fifty houses. Beyond were farms in a state of high cultivation, showing that the inhabitants of that section were thrifty people.

"This town is about as slow as Cedarville," observed Pender, as they walked up the single street. "How folks can idle their lives away in such a place is what gets me."

"They don't know anything of the joys of city life," returned Flapp. "Some of these people have never seen the inside of a real theater."

As might be expected, the unworthy cadets lost no time in entering one of the taverns located in Oakville, and here Flapp treated. Then, after cigars or cigarettes had been lit, they proceeded to buy the things desired for the den.

"Laying in quite a stock, ain't ye?" said the tavern keeper.

"Oh, we are getting this for the whole crowd," replied Pender carelessly. "But, say," he added suddenly.

"What is it?"

"We don't want you to say anything about our buying this stuff."

"All right, I'll be mum," answered the tavern keeper.

From the tavern they proceeded to the general store, where they purchased the packs of cards and a few other things.

While they were making their purchases two girls came in with a market basket between them. One was tall and thin and the other short and rather stout. Yet the girls looked very much alike and were noticeably pretty.

"Fine girls," whispered Flapp to Rockley, nudging his companion in the ribs.

"Yes," was the answer, and Rockley began to smile openly on the new arrivals. As the girls did not appear to notice this, he drew closer and tipped his cap.

"Fine day after the storm," he said smoothly. "Yes, very," said the taller of the girls, and turned away.

"I suppose you belong in Oakville," put in Lew Flapp, to the smaller girl.

"Yes," answered the girl, and turned away to join her companion.

"We are up to the camp on Pine Island," went on Rockley, following the girls up. "Have you ever been there?"

"Once," said the taller girl, and began to purchase some articles from the clerk behind the counter.

"You ought to come and take a look at our camp," continued Flapp. "It's a real interesting sight."

"All the girls are welcome," said Pender, feeling he must say something.

"We'd be willing to show you the way at any time," added Rockley, and placed his hand on the arm of one of the girls.

"Please let me be," said the girl, and walked away. A moment later she left the store, and her companion went with her.

"My, but they were shy!" laughed Pender. "Rockley, you didn't make any impression at all. Nor you either, Flapp."

"Humph! Wonder who they are?" murmured Lew Flapp.

"Let's ask the storekeeper and find out."

"Those girls are twins," said the proprietor of the establishment.

"Twins!" cried Rockley. "They didn't look it -- not by their difference in sizes."

"But they did in looks," said Pender.

"What are their names?"

"The tall one is Alice Staton and the other is Helen Staton. Their father is the local constable, although he runs a big farm for a living."

"Do they come here often?"

"Pretty often. But they are very shy girls and don't hardly speak to anybody. They are both studying to be school-teachers."

In the meantime Helen Staton and her sister Alice were hurrying down the main street of Oakville with flushed cheeks.

"I don't think those cadets were very nice," said Helen.

"Certainly they were not very good-looking," replied Alice. "And I thought they smelt a little of liquor."

"The idea of their saying they would show us the way to the camp! I guess papa can drive us there if we want to go."

"I'd like to see it. But I shouldn't want to go with those boys," went on Alice.

"Perhaps papa can take us," said Helen. "But come, we promised mamma we'd hurry back as soon as we could."

To get home the two girls had to walk for a considerable distance along the road leading to Bass Lake.

On the way they passed the farm of one Isaac Klem, a man who took great pride in his poultry and his cattle. Klem had forty cows, and two bulls which were worth a good deal of money.

One of the bulls, a black, vicious looking fellow, was tied up in a small lot at the corner of the farm.

The girls were just walking past this lot when Helen happened to glance over her shoulder and set up a cry of alarm.

"Oh, Alice, Mr. Klem's black bull is loose!"

"Where, Helen?" queried her twin sister.

"There he is, at the fence. See, he is trying to get over!"

The fence she mentioned was of stones piled loosely, one on top of the other. The bull was striking at the stones with his front hoofs. Soon some came down, and then the animal leaped out into the roadway. Then he gave a snort and looked at the girls curiously.

Now as ill luck would have it, each of the twins wore a red shirt-waist. This color enraged the bull, and with a wild snort, he lowered his horns and rushed at the pair, as if to gore them through and through.



Chapter XX

The Rover Boys And The Bull


About an hour after Lew Flapp and his cronies left camp, Dick Rover and his brothers received permission to do likewise.

"Let us go to the village," suggested Tom. "I want to buy some cough drops. My throat is raw from the wet weather."

"And I want to get some reading matter," added Sam. "A good story of some sort would just suit me."

"I wouldn't mind a magazine or two myself," came from Dick. "But I don't know if Oakville can supply them."

They were soon on the way, each in the best of spirits. Tom began to whistle and his brothers joined in.

"Feelin' putty good," queried a farmer, who chanced to be leaning over his garden gate as they passed.

"Why not?" retorted Tom. "It's better to whistle than to cry."

"Right you are, young man. When one of my hands is whistling I always know he is pitchin' in."

The way lay over a hill and around a bend where a number of apple trees lined the road. The apples were within easy reach, and soon each was chewing on the juicy fruit to his heart's content.

"Wonder where Flapp and his crowd went," came presently from Tom.

"If they went to Oakville they most likely visited the tavern," answered Dick.

"It's a shame!" declared Tom. "Drinking and smoking and playing cards will never do them any good."

Another bend in the road was passed and they came within sight of Isaac Klem's farm.

"Hullo!" ejaculated Sam, pointing ahead. "What's the matter?"

"Those girls are running for all they are worth!" said Dick.

"A bull is after them!" came from Tom. "My stars! but he seems to mean business!"

Tom was right, Helen and Alice Staton were running along the highway at all the speed they could command. Behind them, less than fifty feet distant, was the enraged black bull, bent on doing all the mischief possible.

"Those girls will be hurt!" said Dick, running forward.

"Can't we do something?" asked Sam.

"We can try," said Tom. "Get a rock, or something," and he picked up a sharp stone which lay handy. Sam did likewise.

By this time the twins were almost upon the boys.

"Chase the bull away!" panted Helen, who was ready to drop from exhaustion.

"Yes! yes!" gasped Alice. "Please don't let him touch us!"

"Jump the fence!" said Dick. "Quick, I'll help you over!"

He caught each girl by the hand and turned toward the low stone fence. At the same time Tom and Sam let fly the two sharp stones. One took the bull in the nose and the other struck the creature in the eye.

With a snort the animal came to a halt and viewed the boys curiously. He had evidently not expected the attack, and the wound in the eye hurt not a little. Tom and Sam lost no time in providing themselves with more stones.

By this time Dick was at the wall and in another moment he had assisted the girls over. Both had lost their hats and also dropped the market basket filled with things from the store.

"Oh, be careful," said Alice. "That bull will try to kill you."

"We'll look out for ourselves," answered Dick, and picked up a bit of fence rail lying near. "Did he chase you far?"

"From that lot yonder," answered Helen.

The bull had turned toward the fence, and watching his chance, Dick struck out with the bit of rail. His aim was good and the animal received a sharp blow directly across the nostrils. Then Sam and Tom let fly more stones, and the bull was hit in the mouth, the leg, and the side. He stood his ground for a moment and then began to retreat.

"Hurrah! we've got him on the run!" cried Tom. "Give it to him!" and he let go another stone, which hit the bull in the tail and made him throw up his rear hoofs in a most alarming fashion.

"You had better come over into the lot!" said one of the girls. "He may come back."

"Here comes Mr. Klem with a pitchfork," said the other.

A farmer was rushing down the road, with a pitchfork in one hand and a rope in the other. He ran up to the bull and slipped the rope over the animal's neck. Then he tied the creature to a tree.

"Pretty savage animal you've got," observed Tom as he came up.

"Is them gals hurt?" demanded the farmer.

"I don't think so. But they are pretty well out of breath and scared."

"Don't know how the pesky critter got loose," said Isaac Klem. "First thing I see he was after them gals lickety-split. I was out hayin', and I didn't wait, but picked up a pitchfork and a rope and run."

"The girls lost their hats," said Sam, who had also come up.

"Yes, they're in the road up yonder, along with a basket o' stuff they had."

"Let us get the things," said Sam, and he and Tom started after the hats and the basket. The things which had been in the basket were scattered in all directions, and the boys picked them up.

Dick remained with the girls, doing what he could to quiet them. They were so exhausted they could not stand and each sat on a rock panting for breath.

"It was simply dreadful!" declared Helen. "I thought every moment the bull would catch me and toss me up into the air."

"He didn't like the sight of your red shirt-waists," was Dick's comment.

"That must be it," put in Alice. "After this, I don't think I'll go near him when I have a red waist on."

"Perhaps the farmer will be more careful and keep him roped up."

When Tom and Sam came up with the hats and the basket Isaac Klem accompanied them.

"All right, Helen?" he asked. "And you too, Alice?"

"Yes, Mr. Klem," said the tall girl. "But it was a narrow escape. The bull would have gored us if it hadn't been for these young gentlemen."

The girls thanked Tom and Sam for what they had brought.

"Who be you young fellows?" asked Isaac Klem curiously.

"I am Dick Rover, and these are my brothers Tom and Sam. We belong to the cadets of Putnam Hall."

"The young sodgers up to Bass Lake?"

"Yes."

"I see. Well, it was gritty o' you to face my bull, and I give ye credit for it. My name's Isaac Klem, and thet's my farm over yonder. These gals is Helen and Alice Staton, and they live down the road a piece."

The boys tipped their caps and the girls smiled.

"We are very thankful to you," said Alice and Helen, almost in a breath.

"You are welcome to the little I did," returned Dick.

"It was fun to pelt the old bull with rocks," put in Tom. "I'll do as much for you any time," and this caused a laugh.

Isaac Klem went off to drive his bull home and the girls also prepared to depart.

"When you are coming back this way you can stop at our house if you wish," said Alice Staton. "It's the yellow one with honeysuckle growing over the porch."

"I remember it," said Sam. "Thank you," and the others also gave thanks for the invitation. A moment later the two parties separated.

"What a difference between those cadets and the ones we met at the store," said Helen to her twin sister when they were out of hearing.

"Yes, indeed," said Alice. "The Rovers are gentlemen, while those at the store were -- were rude."

"Two nice girls," declared Tom. "How much alike their faces are!"

"Tom is smitten," cried Sam. "Going to forget all about Nellie Laning, Tom?" he went on quizzically.

"Oh, you needn't talk!" cried Tom, growing red in the face. "You were just as attentive as a dancing master yourself."

"Don't quarrel about it," put in Dick good naturedly. "You can be pleasant to them without forgetting all about Grace and Nellie Laning, I think."

"Or Dora Stanhope either," put in Sam slyly. "Shall we stop at the house on the way back?"

"Why not? They may offer us a piece of pie," said Tom.

"I don't know. We can walk by slowly. They may be on the lookout for us, you know."

Once again the boys set their faces toward Oakville, and soon reached the outskirts of the town.

They were passing some of the stores when Lew Flapp caught sight of them.

"Hullo!" cried the tall boy. "I declare! there are the three Rover brothers. What brought them to Oakville?"

"We had better not let them see us with this stuff," said Pender hurriedly. "We'll get into hot water if they do."

They lost no time in putting their purchases out of sight. Then they walked out on the street and stood leaning against the posts of a wooden awning.

"There is Flapp and his crowd now," said Tom, catching sight of the trio.

"We want nothing to do with them," said Dick. "They are not our kind at all."

"Hullo, Rovers!" cried Pender as they came up.

"Hullo, yourself," returned Tom coldly.

"What brought you to town?" asked Rockley.

"My feet."

"Thanks. I thought it might have been your ears. They're big enough."

At this sally both Flapp and Pender began to laugh.

"That's a good one," said Flapp.

"I suppose you used your tongue for a walking stick when you came over," said Tom. "It's long enough."

"Bah!" cried Rockley, and turned away in disgust.

"Those Rover boys have got the swelled head," muttered Flapp. "But we'll turn 'em down before the encampment is over, eh, fellows?"

"That's what," replied Rockley.

While the Rover boys were making their purchases Lew Flapp and his cronies turned back into the tavern. There was a billiard room in the rear and here they began to play billiards.

"We'll let the Rovers start for home first," said Rockley. "It will be safer."



Chapter XXI

A Tug Of War


When the Rover boys reached the vicinity of the Staton cottage they found Alice and Helen in the dooryard, watching for them.

"Mamma says you must come in," said Alice. "She wishes to see you."

"And papa wants to see you, too," added Helen.

"Thank you, we won't mind resting a bit," answered Dick. "The sun is rather hot."

They were soon seated on the broad porch, and here Mrs. Staton and her husband were introduced. They proved to be nice people, and both thanked the boys warmly for what they had done on the road.

"I've told Isaac Klem about that bull," said Mr. Staton. "Some day he'll do a whole lot of damage."

"We are going to keep a good lookout for him in the future," put in Alice. "I don't wish to be scared out of my wits again."

Before the boys left Mrs. Staton insisted on treating each to a piece of apple pie and a glass of milk.

"What did I tell you about pie?" whispered Tom. "Say, but it's all right, isn't it?"

"Yes, indeed!" whispered Sam.

The girls had a set of croquet on the lawn and asked the boys to play, but they had to decline for want of time.

All had moved to the rear of the cottage, under a wide-spreading tree, when Dick chanced to look toward the roadway and uttered an exclamation:

"Here come the other fellows now!"

"Yes, and look at the packages they are carrying," added Sam.

"And the bottles," came from Tom significantly.

Dick was about to step forward when Tom caught him by the arm.

"Let us keep shady, Dick."

"All right, Tom, if you say so."

Sam noticed that the faces of the two girls fell when Flapp and his cronies went past.

"Those are some of your chums, I suppose?" said Helen.

"They are some of the cadets, but no chums of ours," replied Dick.

"Oh!"

"They belong to a little crowd of their own." explained Tom. "We don't hitch very well, so that is why we let them go by unnoticed."

"We met them at the store in Oakville," said Alice.

"Did they speak to you?"

"Yes, but -- but we did not want them to."

"Humph!" said Dick, and then the subject was changed.

Having invited the girls to come and look at the camp some pleasant day the Rover boys left the cottage and hurried along the road after Lew Flapp and his cronies.

"I'll wager those fellows made themselves obnoxious to the girls," said Tom. "You could tell that by the way the girls looked."

"What do you think they are going to do with the stuff they are carrying?" came from Sam.

"I believe they intend to smuggle it into camp," replied Dick. "And if that is so, I don't know but what it is my duty to report them."

"If you do that, Flapp will consider you the worst kind of a spy, Dick."

"Perhaps, but as a captain of the command it is my duty to see that such things are kept out of camp."

"Well, do what you think is best."

"Better make sure that the stuff they are carrying isn't all right," said Sam. "They may have nothing but soda in those bottles."

They hurried along faster than ever but, strange to say, failed to catch up to Lew Flapp and his cronies, who were making for the hermit's den with all possible speed.

"Maybe they got scared, thinking we might be spying on them," suggested Tom, and hit upon the exact truth of the matter.

After that nearly a week passed in camp without anything unusual happening. Lew Flapp and his cronies kept their distance, and so strict was the guard set by Captain Putnam and his assistants that hazing became, for the time being, out of the question.

To pass the time more pleasantly some of the cadets organized several tug-of-war teams. This sort of thing pleased Tom very much and he readily consented to act as anchor man on one of the teams. Another team had Pender for an anchor man, with Rockley and seven others on the rope.

"Let us have a regular contest," said one of the cadets, and all was arranged for a match on the following morning after drill.

The students were enthusiastic over the match, some thinking one side would win and others favoring the opponents.

"Tom's crowd will win that match," said Sam.

"What makes you so sure?" questioned Ben Hurdy.

"Oh, Tom knows how to pull and how to manage the others."

"And so does Rockley know how to pull," continued Hurdy. "And what is more, he knows a trick or two that will pull your fellows over the line in no time."

"I don't believe it, Hurdy."

"Want to bet?"

"No, I don't bet. Just the same, I think Rockley's crowd will lose."

Although Sam would not bet, some of the other students did, so that by the time the match was to come off quite a sum was up.

George Strong had been chosen as starter and umpire. On the green a line of white was laid down, and the team pulling the other over this line would be the winner.

For the contest Captain Putnam provided a new rope of proper size. To each end was attached a belt for the anchor men, and there was ample room on each side of the line for the eight cadets on the rope.

"All ready?" questioned George Strong, when the time had come for the contest.

"All ready on this end," replied Tom, seeing to it that each of his team was in his proper position and had a proper hold on the rope.

"All ready here," said Rockley, a few seconds later.

"Drop!" cried the teacher, and down went the two teams like a flash, each pulling for all it knew how. But neither gained an inch at the fall, so the start-off was perfect.

"Now pull for all you're worth, Rovers!" cried one cadet.

"Haul 'em over, Rockleys!" cried another.

"Steady, boys!" whispered Tom. "Don't get nervous. There is lots of time."

He was almost flat on his back, with both feet braced firmly in the soil. Rockley was also down, and it looked as if it might be well-nigh impossible to budge either.

"This is a dandy tug of war," said Fred Garrison. "Neither has got an inch of advantage."

"The Rovers will beat!"

"The Rockleys will win!"

"I think it will be a tie," said another.

The strain was terrific and soon each member of the two teams was bathed in perspiration.

"Here is where you earn your rations!" cried one cadet, and this caused a general laugh.

"Watch your chances, Tom," whispered Dick, and his brother nodded to show that he understood.

Both sides were glaring at each other. The strain was beginning to tell, but so far nobody had thought of letting up in the least.

But now Tom saw two of Rockley's men "getting their wind" as it is called. They still held on to the rope, but were hardly pulling at all.

"Up!" cried Tom suddenly, and his men went up like a flash. "Down!" came the cry, an instant later, and down they went, before Rockley's men could recover.

"Hurrah! the Rovers have gained four inches!" came the shout. And then those who favored that team set up a cheer.

It was true, the rope had shifted over four inches. Rockley was angry, but could do nothing.

"Mind yourselves, Wilson and Brady!" he whispered. "Don't let up a minute."

"I didn't let up," growled Wilson. "It was Chambers."

"Not much!" growled Chambers. "I wasn't -- "

"Up!" cried Tom again. "Down! Up! Pull, pull! pull! Down!"

Up and down went the team twice, the second time hauling the rope forward over a foot. Then they went down once more and anchored as firmly as ever.

"Good!" shouted Sam enthusiastically. "You're doing it, boys! Keep it up!"

"Are they?" sneered Lew Flapp. "Just you wait and see."

He had a little roll of paper in his hand, and watching his opportunity he blew the contents into the air, directly over the team led by Tom Rover. The paper contained pepper and it set several of Tom's men to sneezing.

This trick had been arranged between Flapp and Rockley, the latter feeling certain that Tom and his followers could not sneeze and pull at the same time.

"Up!" yelled Rockley. "Pull! pull! pull!"

"Stay down!" roared Tom. "Down! Don't give in an inch!"

But the cry could not be obeyed. Half the team was up and sneezing and before order could be restored the rope had gone over to the Rockleys' side a distance of two and a half feet.

"Hurrah, the Rockleys are winning!" yelled Ben Hurdy. "Haul 'em over, boys!"

"Down!" ordered Tom.

"What on earth made the men sneeze?" demanded Dick, gazing around sharply.

"Smells like pepper," replied Major Larry Colby, who was close at hand.

"Would anybody be mean enough to use that?"

"Perhaps."

"Up!" cried Rockley once more. "Pull! pull! pull!"

His team gave a savage haul as ordered, and up came Tom's men in spite of themselves. Then began a tug of war in dead earnest, with the rope nearly three feet in the Rockleys' favor.



Chapter XXII

A Swim And Some Snakes


The majority of the cadets were now inclined to think that Rockley's team would win the contest. They had seen Tom's followers sneezing, but thought this might come from the dampness of the ground.

"Don't give in, Tom!" cried Sam, dancing around. "You've got to beat him!"

"Bah! you act like a monkey," said Lew Flapp. "Rockley's fellows are bound to win."

In the meantime the rope was moving rapidly backward and forward. Once Rockley and his men had Tom's team dangerously close to the line. But Tom ordered a drop and there the team clung, refusing to budge an inch further.

"Time is almost up," said George Strong. "Three minutes more!"

"Up!" cried Rockley.

"Up and pull for all you are worth!" cried Tom. "Pull, I tell you! Make every ounce of muscle count!"

And pull Tom's team did as never before, and Tom with them, watching for the first sign of returning weakness. But the team was now on its mettle and made the Rockleys come over the line in spite of the frantic orders from Rockley himself to drop.

"It's ours!" screamed Tom, and with a final haul brought the opponents over the line with a rush. Rockley, flat on his back on the grass, trying in vain to dig his heels into the soil, and the others floundering just as vainly.

A cheer went up for Tom's team, while Rockley and his followers left the field in disgust.

"It was well won, Tom!" said Dick enthusiastically. "I never saw a better tug of war in my life."

"I'd like to know who threw that pepper," answered Tom, with an angry glance toward Lew Flapp and his cronies.

"Did somebody throw pepper?" asked Mr. Strong.

"I think they did, although I'm not sure. Anyway, something came along and made the most of us sneeze."

"It's too bad, Rover. I'll try to make sure of this," said the teacher. But though he made an investigation nothing came of it.

Some of the cadets were so delighted with the success of Tom's team that they took Tom on their shoulders and marched around the entire encampment with him.

"I tell you, Rockley feels sore," said Sam, a little later.

"Around the belt?" asked Tom with a grin.

"I mean in his mind. He and Lew Flapp are having a regular quarrel over the contest. I guess Flapp lost some money."

"Perhaps, if he has, it will cure him of betting," put in Dick.

Sam and Tom had received permission to go to the upper end of the lake in one of the rowboats on the following afternoon. Songbird Powell and Fred Garrison went along, and all took their fishing outfits and plenty of bait.

"Bring home a nice mess of fish," said Dick, on parting with his brothers. "Sorry I can't go with you."

"Oh, you'll have company enough," declared Sam. "I heard that some of the country folks are going to visit the encampment to-day and perhaps those Staton girls will be among them."

The four boys were soon on the way, two rowing at a time. The weather was ideal, and the water as smooth as that of a mill pond.

"What a beautiful spot this is," declared Fred, as they glided long. "I'm sure Captain Putnam could not have selected a better."

"I have already gotten some splendid pictures," returned Powell, who possessed a good snap-shot camera, now lying on the stern seat of the boat. "I'm going to take some more pictures to-day."

On the way to the upper end of the lake Sam did a little fishing and brought in one bass of fair size.

"This makes a fellow feel like a true poet," murmured Powell, gazing dreamily at the water, and then he went on:

"I love to glide, By the green-clad side Of the glassy lake, And there to take My ease with book Or line and hook, And spend the day Far, far away From care and toil, On Nature's soil."

"Just to listen to Songbird!" cried Tom. "He grinds it out like a regular sausage-making machine," and then he went on gayly:

"I love to swim, In Nature's soil, By the green-clad side, Of a mountain wide, And there to bake, My little toes, On a garden rose, And take a hose, And wet the lake With a hot snowflake, In the middle of June --  If that isn't too soon --  And sail to the moon In a big balloon -- "

"Oh, Tom, let up!" roared Fred. "Talk about a sausage-making machine -- "

"And when in the moon, I'd drive a stake, And tie my lake Fast to a star, Or a trolley car, Then jump in a sack And ride right back -- "

"To where you belong, And stop that song!"

finished Sam. "Oh, but that's the worst yet. Shall we duck him, Fred?"

"No, don't pollute the water," answered Garrison.

"He ought to be ducked," came from Powell, in disgust. "Whenever I have a poetic streak -- "

"It's catching, as the fly-paper said to the fly," finished Tom. "Let's call it square and take a new tack. Who's in for a swim when we reach the end of the lake?"

"I am!" was the united cry from the others. They were passing several small islands and now came to another turn in Bass Lake. Just beyond this was a small sandy beach, backed up by a mass of rocks and brushwood.

"That looks like a good place for a swim," said Powell, forgetting all about his so-called poetry.

"Suits me," returned Tom. "Let's pull ashore and tie the boat fast, and I'll put up -- "

"A peanut reward for the first fellow in," finished Fred. "Caught you that time, Tom, just as you caught Songbird with his doggerel."

As happy as any boys could be, the four cadets tied up their boat. In doing this one started to splash in the water, followed by another, and as a consequence before the cutting-up came to a finish the seats of the craft were pretty well wetted.

"Never mind," said Tom. "They'll soon dry in the sun. We can put our clothes on the rocks."

The boys were soon in the water and having a most glorious time. The lake was fairly deep off the end of the boat and here they took turns at diving. Fred and Songbird also went in for a race, the former coming in only a few feet ahead.

"I guess we had better dress now and try our hand at fishing," said Sam after nearly an hour had passed.

"One more dive!" cried Tom and took one full of grace, to the very bottom of the lake.

As Tom came up to the surface he heard a cry from Sam, quickly followed by a yell from Fred.

"What's up?" he called out, swimming toward the shore.

"Land on the boat, Tom!" cried Sam, and leaped into the craft, followed by Fred and Powell.

"All right; but what is wrong?" asked Tom, and climbed tip over the stern.

"We can't get our clothes."

"Why not?"

"Look for yourself."

Tom looked and gave a low whistle of astonishment. And not without good reason, for there on the rocks where they had left their garments rested a big black snake!

"This is interesting truly," murmured the boy, gazing at his companions in dismay.

"I'm going to get a rock and throw it at the snake," said Sam.

A stone was close to the boat, and watching his chance, he picked it up and threw it at the reptile.

The snake darted to one side. It was merely grazed by the rock and now it hissed viciously.

The hiss appeared to be a signal, and in a moment more another snake and then another appeared, until fully a dozen reptiles each a yard or more in length covered the rocks where all of the cadets' wearing apparel rested!



Chapter XXIII

A Glimpse Of An Old Enemy


"We are in a pickle now and no mistake!" groaned Fred Garrison. He hated snakes as much as he did poison.

"It's certainly bad," declared Songbird Powell. "I wonder what we had best do?"

"Has anybody got a pistol?"

Nobody had, nor was there any weapon handy outside of a jackknife and a fishing rod.

"If we only had a shot-gun," sighed Sam.

"But we haven't one and we must do the best we can without it," answered Tom. "Songbird, supposing you try to charm 'em with some of that soothing poetry of yours. Or take a picture of 'em."

"This is no joke," growled Powell. "I want my clothes."

"Well, go ahead and take 'em -- I shan't stop you."

"I'm going to get another rock," said Sam.

"Let us all get stones," suggested Tom. "Then we can throw together."

This was thought to be a good idea, and soon the stones were secured and each cadet took careful aim.

Three of the snakes were hit, one quite seriously. These retreated, but the other snakes remained as defiant as ever.

"There must be a nest under the rocks," said Tom. "Were that not so I am sure the snakes would leave at once."

"I've got another idea!" cried Fred. "Why didn't we think of it before?"

"I haven't thought of it yet, Fred," grinned Tom. "What is it?"

"Let us take our fishing rods and tie one fast to another. Then we can turn the boat around and go fishing on the rocks for our clothes."

"That's the talk," rejoined Powell. "A good idea, Fred."

Three of the rods were pieced together, making a fishing pole over thirty feet long. The boat was then swung around, and while two kept the craft in place the others went fishing for the clothing.

The task was not so easy as it looked, and the snakes whipped around and hissed in a most alarming fashion. More than once they had a coat or other garment on the pole only to drop it again. But they persevered and soon had everything on board but Fred's shirt and one of Tom's shoes.

"Here comes the shirt," cried Tom, at last, and landed the garment in the bow of the rowboat.

"And a snake with it!" screamed Sam. "Look out, everybody!"

Sam was right, the snake was there and in a trice was whipping around under the seat.

"Stamp on him, Fred!" cried Tom, and Garrison, who had his shoes on, did so. Then Tom caught the reptile by the tail and flung it into the lake.

After this there was but little trouble in getting the remaining shoe, and with this aboard they sent the rowboat out into the lake and lost no time in finishing their dressing.

"This was a truly horrible experience," was Sam's comment, after the excitement had died down. "Gracious, I feel as if the snakes were crawling around me this minute!"

"Don't say that," said Fred with a shudder. "You make me feel as if there was another snake in my shirt."

"The best thing to do is to forget the snakes," put in Songbird Powell. "Let us row around to the other side of the lake."

All were willing, and soon the vicinity was left far behind. Then they came to where a fair sized brook flowed into Bass Lake, and here they came to anchor and began to fish, while Powell took several photographs.

"I have always found it good fishing near a brook like that," said Tom. "The fish come around looking for food from the brook."

Tom's remark was evidently true, for in less than an hour each of the boys had a good sized string of fish to his credit.

In the excitement of the sport the cadets forgot all about the adventure with the snakes, nor did they pay much attention to the flight of time until Fred Garrison glanced at his watch.

"Gee Christopher!" he ejaculated.

"What time is it?" asked Powell.

"Half-past four."

"And we promised to be back at five-thirty!" put in Sam. "We'll have to hustle, fellows."

"Oh, we can get back in an hour easily enough," put in Tom.

"But we've got to clean out the boat and clean up ourselves," came from Fred. "Come, fellows, wind up and put away your hooks and poles."

He started and the others followed. Then Fred and Powell took the oars, and the return to camp was begun. Not caring to go back the same way they had come, they sped along the opposite shore of the lake, where were located several coves and cliffs of rock.

"This is as pretty as the other shore," remarked Songbird. And he began:

"Oh, dreamy days in summer time, When purling brooks and shady nooks -- "

"If you start up again I'll jump overboard," interrupted Tom.

"Do so, you need a cooling off," grunted Powell; but that was the end of the poetry for the time being.

They were just passing one of the coves when they caught sight of a man sitting on an overhanging tree, fishing.

"Hullo, what luck?" cried Fred, good-naturedly.

"Fair," was the somewhat surly answer. Then, as the man caught sight of the others in the boat, he turned his head away.

"That fellow looks familiar to me," ejaculated Sam, in sudden and strong excitement.

"And he looks familiar to me, too," exclaimed Tom.

"Do you think it is Arnold Baxter?"

"If it isn't, it's his double," went on Tom. "Row the boat over quick, boys."

"Who is this Arnold Baxter? The father of Dan Baxter?" questioned Fred.

"The same, Fred."

"The fellow who escaped from prison, or the hospital?" asked Powell.

"That's the chap."

Without delay the rowboat was turned in toward the overhanging tree.

Scarcely had this been done when the fisherman pulled in his line with all speed, took up his string of fish and ran into the bushes between two cliffs of rocks.

"He is getting out, and in a hurry too!" said Fred.

"Hi, there, stop! We want to talk to you!" sang out Tom, at the top of his lungs.

"Ain't got time," roared back the strange fisherman, and on the instant he was gone.

"It must have been Arnold Baxter, beyond a doubt," said Sam.

"If it was, what is he doing here?" questioned his brother.

"He's keeping out of the reach of the law," answered Powell. "I suppose he thought he was perfectly safe in such an out-of-the-way place as this."

"And he was fishing just to kill time," put in Fred.

"I'd like to go after him and make sure," went on Tom. "What do you say, Sam?"

"I am with you."

"But we may be late -- " began Fred.

"Oh, Captain Putnam will excuse us when I tell him what delayed us."

The rowboat soon reached the shore, and Sam and Tom leaped to the brushwood, where the trail of the vanished fisherman was plainly to be seen.

It was decided that Fred and Powell should remain in charge of the rowboat, so that nobody might come and make off with the craft. Leaving their fishing outfits behind them the two Rover boys struck out through the bushes, and soon gained a narrow forest path running through the woods that skirted this section of Bass Lake.

"I wish we could catch Baxter," said Tom, on the way. "It would be a feather in our cap, Sam."

"We must be careful. More than likely he is armed, and he won't hesitate to shoot if he is cornered."

"Oh, I know that. The most we can do is to follow him until we reach some place where we can summon assistance."

The path led deeper and deeper into the woods and then along a fairsized brook. They kept their eyes wide open, but could see nothing excepting a number of birds and an occasional squirrel or chipmunk. Once they heard the distant bark of a fox and this was the only sound that broke the stillness.

"It's rather a lonely place," said Sam, after a silence lasting several minutes. "I must say I shouldn't like to meet Arnold Baxter here alone."

"For all we know he may be watching us from behind some tree."

Several times they got down to examine the path. Footprints could be seen quite plainly, but neither of the boys was expert enough at trailing to tell whether these prints had been made recently or not.

"It would take an Indian scout to make sure of these footmarks," said Tom. "They are beyond me."

"Let us go a bit further," returned his brother. "Then if we don't see anything, we may as well go back to the lake."

"Hark!"

They listened intently and at a distance heard a crashing in the brushwood.

"That sounded as if somebody had jumped across the brook, Tom!"

"Just what I should say, Sam. Come on!"

Again they went forward, a distance of thirty or forty yards. At this point the path seemed to dwindle down to little or nothing.

"We have come to the end of the trail," was Tom's comment, as he gazed around sharply.

"Do you see anything?" queried his brother.

"Nothing much. One or two of the bushes over yonder seem to be brushed aside and broken."

"What do you think we had best do now?"

"Listen!"

Both remained silent for several minutes, but nothing out of the ordinary reached their ears.

"We may as well give it up, Sam. It is growing dark and there is no telling where this search would lead us. We might even get lost in the woods."

They retraced their steps as quickly as they could to where they had left the rowboat.

"What luck?" queried Fred.

"None; he got away from us."

"It's too bad," said Powell; and then the return to the camp was made without further delay.



Chapter XXIV

More Rivalry


"Do you mean to tell me that you saw Arnold Baxter?" exclaimed Dick, after listening to Sam and Tom's story.

"We did," replied the youngest Rover. "There was no mistake?"

"If it wasn't Arnold Baxter do you think he would take such pains to get out of our reach?" asked Tom.

"That is true, Tom. But it seems so unnatural. What can he be doing in this out-of-the-way place?"

"As Powell says, he must be keeping out of the reach of the law. Perhaps he expects to keep shady until this affair blows over."

"As if it would blow over!" cried Sam. "Dick, we ought to do something."

Captain Putnam had already learned why the four cadets had been late in returning to camp. The Rovers now went to consult him further.

"I agree, something should be done," said the captain. "Perhaps you had better go to the nearest telegraph office, Richard, and telegraph to your folks. You might also get some of the local authorities to take up the hunt for this criminal."

"Who are the local authorities?"

"I really don't know, but we can find out at Oakville."

In the end Dick and Tom received permission to leave camp for an indefinite time. Late as it was, they hurried to Oakville and caught the telegraph operator at the little railroad station just as he was shutting up for the night.

Having sent the message to their father they made inquiries of the operator and learned that the town boasted of a Judge Perkins and that the local constable was Munro Staton.

"Do you mean the farmer who lives down on the road to Bass Lake?" asked Dick. "The man who has twin daughters?"

"That's the man."

"Why, he was in camp to-day, with his daughters," cried Dick. "Wish I had known of this before. I might have hired him to make a hunt for the fellow we are after. Where does that judge live?"

"Sorry, but he went to New York yesterday and won't be back for several days."

The boys said no more, but without delay turned away from Oakville and made their way to the Staton farmhouse.

"Hullo! I didn't expect to see you again to-day!" exclaimed Munro Staton, as he opened the door for them. "Come in."

They entered, to find the girls sewing and Mrs. Staton darning stockings. Mr. Staton had been reading his favorite weekly newspaper.

"We have come on a very important errand, Mr. Staton," began Dick. "We have been down to Oakville and learned there that you are the local police officer."

"Ah! Do you want somebody arrested?"

"If it can be done."

"Somebody at the camp?" put in Helen.

"No, I wish he was at the camp," said Tom. "But I'm afraid he is miles away."

All of the Statons were interested and listened to the tale Tom and Dick had to tell with close attention.

"Seems to me I've heard of this Baxter and his son," said Munro Staton, scratching his head. "How does he look?"

As well as he was able Tom described the man, while Dick took a sheet of paper and a pencil and made a rough but life-like sketch of the individual.

"Why, you are quite an artist!" said Alice Staton as she gazed at the picture. "I'm sure I'd recognize that man if I met him."

"So would I," added her father. "Can I keep this picture?"

"To be sure," replied Dick. "Now, Mr. Staton, to come to business. What are your services as constable worth a day?"

"Oh, about two or two dollars and a half."

"Well if you will start a hunt for this man Baxter at once I'll guarantee you three dollars per day for a week or two, and if you succeed in landing him in jail I'll guarantee you a reward of one hundred dollars. I know my father will pay that amount willingly."

"And if he won't, I will," said Tom.

"You must be rich."

"We are fairly rich, Mr. Staton. This man is a great criminal and has been an enemy to our family for years. We don't want to see him at large."

"Well, I'll take the job and do the best I can for you," said Munro Staton and arose to his feet. "My hired man can run the farm while I am gone."

He said he knew the spot where the boys had first seen Arnold Baxter, and he would visit it at sunrise the next day and take up the trail as best he could.

"That trail through the woods used to lead to the village of Hopdale," he said. "Perhaps I'll learn something about him over there."

"I sincerely hope that you do," returned Dick.

The boys, and especially Tom, were worn out with traveling and readily consented to borrow a horse from Munro Staton, on which to ride back to camp. The steed was returned early in the morning.

"It's rather a wild-goose chase," said Dick, in talking matters over with his brothers. "But I don't know of anything else to do. Mr. Staton may catch Baxter quicker than a metropolitan detective could do the job."

Three days passed, and during that time the boys received two telegrams from home, stating they should do as they thought best in the Baxter affair, and that a detective was on the way. Then the detective appeared at the camp and followed Munro Staton on the hunt for the missing criminal. But the search by both men proved useless, and nothing more was seen of Arnold Baxter for the time being.

The cadets had arranged for a series of athletic contests, to come off at the beginning of the following week. There was to be broad and high jumping, and running, as well as throwing the hammer. All of the students were interested, and for some time these contests formed the total subject of conversation.

The cadets to enter for the various events, eight in number, were those already introduced in these pages and a dozen or fifteen in addition, all lively, wide-awake youths, each of whom looked as if he would do his best to win.

In a manner not to be easily explained, the camp divided itself into two factions, one led by Dick and Major Larry, and the other led by Lew Flapp and Pender. To the former belonged the Rovers and their numerous chums, and to the latter Rockley, Ben Hurdy, and boys of a similar turn. Each crowd had one or more followers entered for every event and, as before, numerous wagers were made as to which person and which crowd would win.

Dick had entered for the high jump, Tom for the hammer throwing, and Sam for a half mile race for cadets of his own class. The boys practiced a good deal, although not always where the others could see what they were doing.

The day for the contests was a perfect one and as news of the events had traveled to Oakville and other places, quite a respectable crowd of outsiders came to the camp to witness the affair.

"I hope you Rover boys win," said Alice Staton, who had come with her twin sister and her mother in a buggy.

"Thank you," returned Dick politely. "We shall certainly do our best. But you must remember that we have some first-class athletes at this academy."

"Oh, I don't doubt it. All academies have them," put in Helen Staton.

The first event to come off was the hammer throwing, to take place in the middle of the parade ground. There were four entries for this, Tom, as already mentioned, Jackson, Powell, and a big boy named Larson.

Larson, who belonged to the Flapp crowd, was looked on as the probable winner, for he handled the hammer exceedingly well. But Jackson could also throw, as the others well knew. Nothing was known about the skill of Tom or Powell in this direction.

The contest began with a throw by Powell. It was not very good and Jackson outdistanced him by three feet.

"That's the style, Jackson!" cried Lew Flapp. "Show 'em what you can do."

"This is the day our crowd comes out on top," put in Pender.

"Crowing rather early, seems to me," came from Fred Garrison dryly.

It was now Tom's turn and he threw the hammer with all the force at his command. It fell just beyond the point reached by Jackson.

"Good for you, Tom!" cried Sam. "That's the way to do it."

"Humph! Just wait till Larson takes his turn," came from a Flapp follower.

Larson stepped to the mark with the air of one who knows just what he is doing. Up went the hammer with a long swing -- to land in the very spot where Tom had thrown it.

"A tie! A tie!" was the cry.

"Well done, Larson!" came from Lew Flapp, but he was by no means satisfied over the showing made.

Being tied, it was necessary for Tom and Larson to throw once more, and again Tom took his position at the mark.

"Be careful, Tom," whispered Dick. "Take your time."

Again the hammer swung up into the air and went sailing forward.

"Hurrah, eight inches beyond his first mark!" came the cry.

"Larson will have to hump himself to beat that!"

It was now Larson's turn and he stepped to the mark with a quick, earnest air. He realized that he must do his best if he expected to beat Tom.

Jackson had picked up the hammer and he it was who had handed the article to Tom.

As Larson swung the hammer on high Tom cried out quickly:

"Stop!"

"What's the matter with you?" cried Jackson uglily.

"I want Captain Putnam to examine that hammer."

"There ain't nothing wrong with it."

"Possibly not. But please remember that I used the one marked A."

"So did I," came from Powell.

Captain Putnam brushed forward.

"I will look at that hammer, please," he said to Larson quietly. He knew that the cadets had several hammers for practicing throwing in the camp.

"I -- I guess it's all right," faltered Larson. "This hammer is marked B."

"B!" cried Tom. "That B hammer is about half a pound lighter than the one marked A."

"It ain't so!" yelled Jackson.

"Let me see the hammer marked A," said the captain, and it was brought from the spot where Jackson had thrown it. "It is certainly heavier than this one," he went on. "Jackson, what do you mean by making such a substitution?"

"I -- er -- I didn't know there was any difference."

"But why did you make the change at all?"

"I -- er -- I knew Larson liked this hammer better. The handle just suits him."

"That is so," replied Larson blandly.

"We will try the contest over again," said Captain Putnam. "And every contestant will use the hammer marked A."

"I don't like the hammer marked A," grumbled Larson.

"I would just as lief use the hammer marked B," said Tom quickly.

"So would I," added Powell, who felt he could not win anyway.

"Very well then, we will use the hammer marked B," said Captain Putnam. "And after this, Jackson, be sure of what you are doing," he added sharply, and at the words the boy who had tried to work such a mean trick was glad enough to slink back out of sight as much as possible.



Chapter XXV

Winning The Contests


Powell was again the first to throw the hammer and this time it went two feet beyond his first mark.

"Good for you, Songbird!" said Tom. "I wish you had made it a yard."

Jackson came up with a scowling face. He did his best, but this time fell behind Powell by four inches.

"You ought to have stuck to the other hammer, Jackson," laughed the youth who composed songs.

"Don't you throw that up to me!" whispered Jackson fiercely. "If you do I'll hammer you for it."

"Is that meant for a pun, Jackson?"

"No, it ain't. I won't stand being slurred. I'll pound you good."

"With the hammer?"

"No, with my fists."

"Really? Well, you'll have to spell able first." Tom came next, as before, and now the hammer flew out four feet and nine inches beyond his first mark.

"That shows what the other hammer can do," said Major Larry.

Larson was as much out of sorts as Jackson, but nevertheless he resolved to do his best to win the contest. Up went the hammer with a mighty swing and circled through the air. But the throw was behind that of Tom by fourteen inches.

"Hurrah! Tom Rover wins!" was the cry, and many rushed forward to congratulate him, while Larson and Jackson retired as quickly as they could and in great disgust.

The next contest was a dash of two hundred yards and was won by a boy named Bird.

"He's a bird!" sang out Tom loudly, and at this the crowd laughed heartily.

Then came a race of a quarter of a mile for the little cadets and this was won by Harry Moss, with Joe Davis a close second. Lew Flapp had backed up Ben Hurdy, but cigarettes had done their work on Hurdy and his wind gave out long before the race came to a finish.

"Good for you, Harry," said Dick, slapping the little cadet on the back. "That was a fine run you made. And your run was almost as good, Joe," he added, to Davis.

"I don't care if I did lose," panted Davis. "Both of us beat Ben Hurdy hollow, and that's all I wanted to do."

"Oh, there's no moss growing on Moss," cried Tom, and this brought out another laugh.

The next contest to come off was the high jump, for which Dick had entered, along with Pender, Rockley, and four others, including Hans Mueller. What had possessed the German boy to enter was beyond finding out, for he could scarcely jump at all. Yet many, for the fun of it, told him they thought he would surely win.

"Oh, you'll outjump everybody," said Sam. "None of 'em will come anywhere near you."

"Dot's it! Dot's it!" cried Hans excitedly. "I vos chump so high like nefer vos, ain't it?"

A lad named Lemon was the first to go over the bar, at a height of four feet and two inches. Another cadet followed, going him two inches better.

"Now, Hans, see what you can do," said Major Larry.

"Vos it mine turn to chump?"

"Yes. Are you ready?"

"Sure I vos."

"How high up shall they place the stick?"

"Apout like dot," and Hans pointed to the top of his head.

"All right, fellows, up she goes!" sang out Tom, and the stick went up.

Hans spat on his hands as if going to lift something. Then he squared his shoulders and drew far back from the jumping place.

"Gif me lots of room, eferypotty!" he sang out.

"All the room you want, Dutchy!" cried one of the cadets.

Away Hans started for the stick, running as swiftly as his short legs would carry him. When about ten feet away he made a wild leap, stuck up both legs in the air, and came down flat on his back with a loud whack.

"Hurrah, Hans wins!" cried Tom. "Best fall I've seen in a year!"

"Wh -- who -- vat -- " gasped Hans, trying to recover his wind. "Who knocked me der pack ofer annahow?"

"Nobody hit you, Hans."

"Who put geese grease der groundt on ver I run, hey?"

"Nobody."

"Well, did I knock der stick town?"

"No, you didn't come anywhere near the stick."

"Do I got some more trials?"

"I think, Mueller, that you had better retire," said Captain Putnam with a smile. "High jumping does not seem to agree with you."

"Maype dot's so, captain. Veil, I ton't care annahow. I vill drow der hammer ven ve haf some more of dem kondests," and then Hans dropped to the rear.

Rockley was the next to jump, and his record was an inch better than that already made.

"That's all right," said Lew Flapp.

Two other pupils now took their turns in jumping and Rockley's record was speedily eclipsed. Then Dick came along and sent the record still higher.

"That's the talk, Dick," said Tom enthusiastically. "I don't think Pender can do as well."

"Can't I," sneered Pender. "I'll show you."

On he came, measuring his distance with care, and went over the stick at the same height Dick had taken.

"Another tie!" was the cry.

The last boy to jump did not do as well as Rockley, so the contest was voted a tie between Dick and Gus Pender.

"Now, Dick, you must win," said Sam.

"You think a good lot of his ability," sneered Lew Flapp, who stood close by, and started to walk off.

He had scarcely taken a step when Dick gave him a quick shove that sent the tall boy flat on his face.

"I'll teach you to step on my foot, Lew Flapp!" he cried hotly.

"What's the trouble?" demanded several, while Mr. Strong came forward to investigate.

"Lew Flapp stepped on my right foot, and he did it just as hard as he could," said Dick.

"I -- I didn't," growled Flapp.

"I say you did -- and what is more, I think you did it on purpose."

"He did it to lame you, so you couldn't jump against Pender," came from Tom.

"Flapp, did you step on Rover's foot on purpose?" demanded George Strong.

"No, sir -- didn't step on it at all."

"It is very strange. Rover says you did."

"He is mistaken."

"I am not mistaken. That is why I shoved him away, Mr. Strong."

"Is your foot hurt?"

"I don't think it is. But it didn't do it any good to have it stepped on."

"Probably not. Do you still wish to jump?"

"Yes, sir. If I don't, some of the crowd will say I am afraid," said Dick.

"In the future, Flapp, be more careful," said George Strong significantly.

"By Jinks! but the Flapp crowd are dandies!" whispered Tom. "First Jackson tried to change the hammers and now Flapp himself tries to disable you. We must be on our guard after this."

"That's true," replied his elder brother, and Sam nodded.

Because of Dick's hurt foot it was decided that Gus Pender should jump first. Pender did his best, clearing the stick by two inches better than before.

"Put it up an inch higher," cried Dick, and made the jump, despite a pain in the instep that was by no means pleasant. Then Pender tried again, but failed, and Dick was declared the winner.

"This is the day for the Rovers!" cried one cadet, and a cheer for Tom and Dick followed, while the Staton girls waved their handkerchiefs wildly.

After this came several other contests, in each of which the crowd pitted against the Flapp faction won. This made Lew Flapp, Rockley, Pender, Jackson and a number of others feel very sore.

"We must win something," cried Pender fiercely. "If we don't we'll be the laughing stock of the whole academy."

At last came the half mile race for which Sam had entered. Now, though Lew Flapp was much larger than most of the others, he was in the same class as Sam, and he had also entered this race, which boasted of ten contestants, including William Philander Tubbs.

"You have got to win this, Lew," said Rockley. "It ought to be easy for you, with such long legs."

"I mean to win and leave that Rover boy so far behind he'll feel sick," answered Flapp.

Sam had but little to say. But he knew that both Tom and Dick expected him to win, and he resolved to "do or die" as the saying goes.

"Even if I lose they shan't say I didn't try," the youngest Rover told himself.

Out on the field William Philander Tubbs was strutting around boastfully.

"I can't help but win, don't you know," he drawled. "Running is exactly in my line."

"Oh, what a whopper!" was Fred Garrison's comment. "Tubbs is about as lazy as they make 'em."

Soon all of the contestants were ready, and George Strong explained the conditions of the race.

"You are to run along the shore to the big rock where Lieutenant Merrick is stationed," he said. "You are to round the rock by running to the right, and you must keep to the right of the path on returning, so that you won't run into anybody. The first to reach this mark on the return wins the race. Do you understand?"

The runners said that they did.

"Very well then. Get ready. Go!"

Away piled the boys in a line that did not break for several yards. Then Sam Rover shot ahead, followed by Flapp and two cadets named Pigley and Franell.

"There they go!" was the shout.

"Leg it, Sam!" yelled Tom. "Leg it, old man!"

"Go it, Flapp! Don't let them win this race!"

"It's yours if you want it, Franell!"

"Remember how you won the race at Ithaca, Pigley!"

So the cries went on, while the outsiders cheered for nobody in particular.

"Oh, I hope that Rover boy wins," said Alice Staton to her sister.

"So do I," answered Helen.

"By Jove, but I think I'll rest a bit!" panted William Philander Tubbs, after running a couple of hundred yards, and he sat down on the grass, while the crowd laughed at him.

Sam was keeping the lead in good shape, although hard pressed by Flapp, Pigley, and Franell. His wind was good and he was running with a grace which brought forth much favorable comment.

"Whether he wins or not, he is the most graceful runner in the school," whispered George Strong to Captain Putnam. "I never saw his equal."

"You are right, Strong," answered the captain. "I'll tell you what," he added. "They are a great trio, those Rover boys. One cannot help but love them, in spite of their tricks and occasional wrong-doings."

"I agree, Captain Putnam. And I must say I do not find their wrong-doings so very great either," concluded George Strong.

The rock that was the turning point in the race was now almost gained. Sam still led, but Flapp was right at one shoulder, with Pigley at the other. Franell, at a look from Flapp, had dropped behind.

On the rock stood the lieutenant George Strong had mentioned. He was friendly to Lew Flapp and as Sam swept around the rock, he leaned forward, making the youngest Rover run about a yard further than was necessary. Then he allowed Flapp to cut the rock closely.

But Sam was on his mettle and now bounded ahead faster than ever, leaving Flapp and Pigley several yards in the rear.

"Confound him," thought Lew Flapp. "He'll win sure, unless Franell does as he agreed -- good!"

Flapp almost shouted the word, as he saw Sam run into Franell with a crash and go down. The other boy had crossed the running path and gotten directly into Sam's way.

"I see you are out of it!" cried Flapp gleefully, as he shot by the prostrate figure.

"It was a trick!" muttered Sam to himself, and tried to rise to his feet. But the wind was knocked completely out of him and before he could recover the race was over, and Lew Flapp had come in ahead.



Chapter XXVI

Sam Shows What He Can Do


"It was another trick. He knocked me down on purpose."

Thus spoke Sam, as soon as he could get a hearing.

"Well, if that isn't beastly!" cried Franell, in apparent surprise. "I knocked him over! Why the little clown plumped right into me!

"Were you running on your side of the path?" questioned George Strong.

"I was, sir. Flapp and Pigley can prove it."

"That's right, Mr. Strong," said Lew Flapp.

"It was entirely Rover's fault," added Pigley. "He didn't keep to the right as he should."

The other runners were questioned, but could give no testimony, as they had not been close enough at the time of the collision.

"It is too bad it happened," said Captain Putnam.

"I would have won if it hadn't been for the fall," said Sam bitterly. "I was in the lead."

"Yes, but you were about winded," said Flapp. "I saw you getting groggy. That's what made you fall into Franell, I guess."

This remark made the youngest Rover more angry than ever.

"Mr. Strong," he said, turning to the head teacher suddenly, "will you do me a favor?"

"What do you wish, Rover?"

"Will you time me if I run that race over again?"

"You mean to run it over alone?"

"Yes, sir -- unless Flapp will run against me."

"I've won the race and that's all there is to it," grumbled the tall boy doggedly.

"Certainly I'll time you, if you wish it," said Mr. Strong, who saw how disappointed Sam was. "But it won't be a race, you know."

"I don't care -- I want to show them what I can do."

"Very well."

Sam drew up to the mark and declared himself ready.

"Shall I run with you?" asked Tom. "Just to urge you on, you know?"

"All right, Tom, come on."

"Go!" cried George Strong, watch in hand and his eye on the second hand.

Away went the brothers side by side, while a cheer went up from those who had wished to see Sam win.

Tom kept close to his brother until the rounding rock was gained and here Sam compelled him to drop behind.

"Go on!" yelled Tom good-naturedly. "Go! I'm after you!" and he put on an extra spurt. Sam also spurted and kept the lead by about two yards.

"Humph! that ain't running!" muttered Lew Flapp to Rockley, but nevertheless, he was greatly disturbed.

Down the line swept the two runners with the speed of the wind, Sam keeping his two yards' lead in spite of Tom's efforts to overtake him.

"Won!" was the shout. "And Tom Rover is close behind." And then the crowd gathered around George Strong to learn the time.

"Eight seconds better than Lew Flapp!" was the cry. "And Tom Rover came in four seconds better!"

"That shows what Sam Rover would have done had Franell kept out of his way."

"The race should have gone to Sam Rover!"

So the cries kept up until Captain Putnam compelled the cadets to quiet down.

Lew Flapp and his cronies were much disgusted and left the field almost immediately.

"He's afraid to stay," declared Dick. "He doesn't want Sam to challenge him," and this was the truth.

The foot races were followed by some prize shooting, a race on the lake, and then by a tub race, and a race in sacks, which called forth much laughter, not only from the cadets, but also from the visitors.

"It was just splendid!" declared Alice Staton to Dick, when it was all over. "I never had such a lovely time in my life."

"Nor I," added her twin sister. "But your brother should have had that running race. It was a shame to knock him down."

"Never mind," said Tom, who had come up. "All the boys know he can run faster than the winner anyway."

A luncheon was served to the visitors by Captain Putnam's order and after that the cadets and their newly-made friends were allowed to go walking, boating, or driving, as they saw fit. Swings had been erected in the grove close to the encampment and these were constantly patronized.

"It must be lots of fun to be a cadet," said Alice Staton, when ready to depart. "If I was a boy I should want to go to a military academy."

"Oh, it's not all play," said Tom. "We have to work pretty hard over our studies and sometimes a fellow doesn't feel like drilling, but has to do it all the same."

It can truly be said that the Flapp crowd were much disappointed over the results of the day's contests. Only two events had been won -- a boat race of small importance and the race in which Lew Flapp had come off victor, and the latter victory was dimmed by the knowledge that Sam Rover had cut down Flapp's time over the course by eight seconds.

"We may as well sell out and go home," said Pender, in deep disgust.

"But we can't go home," returned Rockley. "We've got to stay right here and take all the taunts that come along."

"Nobody shall taunt me," cried Jackson. "If they try it I'll punch somebody's nose."

"And to think we lost our money, too," said Ben Hurdy, after a pause. "That's what makes me sick."

"Reckon you didn't lose much," said Lew Flapp, with a sickly grin.

"I lost all I had, and that's enough."

"Who won it?"

"Hans Mueller. That crazy Dutch boy was yelling for Tom Rover and I took him up."

The Flapp crowd did not feel like mingling with the visitors, and at the first opportunity Lew Flapp and his intimate cronies slipped away from the camp and hurried to the hermit's den they had discovered.

"We'll have a little jollification of our own," said Rockley, and his plan was speedily carried into effect, in a fashion which would not have been approved by Captain Putnam or any of the teachers under him.

"We must get after Dick Rover," said Flapp, while smoking a black-looking cigar. "As a captain he stands pretty high. If we can pull him down we'll be striking a blow at the whole Rover family and also at their intimate friends."

"Right you are. But the question is, How are we to get hold of him, and what are we to do?" put in Jackson.

"I've got a plan, but I don't know exactly how it will work."

"Let us have it, Lew," came from Gus Pender.

"Some dark night we'll go to Rover's tent and haul him from his cot. We'll wear masks and he'll think he's in for a bit of hazing and won't squeal very loud. Then we can blindfold him and bring him here."

"So far, so good," put in Rockley. "And after that?"

"You know how he hates liquor?"

"Does he, or is it all put on?" questioned Ben Hurdy.

"I can't say as to that, but anyway he pretends to hate it, so it amounts to the same thing. Well, after we have him here we can get him to drink something by hook or by crook, and when he falls asleep we can put an empty bottle in his hand and then somebody can bring Captain Putnam to the spot. That will wipe out Dick Rover's record as a model pupil all in a minute."

"Good!" almost shouted Rockley. "We can dose him easily. You just leave that for me."

"Wish we could get his brothers into it, too," came from Pender.

"Oh, we can serve them out some other way," answered Lew Flapp. "At the start, we don't want to bite off more than we can chew," he added slangily.

The matter was discussed for fully an hour, and when the meeting broke up each member understood fully what was to be accomplished.

Two days after the athletic contests the cadets had a prize drill. The cadets had been preparing for this for some time and each company did its best to win.

"I am greatly pleased with the showing made by all three companies," said Captain Putnam after the drilling and marching were at an end. "Companies B and C have done very well indeed. But for general excellence the average of Company A is a little above the others, so the prize must go to Captain Rover's command."

"Hurrah for Dick Rover!" was the cry, and this was followed by a cheer for First Lieutenant Powell and for Second Lieutenant Tom Rover.

"Humph! Forever cheering those Rovers!" muttered Flapp, who was in Company C. "My, but it makes me sick!"

"Never mind," whispered Rockley. "Just wait till we get the chance to work our little game."

At once Lew Flapp's face took on a cunning look.

"I've got an idea," he whispered in return. "Why not try it on to-night? Then Captain Putnam would say Rover had been celebrating because his company won the prize."

"You are right there, Lew, I didn't think of that. Wait till I sound the other fellows."

It did not take Rockley long to talk to his cronies, and presently he came back with a knowing look on his face.

"It's settled," he said. "By to-morrow morning Dick Rover will be in disgrace and will lose his position as captain of Company A."



Chapter XXVII

A Prisoner Of The Enemy


Never dreaming of the plot hatched out against him, Dick retired as usual that night. Now that the worry over the competitive drill was a thing of the past he realized that he was worn out, and scarcely had his head touched the pillow than he was in the land of Nod.

His awakening was a rude one. He felt himself raised up, a large towel was passed over his face and tied behind his head, and then he was dragged from his cot.

"Don't dare to make a sound!" whispered a low voice in his ear. "If you do, you'll be struck senseless."

"Hullo, I'm about to be hazed," thought Dick, and it must be admitted that he was far from pleased. "They think they are going to do something grand to the captain of the company that won the prize. Well, not if I can help it," and he began to struggle to free himself.

But his tormentors were too many for him and almost before he knew it his hands and his feet were made secure and a sack was drawn over his head. Then he was raised up and carried away he knew not to where.

"One thing is certain, they are taking me a long distance from camp," was his thought, when he found himself dumped into a rowboat. "Can they be going to the head of the lake?"

The idea of using the boat had been suggested by Jackson, who said it would bewilder Dick, so he would not know where he was being taken. And Jackson was right, the eldest Rover thought he was a long way from camp when he was placed on shore again.

His feet were now unloosed and he was made to march forward until the vicinity of the hermit's den was reached. Then he was carried into the den and tied fast to a log erected near one of the side walls.

"Take the sack from his head," came in the voice of Lew Flapp, and this was done and then the towel was also removed.

For the moment Dick could see nothing, for the glare of a large lantern was directly in his face. Then he made out half a dozen or more cadets standing around him, each with a red mask over his face, and a red skull cap with horns.

"Hullo, this must be a new secret society," he thought. "I've been initiated into the Order of Black Skulls, but never into the Order of Red Skulls. Wonder what they will want me to do?" There was a moment of silence and one of the masked cadets stepped to the front.

"Prisoner, are you prepared to meet your doom?" was the question put in a harsh voice.

"Oh, chestnuts!" cried Dick. "I went through that long ago, when I first came to Putnam Hall."

"Bow to your superiors," said another voice.

"Where are the superiors?" asked Dick innocently. "I don't see 'em."

"The prisoner is impertinent! Make him bow!"

At once several sprang behind Dick and forced him to move his head up and down.

"Let up, my head isn't on a hinge!" he cried. "Cut it short, for I'm sleepy."

"Make him drink the poison and at once!" put in another of the masked cadets.

The speaker tried to disguise his tones, but the voice sounded much like that of Lew Flapp and instantly Dick was on the alert.

"How much do you want me to drink?" he asked cheerfully.

"Only one glass, if you drink it without stopping to sneeze," put in another voice, and now Dick was certain that he recognized Rockley.

"These are no friends," he thought. "They are enemies and they intend to play me foul."

"How can I drink with my hands tied behind me?" he asked.

"We will hold the glass for you," said another, and Dick felt almost sure it was Gus Pender who uttered the words.

"It's the whole Flapp crowd," he mused. "I'm in a pickle and no mistake. I suppose they'll half kill me before they let me go."

"Will you drink?" asked another. He was small in size and Dick put him down as being Ben Hurdy.

"I want you to untie my hands."

"Very well, let the prisoner hold the glass," said Flapp.

"Thank you, Flapp."

"Who said I was Flapp?" growled the tall boy, in dismay.

"I say so."

"My name is Brown."

"All right then, Brown let it be," said Dick, not wanting to anger the bully too much.

The prisoner's hands were untied and a glass containing a dark-colored mixture was handed to him. Dick had heard of the "glass of poison" before, said glass containing nothing but mud and water well stirred up. But now he was suspicious. This glass looked as if it might contain something else.

"They'd as soon drug me as not," he thought. "For all I know this may be a dose strong enough to make an elephant sick. I don't think I'll drink it, no matter what they do."

"Prisoner, drink!" was the cry.

"Thanks, but I am not thirsty," answered Dick, as coolly as he could. "Besides, I had my dose of mud and water a long time ago."

"He must drink!" roared Rockley.

"Get the switches!" ordered Lew Flapp, and from a corner a number of long, heavy switches were brought forth and passed around.

Things began to look serious and it must be confessed that Dick's heart beat fast, for he had no desire to undergo a switching at the hands of such a cold-hearted crowd, who would be sure to lay on the strokes heavily.

"Don't you strike me," said Dick, thinking rapidly. "I'll drink fast enough. But I want to know one thing first."

"Well?"

"What are you going to do with me next?"

"Make you take the antidote for the poison," said Flapp.

"And what is that?"

"Another drink."

"They are going to drug me as sure as fate," reasoned Dick. "How can I outwit them?"

While he was deliberating there was a noise outside, as a night bird swept by the entrance to the hermit's den.

All of the masked cadets were startled and looked in that direction.

By inspiration Dick seized the moment to throw the contents of the glass over his shoulder into a dark corner. When the crowd turned back he had the glass turned up to his mouth and was going through the movement of swallowing.

"Ugh! what ugly stuff," he said, handing the glass to one of the crowd.

"Ha! he has swallowed the poison!" cried Lew Flapp, and nudged Rockley in the ribs. "That was easy, wasn't it?" he whispered.

"Give him the second glass," muttered Rockley. "That will make him as foolish as a fiddler."

Pender already had the glass handy. He passed it to Dick, who suddenly glared at him in an uncertain manner. Dick had smelt the liquor in the first glass and now realized something of the plot to bring him to disgrace.

"Say, but that stuff makes me feel lightheaded," he said. "Wasn't so bad, after all."

"Drink this, quick," cried Flapp, more eagerly than ever.

"All right," said Dick, and spilt a little out of the glass onto the floor. "Wonder what makes my hand shake so?" he murmured.

"Take this and it will brace you up," put in Pender.

"Ha, look there!" yelled Dick, gazing fixedly at the rear of the den. "See the three-headed owl!"

All looked in the direction and again he threw the contents of the glass behind him. Then he pretended to drink, while glaring at the cadets around him.

"Funny, I can't count you any more!" he muttered. "Six, seven, ten, 'leven, nine! Say, I'm all mixed up. Who put me on the merry-go-'round anyway?" He began to stagger. "Guess I'm on a toboggan slide, ain't I?" and he acted as if he could no longer stand up-right.

"Cut him loose, fellows!" cried Flapp, and this was done, and Dick staggered to the table, clutched it, slid to the floor and acted as if he had fallen into a deep sleep.

"Say, that was dead easy!" cried Pender gleefully. "Took the stuff like a lamb."

"What's to do next, Flapp?" asked Jackson.

"Say, Jackson, don't speak my name, please," cried the tall boy in alarm.

"Oh, what's the odds," put in Pender. "Rover is dead to the world. Rockley knew just how to fix those doses."

"That's right, Gus," came from Rockley.

"We had better not lose time here," went on Flapp presently. "Let us tell Captain Putnam without delay. He'll have Rover brought back to camp just as he is, and that will disgrace him forever."

"Wait till I put the empty bottle near him," said Rockley, and this was done.

Then the crowd of masked cadets left the den, leaving the door wide open behind them.



Chapter XXVIII

Dick's Midnight Adventure


A minute after the last of Lew Flapp's crowd left the hermit's den Dick leaped to his feet, went to the doorway, and listened intently. It was quite dark, so he could see little or nothing.

At a distance he heard the masked cadets stealing swiftly along through the woods. They had put out the lantern, knowing the road fairly well through repeated excursions to the den. Soon the crowd was completely out of hearing.

It must be confessed that Dick felt lonely, and almost the first thing he did was to take a match from his pocket and strike it. Discovering a bit of candle on the table he lighted this also.

But little was to be seen outside of that which had already met his gaze. The hermit's den had been cleaned up around the table, on which rested half a dozen bottles, an empty cigar box, and several packs of cards.

"This must be the stuff those fellows bought in Oakville," thought the eldest Rover. "They have been using this cave for a regular club room. What a beastly crowd they are! And they really imagine they are having good times, too!"

As will be remembered, Dick had been given a trip on a rowboat before being brought into the den and he imagined that he was somewhere near the head of Bass Lake, how far from the camp he could not tell.

"Perhaps I'm near where Tom and the others met those snakes," he mused. "Ugh! I don't want to fall in with things like that. And how I am to get back to camp without a boat is more than I can settle."

Blowing out the bit of candle, he placed it in his pocket and left the den. On all sides were the thick bushes already described, and poor Dick knew not which way to turn. He listened once more, but hardly a sound broke the midnight silence.

"Might as well strike out as to stay here," he said. "I don't think they'll come back in very much of a hurry, and perhaps they won't come until morning."

Pushing his way through the bushes he at last reached a tiny stream that poured over the rocks. He followed the stream and after half an hour's hard walking reached the edge of the lake. He had journeyed directly away from the camp and was now in a spot that was lonely in the extreme.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the water at this point was very shallow and soon Dick was wading over to what he took to be the island upon which the encampment had been located. But as a matter of fact he was headed for the main shore of the lake, and soon he was tramping further away from the camp than ever. For once in his life, so far as his bump of locality was concerned, Dick was hopelessly mixed.

Dick traveled nearly a mile before he reached the conclusion that he was not on Pine Island or anywhere near it.

"I'm on the mainland, that's certain," he told himself. "I guess the best thing I can do is to wait for daylight before going further. I may only -- Hullo, a light!"

Dick had emerged from a grove of trees and now saw a light streaming from the window of a cottage but a short distance away. The sight of this caused him to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Some farmer's place, I suppose," he murmured. "Well, anything will do. I can get a place to sleep, and the farmer can testify to it that I haven't been drinking, as Lew Flapp and his cronies will want to prove."

A curtain was drawn over the window of the cottage, so that Dick could not see into the room. The cottage was small, with but a single doors and on this the youth rapped loudly.

The rapping was followed by a commotion inside of the cottage and Dick heard two persons leap to their feet.

"Who's there?" demanded a rough voice.

"A stranger," Dick answered. "I have lost my way in the darkness," and without waiting he tried the door, and finding it unlocked, opened it.

"Dick Rover!"

The cry came from one of the occupants of the room, a tall, awkward-looking young man, much tanned by exposure, and with a pair of dark and wicked-looking eyes.

"Great Scott!" gasped Dick, falling back a step. "Am I dreaming or is this really Dan Baxter?"

"Oh. I'm Dan Baxter right enough," answered the former bully of Putnam Hall.

"But -- but I thought you were still on that island in the Pacific."

"You wanted to see me end my days there, didn't you?" sneered Dan Baxter.

Dick did not reply, for he was gazing at the other occupant of the room, a man with a short crop of hair and a short beard.

"And your father, too!" he murmured.

"Come in here," cried Arnold Baxter savagely and caught him by the arm. "Are you alone?"

"Yes," answered Dick, before he had stopped to think twice.

"Good enough. Come in," and Arnold Baxter continued to hold him.

"He may be fooling us, dad," put in Dan Baxter. "The officers of the law may be with him."

"Take a look around and see, Dan. I'll keep him here."

"Let me go!" cried Dick, trying to break away.

"Not much, Rover. You'll stay right where you are for the present," answered the older Baxter grimly.

Dan had slipped out and he made a thorough search before returning to the cottage. In the meantime Dick was forced to sit down on a bench in a corner, while Arnold Baxter stood over him with a stout club.

"This is getting interesting, to say the least," thought Dick. "I wish I hadn't come anywhere near the cottage."

"Nobody around," announced Dan Baxter, as he came in and closed and locked the door.

"Good," answered his father. He turned again to Dick. "Now, how comes it that you are wandering around here, Rover?" he went on.

"I was trying to find my way back to camp and lost my way in the woods."

"But your camp is on an island."

"I know it. I was carried off by some students who were hazing me. They put a bag over my head and took me in a boat, and I got mixed up.

"I hope they hazed you good," came from Dan Baxter with a malicious grin.

"Thank you, Dan, you always were a real friend," returned Dick, as coolly as he could.

"Oh, don't you come any of that game over me!" roared Dan Baxter. "I haven't forgotten the past, Dick Rover, and you'll find it out so before I get through with you. I was just hoping you or your precious brothers might drop into my arms."

"What are you and your father doing here?"

"That is my business," broke in Arnold Baxter.

"I don't see why you fellows can't turn over a new leaf," went on Dick earnestly.

"Oh, don't preach, Dick Rover," answered Dan Baxter. "You make me sick when you do that."

"I suppose you find this a good hiding place."

"It has been -- up to now," said Arnold Baxter. "But since you have discovered us -- " he did not finish.

"We'll make him pay for it," said Dan Baxter. "I've been waiting to square accounts for a long time."

"How did you escape from that island, Dan?" asked Dick curiously.

"A ship came along about a week after you left it."

"I see. And did you come right through to here?"

"That is my business, Dick Rover. But I came to help my father, I don't mind telling you that."

"Then you knew he had escaped from prison?"

"From the hospital, yes."

"And did you know he had robbed our house?"

"He took what belonged to him, Dick Rover. Your folks robbed him of that mine in the West."

"Well, I won't argue the point, Dan Baxter." Dick got up and moved toward the door. "I think I'll go."

"Will you!" cried both of the Baxters, in a breath, and seizing him they forced him back into the corner.

"Let us make him a prisoner," went on Dan Baxter, and this was speedily done by aid of a rope which the elder Baxter brought forth. Then Dick was thrown into a closet of an inner apartment and the door was locked upon him.



Chapter XXIX

True Heroism


"Well, one thing is certain, I am much worse off now than I was when in the hands of Lew Flapp's crowd," thought Dick dismally, after trying in vain to break the bonds that bound him.

The closet in which he was a prisoner was so small that he could scarcely turn himself. The door was a thick one, so to break it down was out of the question.

"Stop your row in there!" called out Dan Baxter presently. "If you don't, I'll give you something you won't want."

"How long are you going to keep me here?"

"If you wait long enough you'll find out," was the unsatisfactory answer.

"It won't do you any good to keep me a prisoner, Dan."

"Won't it? Perhaps you think I'm going to let you go so that you can get the officers to arrest my father," sneered the younger Baxter.

"They are bound to get him anyway, sooner or later."

"They'll never get him if they don't catch him this week."

"Why? Is he going to leave the country?"

"That's his business, not yours," said Dan Baxter, and walked away.

"It's too bad he turned up as he did," remarked Arnold Baxter, when he found himself alone with his son. "I thought I'd be safe here until I could slip over to Boston."

"When does that steamer sail for Cape Town, Africa, dad?"

"Tuesday or Wednesday of next week."

"Then all we can do is to keep Dick Rover a prisoner until that time."

"We can't do it, Dan. As soon as he is reported missing this whole vicinity will be searched."

"Do you think they'll find this cottage?"

"Perhaps, although so far I have not been disturbed."

"Tom and Sam Rover came pretty close to locating you, didn't they?"

"They came within half a mile of the spot. But I gave them the slip."

"I wish I could square up with all of the Rovers," went on Dan Baxter savagely. "They have caused me no end of trouble."

"Better leave them alone, Dan. Every time you try to do something you get your fingers burnt."

To this the son could not answer, for he knew that his father spoke the truth.

A long talk followed, and then Dan Baxter left, promising to return before noon of the next day. He was to proceed to a town about twelve miles away and there purchase for his father a new suit of clothing and a preparation for dyeing his hair and beard. With this disguise Arnold Baxter hoped to get away from the vicinity and reach Boston without being recognized.

So far the night had been clear, but now a storm was brewing. From a great distance came a rumble of thunder and occasionally a glimpse of lightning lit up the landscape.

"You'll have a bad journey of it," said Arnold Baxter to his son as the latter was leaving.

"Reckon I'll have to make the best of it," answered Dan. "But I've got used to such things, since I've been knocking around the ocean and elsewhere."

Left to himself, Arnold Baxter paced the floor of the cottage uneasily. Age was beginning to tell upon him and he was by no means the man he was when introduced to the Rovers years before.

"I wish I was out of it," he murmured to himself. "I'd give a good deal to be on the ocean this minute, bound for some place where I can make a fresh start."

The storm kept growing in violence until the cottage fairly shook from the fury of the wind. There was much thunder and lightning, with some crashing in the woods close at hand, that caused both Baxter and Dick to start in alarm.

Dick was doing his best to free himself and at last managed to get one hand loose.

He had already found that to attempt forcing the door was useless. Now he tried the walls of the closet and then the flooring and the ceiling.

He was much gratified to find that the boards of the ceiling were not fastened down. With a great effort he managed to raise himself and after a minute of hard work found himself in the tiny loft of the cottage. Here the patter of the rain was strong and the water was leaking in everywhere.

"I'll have to drop to the ground and run for it," he told himself, and crawled to where there was a tiny window just large enough to admit the passage of his body.

It was no easy matter to get down to the ground with one hand still fastened behind him, and Dick made rather slow work of it. The rain beat in at the window, and soon he was soaked to the skin.

Where to go next he did not know. To journey far in such a storm was entirely out of the question.

Dick had hardly gotten to the edge of the woods when a blinding flash of lightning and a ripping crash of thunder fairly lifted him from his feet.

"Oh!" he gasped, and staggered to a tree for support. "My, but that was close!"

It was not until a moment later that he realized what had occurred. The lightning had struck the cottage, ripping off a corner of the roof and descending into the room below. The structure was now a mass of flames.

"The cottage is on fire!" murmured the youth. "Wonder if the Baxters have been struck?"

The wind quickly drove the fire in all directions until the cottage was in flames almost from end to end.

Staggering from the effects of the shock, Dick drew closer to the building and then tried the door, to find it locked.

"Help!" came faintly, in Arnold Baxter's voice. "Help!"

"Open the door," returned Dick, forgetting that it was an enemy who was calling for assistance.

"I -- I cannot. I -- I am helpless!"

Again Dick tried the door, but without success. Then he leaped for the window. Some of the glass was broken, and with his naked fist he drove in the whole sash, and tore down the flapping curtain.

The sight which met his gaze filled him with horror. The room was on fire in several places and in a corner, near the chimney piece, rested Arnold Baxter, pinned down by a section of brick and stonework that had fallen. He had been hit in the head, and from the wound the blood was flowing.

"Rover, is that you?" he cried faintly. "Don't desert me!"

Without replying, Dick began to crawl in through the broken window. The air was filled with smoke and he could scarcely see what he was doing. The sparks, too, were flying in all directions and only the wetness of his garments kept them from catching fire.

He was soon at Arnold Baxter's side, and with his one free hand hurled the bricks and stones in all directions. As he worked the fire kept coming closer, until his face was fairly blistered by the conflagration.

At last the man was free. But he could not raise himself up, and when Dick did it Arnold Baxter fell a limp form in his arm. He had fainted.

Mustering up all the strength that remained to him, Dick dragged the unconscious man to the door. There was a bar to be flung aside and then Dick threw the barrier wide open. It was none too soon, for now the fire was swirling in all directions. Staggering beneath his burden the youth hurried into the open and then fell flat, with Arnold Baxter beside him.

"What a close call!" murmured Dick, when he was able to rise. He felt weak in the knees, and his hands and face smarted from the blistering received. He looked at Arnold Baxter. The man had not yet recovered and looked to be more dead than alive.

Dick remembered having crossed a brook but a short distance away, and to this he went and bathed his burns and brought some water back for Arnold Baxter. His other hand had now become free, so he could work to much better advantage.

"He has been seriously hurt, that is certain," thought the youth. "Perhaps he breathed in some of the flames. If he did that he may never get over it."

Left to itself the cottage burnt to the ground and then the falling rain put out the hissing embers. In the meantime Dick did what he could to restore Arnold Baxter to consciousness, and at last had the satisfaction of seeing the man open his eyes.

"Oh!" murmured the man. "The fire -- "

"You are out of it," answered Dick soothingly.

"Did you -- did you haul me out?"

"Yes."

"It was good of you to do it, Rover," said Arnold Baxter, and then he fainted once more.



Chapter XXX

Turning A New Leaf -- Conclusion


The night was a long one for Dick Rover and he was glad when the storm cleared away and the first streaks of dawn began to show themselves in the eastern sky.

Arnold Baxter had recovered consciousness, but was evidently in great pain, for he moaned almost constantly. Dick was willing to aid the sufferer, yet could do little or nothing.

"Tell me the way to our camp and I will get help," said Dick at last. And Arnold Baxter gave him the directions as best he could.

"I must have a doctor," whispered the man hoarsely. "If not, I'll surely die. And I don't want to die yet, Rover!"

As well as he was able, Dick set off for the lake shore and then began to move in the direction of Bass Island.

He had not gone very far when he heard somebody calling his name.

"Rover! Dick Rover!" was the cry. "Dick Rover!"

"It must be a searching party," he thought, and he was right. The party contained Tom and Sam, and Mr. Strong, and they said that two other parties were out, one headed by Captain Putnam and the other by an assistant.

"Where in the world have you been?" asked Tom. "We have been scared almost to death over your absence."

"It's a long story," answered Dick. "What I want just now is a doctor and a lot of salve. Just look at me, will you?"

"Blisters!" ejaculated Sam. "Where did you get those?"

"In a fire that nearly burnt Arnold Baxter to death. I want the doctor for him."

And then Dick had to tell the particulars of how he had run across the cottage in the woods and of what had followed.

"And Dan Baxter is here!" ejaculated Tom. "It doesn't seem possible."

"He ought to be locked up," put in Sam.

It was decided by Mr. Strong that Arnold Baxter should be removed to the camp on a stretcher, and four boys, including Sam and Tom, volunteered for the service. In the meantime Dick went to camp, to attend to his hurts, and a cadet was sent to Oakville for a doctor.

"Hullo, here comes Rover!" whispered Lew Flapp to Pender, as Dick appeared. "Wonder what sort of a story he will have to tell?"

"One thing is certain, we made a mess of our plans," muttered Pender.

"Perhaps Rover won't give us away," put in Rockley hopefully.

On returning to camp word had been sent to Captain Putnam that Dick Rover was at the den in a condition not fit to be seen.

Mr. Strong and another teacher had gone to the place mentioned in the anonymous communication only to find the den empty.

A general alarm was sent out, and the search for the missing captain of Company A was begun as recorded. Captain Putnam also began to investigate on his private account, with results that were as surprising as they were dismaying. He learned the several cadets had left camp early in the night and among them Ben Hurdy, Lew Flapp, Pender, and Jackson. Without delay he summoned Ben Hurdy to his private tent and made the young cadet undergo a strict cross-examination.

At first Hurdy would not talk, but soon he became frightened and broke down utterly. He told of the plot against Dick, and of how Flapp and the others had carried it out.

"I didn't want to go into it," he whined. "But Flapp said he would thrash me if I didn't do my share. They wanted to get square with Captain Rover because he had won at the athletic contests and at the drill."

"I see," said Captain Putnam grimly, and then he ordered Ben Hurdy to keep absolutely silent until called on to speak. "If you say a word now I'll dismiss you at once," he concluded.

When Dick arrived Captain Putnam saw to it that his blisters were dressed with care, and then he asked the eldest Rover to tell his whole story.

"I do not know as I can do that, Captain Putnam," said the young captain, blushing. "I don't care to become a tale-bearer."

"Did you leave camp of your own free will, Rover?"

"I did not, sir."

"You were carried away to be hazed, then?"

"Yes, sir; but I would prefer not to speak of that part of my adventures."

"Those who carried you off drugged you."

"How do you know that?" asked Dick, in surprise.

"Never mind that now, Rover. Did they drug you or not?"

"No, sir."

"What!"

"They tried to drug me, but I threw the liquor over my shoulder when they weren't looking."

"Oh, I see," and Captain Putnam smiled. "They tried to trick you and you ended by tricking them, is that it?"

"That's about the size of it, sir. They thought I was in a stupor when they left me, but as soon as they were gone I began to shift for myself. But I don't understand how you know about this, Captain Putnam."

"One of the party to this outrage has confessed, so I know all about it, Rover. The leader, I believe, was Lew Flapp, and his main supporters were Pender, Rockley, and Jackson."

To this Dick did not say a word.

"I know you would speak if I were accusing anybody wrongly, Rover. In one way I can appreciate your silence. But this affair was carried too far. It was not an ordinary hazing. The plot was one to blast your honest name and bring you into disgrace. Such things cannot be permitted at any school of which I am the head. I will hear the rest of your strange tale."

In as few words as possible Dick told how he had wandered around until he had reached the cottage, and what had happened afterward.

"It was assuredly a remarkable adventure," said Captain Putnam. "I thought I had about seen the last of Daniel Baxter."

"Perhaps Dan Baxter will keep shady when he finds out what has happened."

"Perhaps. And you think Arnold Baxter is in a bad way?"

"Yes, sir. He came pretty close to being burnt up."

"We will do our best for him, and notify the authorities without delay."

An hour later the disabled man was brought into camp and the doctor came to attend him.

Under the physician's directions Arnold Baxter was made fairly comfortable in one of the tents of the camp.

"He is in a bad way," said the doctor. "He will probably recover, but it will take weeks and perhaps months."

Arnold Baxter asked for Dick and the eldest Rover went in to see him.

"I -- I want to thank you for what you did, Rover," said the criminal in a low voice. "It -- it was noble, very noble. I shan't forget it."

"Mr. Baxter, why don't you try to turn over a new leaf?" questioned Dick. "Haven't you found out that it doesn't pay to be bad?"

"Yes, I have found it out, and the lesson has been dearly bought," said Arnold Baxter with a sigh. "In the future I shall try to -- to do better. Here, I want you to give these to your father, and tell him I -- I am sorry that I visited your house some time ago," went on the disabled man.

He gave Dick an envelope containing some pawn tickets which called for the things stolen from the Rover homestead, and also a pocketbook with some money in it.

"That is all I have left of the cash," he said. "I'm sorry I haven't every cent of it. Tell him he can do as he pleases about me. I deserve no pity."

"I think he'd like to see you turn over a new leaf, too. He hates to see people on the downward path, Mr. Baxter."

"You are a good boy, Dick Rover. I am sorry that my son Dan isn't like you. Has he been caught yet?"

"I believe not."

"If he is caught, let me know," concluded Arnold Baxter, and there the talk ended.

"I imagine he really intends to turn over a new leaf," said Dick to Tom and Sam, a little later.

"Hope he does," replied Tom.

"So do I," added Sam.



Let me add a few words more and then bring this story of life in camp to a conclusion.

On the day following Dick's return to camp Captain Putnam summoned Lew Flapp, Pender, Rockley, and Jackson before him.

"I presume you know why I have sent for you," said the captain briefly. "Since the disappearance of Captain Rover I have been making an investigation. Rover himself would not talk, but others have spoken, and Rover has not denied the truth. All of you have been guilty of such serious misconduct that to overlook it would be almost criminal on my part."

"What have I done?" asked Lew Flapp brazenly.

"You have earned your dismissal from Putnam Hall, Flapp, and you leave this camp as soon as arrangements can be made."

"Going to fire me out, eh?"

"You are dismissed. I will not allow such a boy as you to mingle longer with the rest of my pupils."

"What are you going to do with the others? I wasn't to blame alone."

"Pender, Rockley, and Jackson shall go, too. The others, including Hurdy, shall have another chance, for I believe they were dragged into the affair unwillingly by you and your particular cronies."

"If we have got to go, don't let's listen to any more gas," growled Rockley, and stalked away with a very white face, followed by Flapp. Pender and Jackson pleaded for another chance, but Captain Putnam would not listen, and in the end the evil-minded cadets had to leave the school, never to return.

"Putnam Hall is well rid of that crowd," said Songbird Powell, and the majority of the students agreed with him.

Munro Staton, the local constable, was much chagrined to think that he had not had a hand in finding Arnold Baxter, and he at once set out to locate Dan. But Dan Baxter knew enough to leave the vicinity, and that was the last heard of him for some time.

Through the pawn tickets given to Dick, Mr. Anderson Rover recovered the spoons, napkin rings and other things taken from the homestead by Arnold Baxter. Mr. Rover visited Baxter before the latter was returned to the hospital from which he had escaped.

"I believe the man really intends to reform," said Anderson Rover afterwards. "But he is in a bad condition physically and may die before his term of imprisonment is at an end."

"I hope he lives," said Sam. "I'd like to see him lead an upright, honest life."

"I don't think we'll be bothered much with Dan Baxter after this," said Tom, but he was mistaken, Dan Baxter bothered them a great deal, and so did Lew Flapp, and how will be told in the next volume of this series, to be entitled, "The Rover Boys on the River; Or, The Search for the Missing Houseboat," in which we shall meet our old friends in a series of adventures as interesting as those already related.

As was the custom at Putnam Hall the encampment came to an end on the Fourth of July. This was a gala day for the cadets and they were allowed to invite both friends and relatives to the affair.

The Rover boys had the Statons over and also had their father and their Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha participate.

"Never saw such a time in my life!" declared Aunt Martha. "Music and marching, and such fireworks! And such a spread out under the trees! No wonder our boys like to go to Putnam Hall."

"It's a good place for them," came from the father of the boys. "It is making good men of them."

After the fireworks big bonfires were lit, and the cadets were allowed to do pretty much as they pleased. As they gathered around the largest of the fires all joined hands in a big circle, and it was Tom who started the Putnam Hall cheer:

"Zip, boom, bang! Ding, dong! Ding, dong! Boom, bang, bang! Hurrah for Putnam Hall!"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" came from all sides; and here let us say good-by.

<eob>

The Story Of Joan Of Arc

By

Andrew Lang


Chapter I. The Childhood Of Joan Of Arc

JOAN OF ARC was perhaps the most wonderful person who ever lived in the world. The story of her life is so strange that we could scarcely believe it to be true, if ali that happened to her had not been told by people in a court of law, and written down by her deadly enemies, while she was still alive. She was burned to deach when she was only nineteen: she was not seventeen when she first led the armies of France to victory, and delivered her country from the English.

Joan was the daughter of a poor man, in a little country village. She had never learned to read, or write, or mount a horse. Yet she was so wise that many learned men could not puzzle her by questions: she was one of the best riders in France; one of the most skilled in aiming cannons, and so great a general that she defeated the English again and again, and her army was never beaten till her King deserted her. She was so brave that severe wounds could not stop her from leading on her soldiers, and so tender-hearted that she would comfort the wounded English on the field of battle, and protect them from cruelty. She was so good that her enemies could not find one true story to tell against her in the least thing; and she was so modest that in the height of her glory she was wishing to be at home in her fatheras cottage, sewing or spinning beside her mother.

Joan, who was born at Domremy, in the east of France, on January 6, 1412, lived in a very unhappy time. For nearly a hundred years the kings of England had been trying to make themselves kings of France, just as they had been trying to make themselves kings of Scotland. Perhaps they might have succeeded, if they had confined themselves to one conquest at a time. But they left Scotland alone while they were attacking France, and then Scotland sent armies to help the French, as at other times the French sent armies to help Scotland.

Eight years before Joan was born a sad thing happened to her country. Henry V. of England had married the Princess Katherine of France, and the French, or some of them, tired of being beaten in war, consented to let the child of Henry and the Princess Katherine be their King, instead of the son of their old King. The old Kingas son was called athe Dauphina; that was the title of the eldest son of the French kings. This Dauphin was named Charles. His friends went on fighting the English for his sake, but he was not crowned King. The coronations of French Kings were always done in the Cathedral at Rheims, where they were anointed with sacred oil. The oil was kept in a very old flask, which was said to have been brought from heaven, to a Saint, by an Angel. No eldest sen of the King was thought really King of France, after his fatheras death, till he had been anointed with this heavenly oil at Rheims by the Archbishop. It is important to remember this; you will see the reason afterwards. Now, Rheims was in the power of the English, so the Dauphin, Charles, could not go there and be made King in earnest. The English said that he was not the son of his father, the late King, which made him very unhappy. We shall hear how Joan comforted him and made him King for good and all. What Scots and Frenchmen could not do, she did.

In the meantime the French were divided into two parties. Some sided with the Dauphin, Prince Charles; more, and especially all the people of Burgundy, and the Duke of Burgundy, a great and rich country, were on the side of the English. So they fought very cruelly, for the land was full of companies of ill-paid soldiers, who plundered the poor, so that towns fell into decay, many fields were empty of sheep and cows, and the roads became covered with grass. In the villages a boy used to watch all day, from the spire of the church, to see whether any soldiers were riding up. If they came, the cattle were driven into the woods, and men, women, and children ran to hide themselves, carrying such things away as they could. The soldiers of all sorts robbed equally, for they had often no regular pay, and the Scots were not behindhand in helping themselves wherever they went. Even gentlemen and knights became chiefs of troops of robbers, so that, whoever won in the wars, the country people were always being plundered.

In the middle of these miseries Joan was born, in a village where almost everybody was on the side of the Dauphin: the right side. In the village nearest to hers, Maxey, the people took the English side, and the boys of the two places had pitched battles with sticks and stones. It is true that they would have found some other reason for fighting, even if the English had not been in France. Joan used to see her brothers, Peter and John, come home from these battles with their noses bleeding, and with black eyes, but she did not take part herself in these wars.

Her village was near a strong-walled town called Vaucouleurs, which was on the side of the Dauphin. When Joan was a little girl she did not see very much of the cruelty of the soldiers; the village was only visited once or twice by enemies. But she heard of what was going on in the rest of France: athere was great pity in France,a she said. She did, once or twice, see some of the apity.a There was a man called Henry daOrly, living in a castle named Doulevant, who, like many other gentlemen in these days, was a captain of robbers.

One day several spearmen of his rode into Domremy, Joanas village, and seized Joanas fatheras cows, with all the other cows that they could find, just as the Scotts, Elliots, and Armstrongs used to ride across the Border and drive the cattle of the English farmers. But a lady lived in a strong castle rear Domremy, and when she heard how the village people had been plundered she sent the news to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who gathered his spearmen and rode after the robbers. The thieves, of course, could not ride faster than the stolen cows could trot; they pricked the poor beasts with their spears, and made them lumber along, but a cow is slow at best. The pursuers galloped and came on the cattle in a little town, while the thieves were drinking in the wine shops. When they heard the horses of the pursuers gallop down the street, they mounted their horses and spurred for their lives; but now came their master, Henry daOrly, with more spearmen, who followed after the cattle and the gentlemen who were driving them home. They turned and charged Henry daOrly, and cleared the road, and the cows came home to Domremy, all safe.

Another time all the people in Domremy had to fly from home, and go to a town called NeufchAC/teau, where they were safe behind strong walls. They only stayed there for a few days, but, later, the English said that Joan had been a servant in an inn at this town, and had learned to ride there, which was quite untrue.

There were beautiful woods near the village, and in one oak wood an oak called the Fairy Tree. There was a story that a beautiful fairy used to meet her lover at that tree, just as under the Eildon Hill, the Queen of Fairyland met Thomas the Rhymer. The children used to take cakes, and make feasts, and hang garlands of flowers on the boughs of that oak; but Joan did not care much about fairies, and preferred to lay her wild flowers beneath the statues of Saints in the village Church, especially St. Catharine and St. Margaret. Of course, all this was long before the Reformation in which the Protestants broke the images of Saints in the churches, and smashed their pictures on the glass windows with stones, and destroyed a beautiful statue of Joan on the bridge at Orleans.

These things were done more than a hundred years after Joan was dead.

Though Joan could run faster than the other girls and boys, and beat them when they ran races, she liked to be quiet. Nobody could sew and spin better than she did, and she was very fond of praying alone in church. She would even go away from the other children into lonely places, and implore God to have pity on France. The services in church, the singing and music, made her very happy, and when she heard the church bells across the fields, she would say her prayer. She was very kind, and would give up her bed to any poor traveller whom her father took in for a night, and would sleep beside the hearth She took care of the sick, and, if ever she had any money, she would spend it on Masses to be said in honour of God, and for the sake of menas souls.

So Joan lived till she was thirteen. She was a strong, handsome girl, beautifully made, with black hair. We do not know the colour of her eyes, probably brown or dark grey. A young knight wrote to his mother, when he first saw Joan, that she was aa creature all divine.a Jean never sat to a painter for her portrait, though once she saw a kind of fancy picture of herself in the hands of a Scottish archer.

Young men do not say so much about a girl who is not beautiful, and indeed, armies do not rush together to follow a maiden with no good looks. But though Jean, when she came to command armies, liked to be well dressed, and to have fine armour, that was partly because she was a natural, healthy girl, and partly because she was a kind of banner for men to follow into fight, and banners ought to be splendid.

She took, no thought of her own beauty, and the young knights and squires who fought, later, under her flag, said that they looked on her as a sacred thing, and never dreamed of making love to her She let it be known that she would never marry any one, while the English were still in France. She was not a nun, and had not made a vow never to marry at all, but while her country was in danger she never thought of marriage; she had other things to do.



Chapter II. How The Voices Came To The Maid

WHEN Joan was about thirteen a very wonderful thing happened to her. One day she and the other girls and boys were running a race for a crown of flowers. Joan was easily the winner, and as she was running, a child who was looking on cried, aJoan. I see you flying along without touching the ground.a After the race Joan had a curious feeling as if she did not know where she was and then heard a young manas voice near her bidding her go home, for her mother needed her. She did not know who spoke; she thought it might be her brother, or one of her neighbours, so she ran home. She found that her mother had not sent for her, and she was going back to her friends, when a bright light like a shining cloud appeared to her, and a Voice told her to go and save France from the English. Till that hour she had been sorry for the sorrows in France, but as she was only a little girl, she had never thought that she could lead an army against the English.

This is the first account that people heard of the coming of the mysterious Voices to Jeanne: it was written down about four years after the Voices first came, and six weeks after Jeanas first great defeat of the English (in May 1429). Two years later, after Joan was a prisoner of the English, the French priests and lawyers who took the English side asked her thousands of questions about everything that she had done in her life, and the answers were written down in a hook, word for word. They asked her about these wonderful Voices. There were things that she refused to tell these priests and lawyers, but she did say this: -- 

aWhen I was about thirteen there came to me a Voice from God, teaching me how I was to behave and what I was to do. And the first time that Voice came, I was afraid. I was standing about the middle of the day, in summer, in my fatheras garden. The Voice came from the right hand, from where the church stands, and when it came I usually saw a great light on the side from which it spoke. The Voice told me to be a good girl and go to church, and go to save France. I said that I was only a poor girl, who could not ride or lead the soldiers in the wars,a but the Voice kept on for years, telling her that she must go.

She not only heard Voices, but she saw shining figures of the Saints in heaven. She never would tell the lawyers much about how the Saints appeared to her, but said, aI saw them as clearly as I see you, and I used to cry when they went away. And I wished that they would take me with them where they went.a

These Saints were St. Margaret, St. Catherine, and the Archangel St. Michael. When Joan spoke to her own friends about what she saw and heard they say that ashe seemed marvelously happy, lifting her eyes to heaven.a This is all that we know about these wonderful things which kept Joan company from the time when she was thirteen to the day of her death, when she was nineteen, advising her about what she was to do for the saving of France. If the Voices had not spoken to her often, she would never have gone to the wars, and for some years she told nobody about the Voices, and stayed at home in her village. Even when she went to the wars, her friends could not persuade her to say more than I have told you about these strange things. She said that she had a acouncila which advised her in everything. If there was much noise in a room where she might be, she could not hear the Voices distinctly. Only one person said that he saw angelsa faces in her company; none of her friends who knew her best saw or heard anything extraordinary. She very much disliked to speak about the Saints and Voices.



Chapter III. How The Maid Obeyed The Voices

TIME went on, and the Dauphin, the rightful Prince of France, was more and more unfortunate. It is true that Henry V., the King of England, died. He was a great soldier, and his son was only a baby, but the war was carried on by the brother of the late King, the Duke of Bedford; by the Earl of Salisbury; by the famous Talbot; by Sir John Fastolf, and many other English generals. The Scots won a great victory over the English at BaugA(c) bridge, where the Duke of Clarence, the brother of Henry V., was killed. But the French and Scots were beaten at Verneuil, where most of the Scots fell fighting bravely. However, a new army came from Scotland, under Stewart of Dam-ley, and still the war went on.

By that time the Dauphin only held France south of the great river Loire. The strongest place which was true to the Dauphin was the town of Orleans. If the English could once take that city, and fill it with previsions, and guns, and other weapons, the French could not hope to win it back again, and the English would overrun the whole of the centre and south of France, and drive the Dauphin out of his own country. He was very poor and very unhappy. He could scarcely pay his bootmaker, and as he was not a good fighting man, he lived here and there idly, at towns south of Orleans, such as Blois and Poitiers. He used to wonder whether he had not better give up the war and go to Spain or Scotland. Another thing made him miserable. He did not know for certain whether he had really the right to be King or not, as many people said that he was not truly the son of the last King of France.

In his distress he prayed, privately and in silence, that he might know whether or not he was the rightful prince, and ought to be crowned and anointed as King. But he told nobody about this, and lived as he best could, wandering from one town to another. Then he heard that his great city of Orleans was being besieged by the English, in the autumn of the year 1428. Orleans lies on the right bank of the river Loire, which here is deep, broad, and swift, with several islands in the middle of the current. The bridge was fortified, on the farther side, by two strong towers, called Les Tourelles, but the English took this fortification, and so the people of Orleans could not cross the river by the bridge, and they broke down an arch, that the English might not cross to them.

One day the English general came to this fort, at the time when the soldiers of both sides dined, to look our of a narrow window, and watch what was going on in the besieged town. Now it happened that a cannon lay, ready loaded, in a niche of the gate tower of Orleans that looked straight along the bridge to the Tourelles. The English general, the Earl of Salisbury, was peeping through the narrow window, thinking himself quite safe, as the French soldiers in Orleans had gone to dinner. But a small French boy went into the gate-tower of Orleans, and seeing a cannon ready loaded, he thought it would be amusing to set a light to the touch-hole. So he got a linstock, as it was called, lighted it, put it to the touch-hole, and fired off the cannon. The bullet went straight into the narrow window out of which the English general was peeping, and he fell back, mortally wounded.

This was a piece of good fortune for the French, but there were plenty of other English generals to take the place of Salisbury. The English built strong fortresses here and there, outside the walls and gates of the town, to prevent help and food and wine and powder from being brought to the besieged French. But the people of Orleans were brave, and were commanded by good officers, such as Dunois, young Xaintrailles. La Hire, a rough, swearing knight, and others who became true friends of Joan of Arc, and food was brought in easily enough.

The English had won so many battles that they despised the French, and so they did not take pains, and besides, they had not men enough to surround Orleans and prevent cattle being driven in from the country. The English seem to have had no more than four thousand soldiers. They were neither strong enough to take the town by storm, nor many enough to surround it and starve the French into showing the white flag, and giving up the place.

In fact, the English had been beating the French just because they believed they could beat them, and thought that one Englishman was as good as three Frenchmen at least. This was nonsense but, under Henry V., at Agincourt, a few English had beaten a great French army, because the French fought foolishly, trying to gallop to the charge over wet, heavy ploughed land, while the English arches shot them down in hundreds. But the French, you will see had learned the English way of fighting on foot, and could have held their own, if they had not lost confidence.



Chapter IV. How Joan Heard News Strangely

JOAN, far away in Domremy, would hear of the danger in which Orleans lay, now and then, and her Voices kept insisting that she must go and drive away the English. She used to cry, and say that she would be quite useless, as she could not ride or fight, and people would think her mad, or bad, and laugh at her.

The Voices told her to go to the nearest strong-walled French town, Vaucouleurs, and ask the commander there, Robert de Baudricourt, to send her to the Dauphin, who was then far away, at Chinon, a castle on the Loire, south of Orleans. When she saw the King, she was to tell him that she had come to save France.

This seemed quite a mad proposal. Baudricourt was a greet, rough, sensible soldier, and how could Joan go to him with a message of this kind? He would merely laugh at the sunburned girl in her short red kirtle -- a girl who, probably, had never spoken to a gentleman before.

Perhaps this was the hardest part of Joanas duty, for she was modest, and she was very quick to notice anything absurd and ridiculous. Now nothing could seem more laughable than the notion that a little country wench of sixteen could teach the French to defeat the English. But there was no help for it. The Voices, and the shining cloud, and the faces of Saints and angels came, several times every week, and a Voice said, aDaughter of God, go on! I will be with you.a

Joan had an uncle who lived near Vaucouleurs, and she went to stay with him. It seems that she told him she must go to the Dauphin, and the first thing needful was to get Robert de Baudricourt to lend her a few men-at-arms, who would protect her on her long journey to Chinon. The uncle must have been very much astonished, but it seems that he believed in her, for he took her to Robert. Of course Robert laughed, and told Joanas uncle to take her away, and box her ears. But she came again, and then a priest wanted to exorcise her, that is to frighten the devil out of her, with religious services and holy water, as if she had been apossessed,a like people in the New Testament. But Joan was not possessed, and the priest, after trying the holy water, could only say so.

By this time the month of February 1429 had come round. The besieged French in Orleans had now a great misfortune. The season of Lent was coming; that is, a time when they were not allowed to eat beef and mutton, but only fish, and eggs, and vegetables. Now a great number of waggons loaded with herrings were being sent to feed the English who were besieging Orleans. The general of the French in Orleans knew that, and he determined to send out soldiers to attack the English who would be guarding the long line of waggons full of herrings. They would wait for the English on the road, cut them up, and carry the fish into the town for their own use.

So a great many of the Scots and some French slipped out of Orleans by night, and went to a place called Rouvray, on the road by which the herrings were to pass. Here they were to be joined by another small French army, under a general named Clermont. So they reached Rouvray, where they did not find Clermont and his men, but did see the English soldiers far away, marching by the side of the long line of waggons.

Instead of waiting hidden under cover till the English passed, by, and then rushing among them unexpectedly, Stewart of Damley cried, aCharge!a and rode, with his lance in rest at the English front. The Scots were always in too great a hurry to fight. The English saw them, coming, arranged the heavy waggons in a square, and went inside the square, so that the Scots could not get at them. Safe behind their carts, the English archers shot down the Scots, who thought bows and arrows rather mean weapons, and wanted to cut down their enemies with the sword. But they could not reach the English; they fell in piles of slain men round the square, and Clermont, the French general who was to have joined them, would not fight, and took away his army. So very many brave Scots were killed, with Stewart of Darnley at their head, and the rest retreated sadly to Orleans, where they heard the English hurrahing in their camp.

This was called the battle of Rouvray, or the battle of the Herrings. It was fought on February 12, 1429. Now, on February 12, Joan went to Baudricourt, and told him that a terrible misfortune had happened that day to the army of the Dauphin, near Orleans. The news could not possibly reach Vaucouleurs for several days, for the distance between Vaucouleurs and Orleans is great, and the roads were dangerous, and might be beset by English soldiers and by robbers, who would stop messengers. Joan had been told of the defeat by her Voices.

At last, however, the bad news did come. Joan had been right, the French and Scots had been defeated on the day when she told Baudricourt of it, February 12.

So Baudricourt saw there was something uncommon in this country girl, who knew what was happening far away, and he lent her two young: gentlemen and a few men-at-arms to guide her and guard her on her way to the Dauphin. Somebody gave her a horse, which, to the surprise of all men, she rode very well. She had her long black hair cut short and close, as soldiers wore it; she dressed in a grey doublet and black hose, like a boy (she wore this kind of dress till the end of her life); and then she rode through the gate of Vaucouleurs which is still standing, and away to seek the Dauphin. This was on February 23, 1429.

After riding for several days, Joan and her company reached a little town called Fierbois, near Chinon. Here was the chapel dedicated to St. Catherine of Fierbois, who was a favourite Saint of the French and Scots soldiers, and of Joan. In the chapel was a book in which the miracles of the Saint were written down. At this very time a Scottish archer, Michael Hamilton, from Shotts, was caught by some country people, and was hanged by them. During the night a voice came to the priest of the village, saying, aGo and cut down that Scot who was hanged, for he is not dead.a However, the priest was sleepy, and he did not go. Next day was Easter Day, and the priest went to church and did the services. After that, he thought he might as well see about the Scot who was hanging from a tree, and seemed quite dead. To make certain, the priest took his penknife, and cut the dead manas toe. On this the man gave a kick, so the priest cut the rope, and took good care of Michael Hamilton. When he was able to ride, Michael went to this chapel of Fierbois, and took his oath that he had prayed to St. Catherine before he was hanged up, and now he came to thank her for his escape at her chapel. The book of the chapel is full of these strange stories, and probably some of them were read aloud to Joan, who could not read, and said that she adid not know A from B.a She attended three Masses at Fierbois, and get some learned clerk to write a letter to the King, to say that she was coming. She also had a letter written to her father and mother, asking them to pardon her for going away without their permission. Her father she was to see once more, her mother she never saw again.

As to Michael Hamilton, you may believe his story or not, as you like. Many of the other stories told in the chapel book by Scots soldiers, and French men and women, are just as curious. I only know that the people made long journeys to thank Madame Saint Catherine in her church at Fierbois, and that their stories were written down in the book there.



Chapter V. How The Maid Saw The Dauphin

WHEN Joan reached Chinon, she was lodged with a lady who was very kind, and she waited to see the Dauphin. His advisers were not sure that he ought to see the Maid at all; but probably he was curious, and at last she was brought to the castle, and led up the stairs to a great hall, where were many men in splendid dresses. The castle is in ruins now, and the hall has no roof over it, but you can still go in and see the walls, and empty windows, and the great fireplace. A man plainly dressed was in the crowd of magnificent courtiers in silk and gold embroidery. Joan went straight up, and kneeling on one knee, said, aFair Sir, you are the Dauphin to whom I am come.a But the man pointed to a knight, very richly dressed, and said, aThat is the King.a

aNo, fair Sir,a said Joan; ait is to you that I am sent.a

The Dauphin, for the man was the Dauphin, was surprised at this, for she had never seen him before. He allowed Jean to come to the castle and talk to him, but he was not sure that she was not an impostor, or a silly girl.

One day, however, she took him aside, into a corner where nobody could hear what they were talking about. When their conversation was ended, the Dauphin looked very grave, and Jeanne looked very glad. She had told him something that made him believe in her.

What had Joan told to the King? It was known at the time that she had told him something that amazed him, for it is mentioned in a letter written a few weeks later by Alan Chartier, a famous poet. But nobody knew the secret: Joan would never let any one know. When she was a prisoner among the English, the French-priests and lawyers tried to make her speak, but she would not. It was her Kingas secret.

Eight yearas after Joan was dead, a very strange thing happened. A woman who said that Joan had not died, and that she was Joan, came to Orleans with Joanas brothers. The people of Orleans, who had known the Maid very well, believed that this woman was Joan come again, and feasted her and gave her presents. Then she was taken to the King. He himself was puzzled, and said, aMaid, my dear, I am glad to see you again. Do you remember the secret between you and me?a

Then this false pretender to be the Maid confessed that she knew nothing.

When the King was old, he revealed the secret to a friend.

On that day when they went apart together at Chinon. Joan reminded him of the secret prayer which, as I told you, the Dauphin had made when alone, asking that he might know whether he really was the son of the late King, and himself the rightful King of France.

aYou are the rightful King,a Joan said.

When the Dauphin heard her words, he made things go on quicker. Priests were sent to Joanas village to find out if she had been a good girl when she was at home.

Then she was taken to Poitiers, to be examined by many learned men, priests and lawyers. They tried to perplex her by their questions, but she was straightforward, and told them how the Voices had come to her. One man asked her to give a sign by working a miracle.

aI have not come to Poitiers to give signs.a said Joan; abut let me go to Orleans, and you shall see what I will do.a

She never professed to work miracles. She wanted to lead an army to Orleans, and the sign to be given was the defeat of the English, and the rescue of the besieged town.

For six weary weeks the learned men and priests examined Joan, and tried in every way to find some fault in her answers. At last they drew up a report and signed it, saying that ato doubt the Maid would be to resist the Holy Spirit.a What they were afraid of all the time was that Joan might be advised by spirits, to be sure, but evil spirits or devils. The English and the French lawyers on the English side, declared that Joan was possessed by devils. They thought that, because they could not deny her powers; but, as she was not on their side, her powers could not come from God, but from Satan. To think in that way is common: people always believe that their own side is the right side. But nobody ever heard of evil spirits taking possession of any one who was really good; and no man could ever find any single bad thing in Joan the Maid.

So now the Dauphin began to collect an army to march with Joan to Orleans. Of course he ought to have done that before, even if there had been no Joan. It was a shameful thing that a strong town, full of brave men, should be taken by four thousand Englishmen, without an effort by the French to drive the English away. But the French had lost all heart and courage: the brave Danois himself said that a large force of French would run away from a little company of English. All that the French of the Dauphinas party needed was courage and confidence. As soon as they believed in Joan they were full of confidence. They could not turn their backs as long as a girl of sixteen ran forward in front of them, through the rain of arrows, and bullets, and cannon balls, waving her banner, and crying aCome on!a

At this time Joan prophesied that she would be wounded by an arrow at Orleans, but not to death. So a Flemish ambassador at Chinon wrote to the magistrates of his town at hone, and his letter was copied into the town councilas book, before the Maid went to the war.

White armour was made for Joan to wear, and a Scottish painter made a banner with sacred pictures for her to carry: his daughter was a great friend of Joan.

The Maid said that, as for a sword, if they dug in the ground behind the altar at the chapel of St. Catherine, in Fierbois, they would find a buried sword, which she wished to carry; and it was found, old and rusty, with five crosses on the blade. The Duke of AlenASSon, a young cousin of the Kingas, who had been a prisoner of the English, saw Joan riding one day, and was so pleased with her grace and good horsemanship, that he gave her a very good horse, and became one of her best friends. aMy fair Dukea was what she used to call him. Every one said that Joanas manners were as gentle and courteous as those of the greatest ladies, though she had been brought up in a poor cottage. Everything that she did was done in the best way and the noblest.



Chapter VI. How The Maid Rode To Orleans

WHEN Joanas army was gathered, with plenty of good things, and powder and shot, in waggons, for the people of Orleans, she gave orders that no loose people should follow them. The soldiers must not drink and play dice and cards. They must pray, and must never swear. One of the generals, the brave La Hire, asked that he might be allowed one little oath, so she said he might swear aby his baton,a the short staff which he carried as a leader. Then Joan mounted, and rode at the head of the amy out of the gate of Blois. The French Commander at Orleans, Danois, had sent to say that they must march up the bank of the Loire opposite to that on which Orleans stands, for the English were very strong, with many fortifications, on the road on the Orleans side, and would stop them. Dunois seems to have thought that Joanas army should go above the town, and be ferried across with the supplies for the city-for the English held the bridge -- but that they could not cut their way through the main body cf the English army on the other side of the river. But to go straight through the English where they were strongest was what Joan had intended. Therefore she was angry when she arrived at the place where Dunois was waiting for her, and saw that the river lay between her and the town of Orleans. You may think that her Voices should have told her that she was marching on the wrong bank of the river: however, they did not. She asked Dunois why he had ordered them to come by the road they took. She said, aI bring you better help than has ever come to any town or captain, the help of the King of heaven.a

Dunois himself has left this account of what Joan said, and, as she was speaking, the wind changed. It had been blowing in such a way as to make it hard for the boats to carry Joan and the provisions across the river, but now it went about, and they crossed easily, some way above the town. As for the army, Joan ordered them back to Blois, to cross by the bridge there, and march to Orleans again, past the forts and through the midst of the English.

Once across the river, Joan mounted again, with her banner of Our Lord and the Lilies in her hand, and with Dunois at her side, and rode to the town. They passed an English fortress, the Church of St Loup, in safety, and the people came out to meet them. Night had fallen, and the people who crowded round the Maid were carrying torches. Ore of these set fire to the fringe of her banner and made her horse plunge; but she crushed out the flame with her left hand in its steel glove, and reined in her horse easily, while the people cheered, and the women wished to kiss her hand, which she did not like, thinking the honour too great. It was a beautiful sight to see the Maid ride into Orleans town. From that hour there was no more fear among the French.

Dunois said, atill that day, two hundred English could scatter eight hundred or a thousand cf our men, but now they skulked in their forts and dared not come out against us.a This is an extraordinary thing, for Talbot, who led the English, was the bravest of men, and was thought the greatest captain living. Jeanne sent to him a letter to bid him break up his camp and go away. The English laughed, and one day, when Joan went out to speak to them, they called her ill names, so that she wept for shame. But, somehow, the English had certainly lost heart, or they had some reason which we do not know, for merely defending their strong fortresses.

On the day after Joan entered Orleans she wanted Dunois to sally out of the town with his men and assail the English. He did not think it wise to do so and Joan went up to her own room. Suddenly she rushed down and asked her page why he had not told her that the French were fighting, she did not know where. It was at the fort and Church of St. Loup, which Joan had passed on her way into Orleans. On this side, namely, farther up the river, above the town, the English were weakest, as they did not expect to be attacked on that side. The French were victorious: when they saw Joan ride up they were filled with courage. Joan saw a Frenchman strike down an English prisoner: she dismounted; laid the poor prisoneras head in her lap, and did her best to comfort him.



Chapter VII. How The Maid Saved Orleans

THE Dauphin had given Joan a gentle-man of good character to be with her always, and take care of her. This gentleman was named Jean daAulon, and, as he has left an account of what Joan did at Orleans, we give what he said. On the day after Joan took the fortress of St. Loup from the English, she led her men to attack another English work on the farther side of the river. They could not cross by the bridge, of course, for the English held the strong building, Les Tourelles, at the bridge end, the place where the Earl of Salisbury was killed by the cannon shot; moreover an arch of the bridge had been broken, lest the English should cross. So they went in boats to an island in the middle of the river, and then made a bridge of boats across the other branch of the Loire. But they found that the English had left the place which they meant to attack, and were in a much stronger fortress. The French, therefore, were returning to their boats, when the English rushed out of the second fortress to attack them when off their guard. But Joan and her friend La Hire, who had crossed the river with their horses, saw the English coming on, and put their lances in rest (a kind of support for the level spear), and spurred their horses at their enemies. The rest of the French followed Joan, and drove the English back into their fortress. Meanwhile daAulon, and a Spanish gentleman on the French side, took each other by the hand, and ran as fast as they could till they struck their swords against the outer fence, or strong wooden palisade of the English. But in the narrow gateway stood a tall and very strong Englishman, who drove back the French. So daAulon asked a Frenchman, a good shot, to aim at the Englishman, whom he killed, and then daAulon and the Spaniard ran into the gateway, and held it, while Joan and the rest of the French rushed in, and all the English were killed or gave themselves up as prisoners.

By this time the French army which went down to Blois to cross the bridge, had returned to Orleans, and gone past the English fortresses without being attacked. So there were now many fighting men in Orleans. Next day, therefore, Joan insisted that they should attack the strongest of all the English forts, Les Tourelles, at the end of the bridge farthest from the town. The generals thought this plan too dangerous, as the fortress was so strong; but no doubt Joan was right, because the English on the town side of the river could not cross over to help their countrymen. If they crossed in boats, they would be shot, and cut down as they landed. If the French generals did not understand that. Joan did. She was full of confidence. A man asked her to wait for breakfast, and offered her a big trout caught in the Loire. She said, aKeen it for supper. I will bring back an English prisoner to help to eat it. And I will come back by the bridge,a Now the bridge, we saw, was broken.

DaAulon heard her say this, and no doubt he wondered what she meant. He understood her, at night.

So Joan caused the gate to be thrown open, and the townas people, who were very eager, rushed to the river bank, and crossed in boats. The regular soldiers followed, and all day long they attacked the walls, carrying ladders to climb then? with, while Joan stood under the wall, waving her banner, and crying aForward!a But from behind the battlement, the English kept shooting with arrows and muskets, so that many of the French were killed, and a strong Englishman threw down the ladders as they were pushed to the top of the walls. There were five or six hundred of the best of the English in this castle, under two leaders whom the French call aBumusa and aGlasidas.a The name of aGlasidasa was Glasdaie; we do not know who aBumusa was! So all day companies of the French and Scots, carrying ladders, and with banners flying, went down into the deep ditch below the wall, and were shot or driven out.

Now the great Dunois, the most famous of the French leaders, tells us what Joan did. It was about one oaclock in the afternoon, when the thing that she had prophesied happened to her. A bolt from an English cross-bow passed through her armour between the collar-bone and the shoulder-blade, and stood out six inches behind her shoulder. She was carried out of range, and the arrow was drawn out. Another witness says that a soldier wished to sing a magical song over the wound, to heal it, but she would not allow this to be done, and went back into the battle, hurt as she was. She cried a little.

They fought on: they had begun in the early morning, and it was eight oaclock, and past sunset, when Dunois said that they could not take the fort that day, and wished to call off the soldiers from the ditch. But Joan came to him, and asked him to wait a little while. She mounted her horse, and rode to a vineyard, and there she prayed, afor half a quarter of an hour.a Then she rode back, and went through the hail of shot and arrows to the edge of the ditch, while daAulon covered her, he says, with his shield. She saw that a soldier had taken her standard into the ditch. She seized the standard, and it waved so that all her men saw it, and rushed up; awe shall take the fort,a said Joan, awhen my standard touches the wall.a The wind blew the banner fringe against the wall, and the French made one more rush, they climbed the ladders, they tumbled into the fort, and the English were slain or taken, and Glasdale, their leader, who tried to cross to another tower by a plank, fell into the river and was drowned.

Then Joan crossed back to Orleans by the bridge, as daAulon heard her say that she would, when she set out in the morning. For the townas people laid a beam across the broken arch, and on this she walked over, after winning so great a victory by her own courage. For Dunois says that the English were terrified when they saw her under the wall again, in the growing darkness, and that they had no more heart to fight.

Joan was very tired: she had her wound dressed by a surgeon, and, for supper, she had four or five little pieces of toast, dipped in weak wine and water: that was all she ate, Dunois says, all that long day.

Early next morning the English left their forts, and drew up in line of battle. Joan had put on a very light shirt of mail, made of steel rings, because her wound did not permit her to wear the usual armour made of heavy steel plates. She said that the English must be allowed to go away, and must not be attacked.

Thus the town of Orleans was delivered on 8th May, and ever since, to this day, they keep a festival on 8th May in every year, ard rejoice in honour of the Maid. All the expense and labour of the English in the seven monthsa siege had been turned to waste by Joan in four days, France was free, south of the Loire, and Joan had kept her word, she had shown a sign at Orleans.

It sounds like a fairy-tale, but it certainly happened. Joan made the French able to do what they did merely by giving them courage. Her army would not have come together if she had not given them something to believe in-herself. She thought that she led about 10,000 men; but it is not easy to be sure of the numbers. The English, if they were only 4000, could not resist the new army and the old garrison of Orleans, if the French had faith in themselves; and Joan gave them faith. At the same time the English seem to have arranged their army in a very foolish way. About 1000 were or the farther side of a river which the 3000 on the right bank could not, or did not try to cross, to help their friends. The larger part of the English army might have attacked one of the gates of Orleans, and frightened Joanas army, who would have come back across the river to defend the town. The English in the fortress at the farther end of the bridge would then have been safe. But the English on the right bank did nothing at all, for some reason which we do not understand.



Chapter VIII. How The Maid Took The Town Of Jargeau

AFTER Orleans was quite safe, and when Talbot had led the English army to the town of Meun, Joan wanted to take the Dauphin to Rheims, to be crowned and anointed with the holy oil, and made King in earnest. But the way was long, and the road passed through towns which were held by friends of the English. So the Dauphin loitered about in pleasant castles near the Loire, in the bright May weather, and held councils, and wondered what he ought to do. Then Joan rode with the brave Dunois to Loches where the Dauphin was. Some lords and priests were in the room with him, but Joan went straight in, and knelt before him, saying, aFair Dauphin, do not hold so many weary councils, but come to Rheims, and take your crown.a

So they said that they would think about it, but was it safe to leave English armies behind them, at Meun, where Talbot was, and at Jargeau, where the Earl of Suffolk was the English captain? Joan said that she and the young Duke of AlenASSon would make their minds easy on that point, and would begin by taking Jargeau, where the French, without Joan, had fought already and been beaten. The Duke was newly married to a young wife, who was anxious about him, but Joan said, aMadam, I will bring back the Duke to you, safe and well!a So they rode away, six hundred lances, with some infantry, and slept in a wood. The Duke of AlenASSon has left an account of all that they did. Next day Dunois and other captains joined them with another six hundred lances, so that, with the infantry, they would be about five thousand men. Some of the captains thought they were not strong enough, as Jargeau had thick walls and rowers, and cannon. But Joan insisted on fighting and first she led her men to drive the English from the houses lying under the walls on the outside, which is dangerous fighting, as all the garden walls would protect English cross-bowmen, and men with muskets, who could shoot in safety, many of them from windows of houses, at the French in the open. The French, however, drove the English from the houses and gardens, and brought up their cannon, and fired at the town.

In these days cannon were small, and shot small balls, which did not carry far, and could do no damage to thick stone walls. There were no shells, which explode, but there were a few very large iron guns, like Mons Meg in Edinburgh Castle. Out of these they shot huge, heavy stone balls, and if one of them fell into a street, and broke, the splinters flew about dangerously. But, somehow, they seldom did much harm, besides Joanas army had none of these great guns, which are not easily dragged about.

So for days the French fired at the town, and it is to be supposed that they broke a hole, or breach, in a part of the wall, for they decided to rush in and take the place sword in hand.

aForward, fair Duke!a said Joan to the Duke of AlenASSon, who rather thought that they had not made a good enough breach in the wall. aYou know that I told the Duchess I would bring you back safe? But do not stand there,a she said, aor that English cannon on the wall will kill you.a

The Duke moved from the place where he was, and a gentleman named da Luce went to it, and was killed.

So Joan saved the Duke, as she had promised.

Then they ran together to the wall, and Jean was climbing up a ladder, when a heavy stone thrown by the English struck her helmet, and she fell.

She rose again at once, crying, aForward, we shall take them all,a and the English ran through the streets to the bridges, the French following and cutting them down, or taking them prisoners. It is said that the Earl of Suffolk surrendered to Joan, as athe bravest woman in the world.a If this is true, she might have made a great deal of money out of his ransom, that is, the price which a prisoner paid for his freedom. There is another story that Suffolk was taken by a squire, and that he dubbed him knight before he surrendered as it was more honourable to yield to a knight. This is more likely to be true, for the English thought that Joan was a witch. Now, as Suffolk was general of all the English forces on the Loire he would not choose to surrender to a lass of sixteen, whether he believed in witches or not Besides, he could not dub Joan a knight.



Chapter IX. How Joan Defeated The English In Fairfield

THE Maid had now driven the English away from Orleans, and had taken a strong town which they held, a thing the French, without her, had failed to do. She was next to beat their army In the open country and in fair field. We know most about this battle from a book written by a gentleman named Pierre de Cagny, who rode with the Duke of Alencon and knew what happened, and wrote all down very soon afterwards. He says that the Maid placed a garrison of soldiers to keep Jargeau, and then rode to Orleans with the Duke, where the townspeople gave a great feast to her and her friends. But she did not stay long to be petted and praised at Orleans. In the evening she said to the Duke, aI am going, after dinner tomorrow, to see the English at Meun. Have the men ready to march.a She easily made Meun surrender, and then her guns fired at the town of Beaugency.

Then news came to Joan that the whole English army, under Talbot and Sir John Fastolf (who cannot be Sir John Falstaff in Shakespeare, for the fat knight was dead), were marching against her. Now Sir John Fastolf, though a very brave captain, thought, like the fat knight, that adiscretion was the better part of valour.a He wished to be cautious, and to avoid a battle, for he saw that the French were in high spirits, while the English soldiers had lost heart. This is told in the book written by a knight named Jean de Wavrin, a Burgundian. He was, like all of them of Burgundy, on the English side, and he rode under the banner of Sir John Fastolf.

I tell you generally how we come to know the things done by the Maid, to show that the story is true, as the people who described it were present, and saw what happened.

The other English captains thought Sir John rather too cautious, and Talbot said. aBy St George. I will fight if I have only my own few men with me!a Next morning the English rode out with banners flying, and again Sir John said that they were too few, and that they were risking all that Henry V. had gained in France. But Talbot and the rest would not listen to him, so the trumpets blew, and the horsemen rode on towards Meun, which Joan had taken. When they came to a place about three miles from Meun, and three from Beaugency, they saw the banner of the Maid, with Our Lord and the Lilies of France, and the banners of the Duke of AlenASSon, and Dunois, and La Hire, and young Pothon de Xaintrailles, a very gallant boy, waving over the ranks of 6000 men.

The English then did what Henry V. had taught them to do. They dismounted from their horses to fight on foot, and made each bowman plant his sharp stake in front of him, to stop a cavalry charge. This plan usually succeeded. The French were fond of charging with their cavalry at full speed, and then were usually shot down in heaps by the English bowmen, whom they could not reach, as they were safe behind their fence of pikes. Then the dismounted English would rush out, sword in hard, among the disordered French cavalry.

You see this was much like part of the battle of Waterloo, when the French cavalry many times rode at the English squares, and could not break through the bayonets, while the English were shooting at them not very straight!

By this plan of fighting the English had often defeated the French, and usually defeated the Scots, who generally made a wild rush at them. At the battle of Dupplin, soon after Robert Bruce died, the English archers shot from each flank till the Scots, as they charged, fell dead in heaps as high as a tall spear. But Dunois, and the fair Duke, and the Maid knew this plan. They sent a herald to bid the English go home to bed; it was late; atomorrow we shall have a nearer view of each other.a

The English, therefore, went off to Meun, where nobody resisted them except the French soldiers who guarded the bridge over the Loire. The English meant to beat the French from the bridge with their cannons, cross the river, and march to help their friends in Beaugency, which had not yet yielded to Joan. The English would thus take Joanas army between two fires, that of Beaugency, and that of Talbotas army.

But that very night the English in Beaugency lost heart, and yielded to the Maid, being allowed to march away with their arms and horses. Jean now bade the French captains go with her army, and look for Talbotas and Fastolfs force, who would hear of the surrender of Beaugency, and retreat to Paris through the country called La Beauce.

aBut how are we to find the English?a the French leaders asked Joan: for they would be in a wild, empty country covered with forests.

aRide forth,a she said; awe shall take them all. As to finding them, you shall have a good guide!a

They had a strange guide, as you shall hear.

The English were marching along, in front was their advanced guard, under a knight who carried a white banner. Next came the guns, with the waggons full of provisions. Third was the main body of the army, under Talbot and Fastolf; and last rode the rear-guard. When they were near a place called Pathay, their scouts galloped in, with news that they had seen the French army. The English halted, and sent out more scouts, who rode back with the same news.

So Talbot sent his advanced guard, the guns, and the waggons behind some tall hedges. The main body of the English army was being placed at the end of a long lane between two thick hedges, and Talbot set five hundred of his best archers to lurk behind these hedges, between which the French would have to pass before they could attack the centre of his forces. If the French once entered this long lane, they would be shot down, and fall into such confusion among their own fallen men and wounded horses, that they would neither be able to go forward nor back, and would all be killed or taken prisoners.

The French of Joanas army could not see what Talbot was doing, and the trap he had set, nor where his army was, the country being covered with wood and bracken, and the English being concealed by the swelling of the ground. However, they rode forward fast, and would bare been between the fire of the two hidden lines of English bowmen in a minute, when, lo and behold! they had athe good guidea that Joan had promised them! As they rode they roused a stag from the bracken where he was lying: the stag rushed forward into the concealed lines of English archers, and they, being hunters like Robin Hoodas men, forgot to lie still, and raised a view halloo, and shot at the stag. Then the foremost riders of the French heard them, and knew where the English were lying in ambush. When Talbot saw that his ambush was found out, he hurried the main body of hie army up to the hedges. Sir John Fastolfas men were spurring their horses on to join their advanced guard, but the English knight of the white banner who led thought that Fastolfas cavalry were French, and that the French were attacking: his men both in front and rear, So he and his company ran away leaving: the lane unguarded. Thus, when the battle began, Talbot was defeated by Joanas cavalry, and taken prisoner, and 2200 of the English were killed or taken before Fastolf came up. He and his horsemen then rode away as fast as they could, to save their lives, and for this behaviour Sir John got into very deep disgrace, though, according to Wavrin, who was with him, he really could have done nothing else, as Talbot was beaten before he could arrive. As Wavrin had taken part in the flight, he had to make as good a defence of Sir John as he could. At all events, Joan and her party won a very great victory, the battle of Pathay.

Now look what Joan had done. She drove the English from Orleans on 8th May. Then the Dauphin took to holding long and weary councils, and she did not get another chance to fight the English till about 4th June, so nearly a month of her one year of time was wasted. On 11th June she took Jargeau, on 15th June she took Meun, on 17th June she took Beaugency, and on 18th June she destroyed Talbotas chief army at Pathay!

The Duke of Alencon tells us that he himself heard Joan tell the Dauphin, again and again, that ashe would only last for a year, or not much longer, and that he must make haste.a She had four things to do, she said: to drive the English in flight, to crown the King at Rheims, to deliver Orleans, and to set free the Duke of Orleans, who was a prisoner in England.

She did drive the English in flight, she did save Orleans, she did have the Dauphin crowned. But the French would not make haste. The Dauphin was always slow, and the stupid political advisers who never fought but only talked, made him more slow, and, when Joanas year was over, for her prophecy was true, she was taken prisoner by the English. Therefore they were not driven quite out of France till about twenty years or more after the end of the year of Joan the Maid. It was not her fault. She knew that her time was short, and she told them to make haste. When she was asked how she knew things that were to happen, she said that her Voices told her, amy Council,a she called them. But there was a French noble, La TremoA-lle, the Kingas favourite, and he was jealous of Jean and Dunois and the Constable of Brittany, an enemy of his, who had now come to ride under Joanas flag.

This Tremoille, and others, did not want to fight, and hoped to make friends with the Duke of Burgundy, whose array, though really French, fought on the side of the English. Now the one chance was to keep hitting the English hard and often, while they were shaken by their defeats, and before they had time to bring a new host from home. In England there was an army ready, which had been collected by Cardinal Beaufort, to fight the Hussites, a kind of warlike Protestants who were active in Germany. As soon as Joan had beaten the English at Orleans, they made up their minds to send this new army of theirs to protect Paris, where most of the people, and the University, were on the English side. They also made an arrangement with James I. of Scotland, so that they had nothing to fear from the Scots coming over the Border to attack them. The English were able to do all this because La TremoA-lle and his friends advised the Dauphin to loiter about, instead of making haste, as Joan desired, to keep on beating the English.



Chapter X. How Joan Led The Dauphin To Be Crowned

We may think that Joanas best plan would have been to attack the English in Paris at once, while they were still in a fright, after their great defeat at Pathay. But she thought that if the Dauphin was once crowned, and anointed with the holy oil, at Rheims, the French who were of the English party would join him more readily. Robert the Bruce, in the same way, had himself crowned at Scone, which, in Scotland, was the usual place for coronations, when he had only very few followers, and very little chance of beating the English. Rheims, as you can sec on the map, is a long way farther from Orleans than Paris, on the north-east.

But Joan had made up her mind to drag the Dauphin to Rheims to be crowned.

The Dauphin was lingering at Gien, which is some distance south of Orleans, instead of being at the head of his army, and in the front of the fighting, where he should have been. His lazy and cowardly favourites told him that it was a long way to Rheims, and on the road there were several towns with strong walls, and castles full of Englishmen and Burgundians, who would not let him pass.

Joan answered that she knew this very well, and cared nothing about it: all the towns and castles would yield and open their gates. So she left the Dauphin to do as he pleased, and went away with her company into the country. The Dauphin had no money to pay his troops, but men-at-arms came in, hundreds of them, saying that they would fight for the love of the Maid and of chivalry. No doubt they would have been very glad to crown her, in place of the stupid Dauphin, but the French law did not allow it; and Joan wanted nothing for herself, only to make France free, and go back to her mother, as she said. However, the Dauphin, who was grateful in his lazy way, made her and her brothers, Peter and John, nobles, and gave her a coat-of-arms, a sword supporting the Crown, with the Lilies of France on each side, and changed their name to du Lys. But Joan never used her coat-of-arms, but bore a Dove, silver, on a blue shield. Her brothers were with her, and seem to have fought very well, though in most ways they were quite ordinary young men.

When Joan went away, the Dauphin made up his mind at last to march to Rheims, going first to Troyes, a strong town on the road. All the castles and fortresses on the way, instead of resisting him, submitted to him, as Joan had said that they would. At Troyes, where he came on 8th July, the English garrison, and the people of the town who were on the English and Burgundian side, wanted to oppose him. They fought on the 8th and 9th of Jury. The Dauphinas advisers did not want to fight, the brave Dunois tells us, but Jean said, aGentle Dauphin, bid your army besiege the town, and do net hold these long councils, for in three days I will bring you into the town.a Then down she went to the great ditch or fosse round the town, and worked harder, says Dunois, than two or three of the most famous knights could have done. The people of Troyes then yielded to Joan, and they had a great feast in the city, which they needed, for the army had been living on soup made from the beans in the fields.

Then they went on to Rheims, and the Archbishop and all the people came out to meet them, with shouts of joy. On 17th July the Dauphin, with Joan and all his nobles, went to the Cathedral, and there he was crowned and anointed, and made King in earnest, Joan standing beside him with her banner in her hand. This was her happiest day, perhaps, and the last of her great days. She had done so much! In the beginning of May there was every chance that the English would take Orleans, and sweep across the Loire, and seize all France, and drive the Dauphin into Spain, or across the sea to Scotland, and France would have been under the English for who knows how long. But in two months Joan had driven the English behind the walls of Paris, and her Dauphin was King in deed.

Then the Maid knelt at the Kingas feet and wept for joy, in the great Cathedral, among the splendid nobles, and the lights, and the bright-coloured coats-of-arms, and the sweet smoke of incense.

aGentle King,a she said, calling him aKinga for the first time, anow is the will of God fulfilled!a and the knights themselves wept for joy.

Somewhere in the crowd was an elderly countryman in his best clothes. Joanas father, whom now she saw for the first time since she left her village, and for the last time in her life. The King asked her to choose a gift and reward, and she asked that the people of her village, Domremy, should be free from paying taxes, and they were made free, and never paid taxes again, for three hundred years. On the books of the accounts of money paid by every town and village of France is written, after the names of Domremy and the village nearest it, Greux, Nothing. For the Sake of the Maid.

The paper in which the King ordered that they should pay nothing may still be seen, dated the last of July 1429.

How glad the people at Domremy must have been when Joanas father came home with the good news!

This was the last glad day of the Maid.

As she rode to Rheims, some people from Domremy met her and asked her if she was afraid of nothing.

aOf nothing but treachery,a she said, and, from this day, she met treachery among the Kingas advisers, who held long councils, and did not fight.

As she rode from Rheims towards Paris, the people shouted round her, and she said that they were kind people, and she would like to be buried in their cathedral -- she, who was never to be buried in the earth.

aJoan,a said the Archbishop, ain what place do you expect to die?a

aWhere God pleases, for of that hour and that place I know nothing more than you do. But would to God that now I might take off my armour, and go home to my father and mother,a for, as she had seen her father, she was longing for her mother more than ever.

After this, the people about the King-, and the King himself, did not obey Joan, and all went wrong.



Chapter XI. How The Maid Was Betrayed At Paris

THE French should have followed the Maid straight to Paris, as she bade them do. But they went here and went there, and one day their army and that of the Duke of Bedford met, but did not fight; and another day there were skirmishes between the English and the Scots, awho fought very bravely,a says the Burgundian knight, Enguerrand de Manstrelet, who wrote a history of those times. The strong town of CompiA"gne, which had often been taken and retaken, yielded to Joanas army, and the King stayed there, doing nothing, which was what he liked, and the Duke of Burgundy gave him excuses for loitering by sending ambassadors, and pretending that he would give up Paris, for at this time there was no English garrison there. The poor people of the town were on the side of Joan and the King, and now, when the English were out of the great city, was the time to take it. But the King kept hoping to make peace with the Duke of Burgundy, so Joan, with her friend the Duke of AlenASSon, went to Saint Denis, quite close to Paris, where the Kings of France used to be buried: Saint Denis was the Saint of France, as Saint George was the Saint of England, and Saint Andrew of Scotland. There fought the Duke and the Maid, but the King came on very slowly, while Joan was in the front of battle every day, at one gate of Paris or another. At last, by often going to him, and urging him to come, AlenASSon brought the King to Saint Denis, but not before a strong new English army had arrived in the town, of which the walls and towers were very high and thick, and the fosses broad and deep, and full of water.

Then Joan led on her men and the Dukeas, with her banner in her hand, and cried them on to break down a gate called the Porte St. HonorA(c).

Percival de Cagny, who rode under the standard of AlenASSon, was in the battle, and he says, aThe fight was long: and fierce, and it was wonderful to hear the noise of guns and culverins from the walls, and to see the arrows fly like clouds. Few of those who went down into the dry ditch with the Maid were hurt, though many others were wounded with arrows and stone cannon balls, but, by Godas grace and the Maidas favour, there were none but could return without help. We fought from noon till darkness began. After the sun set, the Maid was wounded by a bolt from a cross-how in the thigh, but she only shouted louder to acome on and the place was ours.a But when it was dark and all were weary, men came from the King and brought her up out of the ditch against her will.a

Next day the Maid rose early, and went to the Duke of AlenASSon, who never failed her. The trumpets blew, and a new ally came, the Baron de Montmorency, with sixty gentlemen and their men-at-arms, and they were riding to attack Paris again when the King sent messengers to forbid them to do as their hearts desired. So they had to go to see him at Saint Denis. But the Duke of Alencon was having a bridge of wood thrown across the river Seine, at a new place, and they meant to cross by that bridge next day, and attack Paris again.

Shameful to say, the King had that bridge taken to pieces during the night, and when Joan and the Duke led their men there next day, they found only the river, which they could not ford. So the King of France saved Paris from daAlenASSon and the Maid.

Richard I. of England would have battered down the Paris gate with his own battle-axe; Henry V. or James IV. of Scotland, or Prince Charlie, would have been, foremost in the fight; but this King of France, Charies VII., unworthy of his country and his ancestors, sneaked off to his pretty little town of Gien, on the Loire.

aAnd thus was the will of the Maid broken, and the army of the King,a says Percival de Cagny.

The Duke of Alencon kept his men together, and told the King that, if he would let the Maid ride with him, they would march into Normandy, and attack the English where they were strongest. But the King would not hear of it, and the Maid, with almost a broken heart, hung up her armour at the altar of Saint Denis, in his Cathedral. Half of her year was spent, and the King made her stay with him in the towns on the Loire, when he might have been in Paris, his capital, if he had only trusted Joan.

In the meantime the English retook some of the French towns that Joan had given to the King, and seized her sacred armour in the Church of Saint Denis, and punished and plundered the people, who were worse off than before, while the Maid was only allowed now and then to attack the English, and defeat them in the old way.



Chapter XII. How The Maid Took Certain Towns

THE wise King had arranged with the Duke of Burgundy that they two should be at peace till Easter, 1430; while he might fight the English as much as he liked, which was, not at all.

Now the English let the Duke of Burgundy be Governor of Paris. It was always Paris that the Maid wished to take for her King, as it was the greatest city and the capital of France. But the King said she must not attack Paris, for it was now under the Duke of Burgundy, not under the English. All this was mere pretence, to avoid fighting. Jeanas aim was to turn the English and their child King, Henry VI., out of her country; and the English were not likely to go out till they were driven out.

The English still held towns on the river Loire, such as St. Pierre-le-Moustier and La CharitA(c). Joan went to Bourges and gathered an army, with a gentleman named daElbret to help her, and besieged the town of St. Pierre-le-Moustier. When they had battered the walls for some time with their guns, and made a breach, the French tried to rash through it; but the English were too strong and too many, and drove them out At this time Joanas Master cf the Household, daAulon, who had been with her at Orleans, was wounded in the heel by an arrow, and he could not walk without crutches. He saw that while the rest of the French had retired out of shot from the breach, Joan was there almost alone, with a very small company. DaAulon therefore got a horse, and rode to her to ask her to come out of danger. aWhat are you doing here alone?a he asked her. She took off her helmet and said, aI am not alone; here I have with me fifty thousand of my owna (by which she seems to have meant an invisible army of Angels); aand will not leave this place till I take the town.a DaAulon told her that she had but four or five men with her, to which she only answered by bidding him make her army bring faggots of wood to fill up the ditch with, that they might cross to the town. Then she shouted in a loud voice: -- 

aBring up faggots, all of you!a and they obeyed, filled up the ditch, attacked the breach in the wall again, rushed through, beat the English, and took the town.

This was just like what Joan had done when her army was on the point cf retreating from the attack on Les Tourelles, at Orleans. aOne charge morea was what she called for, and her men were inspired with courage, while the English were terrified by their refusal to be beaten. This was the last time that Joan led the French to such a victory. She besieged another town, La CharitA(c), which was held by Burgundians, but the King did mot send food enough for her men, and she had to go away unsuccessful.

About this time she was troubled by a woman called Catherine of La Rochelle, a married woman, who declared that a lovely lady came to her at night, dressed all in doth of gold, and told her where treasures of money were hidden, which were much needed for the wars. Jean said that she must see this wonderful lady before she could believe in her, and she sat up all night with Catherine; but the lady never came. Joan told Catherine to go back to her husband and her children, and mind her own affairs. There were several people who went about saying that they had visions; but they were of no use, for, visions or none, they had not Joanas courage and wisdom. It is true that Catherine might have said to Joan, aYou canat see my golden lady, but I canat see your Saints, nor hear your Voices.a The difference was that Joanas Saints and Voices had enabled her to do a great many wonderful things, while Catherineas golden lady never led to the finding of treasures or anything else that was of any use.



Chapter XIII. How The Voices Prophesied Evil

THE end of the year of the Maid was at hand. She had often said that she would last but a year, or little more, counting from May 1429.

Perhaps you remember that the King had made a truce with the Burgundians -- an useless truce, for the Burgundians went on fighting, not under their own flag, but under the Leopards of England. The King, as usual, was loitering about, doing nothing. Joan heard, in spring 1430, that three or four hundred English were crossing the Isle of France, which is not a real island, but a district of that name. She was then at Lagny, on the river Marne, not far from Paris. So she rode out from Lagny to meet them, with a gentleman whom the French called aQuenede.a Can you guess what aQuenedea means? He was Sir Hugh Kennedy, of the great Kennedy clan in Callaway and Ayrshire. He had fought at the Battle of the Herrings and at Orleans, and he made a good deal of money in France, so that, when he went back to Scotland, he was called aHugh come wia the Penny.a

When Joan, with her French and Scots, came in sight of the enemy, the English drew themselves up on foot, along the side of a hedge, and Joan and the rest charged them, some on foot, some on horse, and there was hard fighting, for the numbers were about equal But at last all the English were kilaed or taken prisoners. There was also taken a robber knight, Franquet daArras, who was tried for his crimes and put to death, and the English party among the French thought it very wicked in Jean to allow the rogue to be punished.

In Easter Week Joan was at Melun one day, examining the ditch round the walls to see that it was in good order. Then suddenly the Voices of St. Catherine and St. Margaret spoke to her, and said that she should be taken prisoner before Midsummer day, aand thus it needs must be,a and that she was to be resigned to this, and God would help her.

Often after this terrible day the Voices made the same prophecy, but they would never tell her the time and the hour. She prayed that she might die in that hour, for the English had often threatened her that they would burn her as a witch, if they caught her. Often she asked the Voices to warn her of the hour of her capture, for she would not have gone into battle on that day. But they would not tell her, and, after that, she did what the Captains of her party thought best, and it seems that, as to where or when she was to fight, she had no advice from the Voices. But she fought on as bravely as ever, and this was the bravest thing that ever was done by any one. For it was not as if the Voices had said that she should be killed in battle, of which she had no fear. But they said she was to be captured, and she knew that meant she was to be burned alive.

Nobody but Joan would have gone on risking herself every day, not to danger of war, which is the duty of every soldier, but to the death by fire. If any one says that the Voices were only her fancy, and her fear taking a fanciful shape, we must reply that, whatever they really were, she believed all that they said, and thought that they were the voices of her sisters, the Saints. Thus the end of Joan was the most glorious thing in her glorious life, for many could be brave enough when the Saints prophesied victory, but only she could give her body to be burned for her country.



Chapter XIV. How The Maid Was Taken

WE have heard how the town of CompiA"gne came over to Joan and the King, after the coronation at Rheims. The city had often been taken and retaken, and hold by both sides. But now they made up their minds that, come what might, they would be true to France, and now, in May, the English and Burgundians besieged CompiA"gne with a very large army.

Joan, who was at Lagny, heard of this, and she made up her mind to help the good and loyal town, or perish with it. She first tried to cut the roads that the Duke of Burgundy used for his soldiers and supplies of food, but she failed to take Soissons and Pent laAvAaque, and so shut the Duke off from his bridges over the rivers. So she rode into CompiA"gne under cloud of night, with her brother Pierre, and two or three hundred men. This was before dawn, on May 23.

The town of CompiA"gne is on the left bank of the river Oise. Behind the town was a forest, through which Joan rode, and got into the town, to the great joy of the people. From CompiA"gne to the right bank of the Oise, where the English and Burgundians had their camps, there was a long bridge, fortified, that led into a great level meadow, about a mile broad. In wet weather the meadow was often under water from the flooded river, so a causeway, or raised road, was built across it, high and dry. At the end of the causeway, farthest from CompiA"gne was the village of Margny, with the steeple of its church, and here a part of the Burgundian army was encamped. Two miles and a half farther on was the village of Clairoix, where lay another part of the Burgundian force. About a mile and a half to the left of the causeway was the village of Venette, which was held by the English, and, about three miles off, was Coudun, where the Duke of Burgundy himself had his quarters. There were very large forces in front, and on the side, of the only road by which Joan could get at them, with her own men, only three hundred, probably, and any of the townspeople who liked to follow her on foot, with clubs and scythes, and such weapons.

Thus it was really a very rash thing of Joan to lead so few men, by such a narrow road, to attack the nearest Burgundians, those at Margny, at the end of the causeway. The other Burgundians, farther off, and the English from Venette, quite near, and on Joanas left flank, would certainly come up to attack her, and help their friends at Margny. She would be surrounded on all sides and cut off, for the garrison of CompiA"gne stayed in the town, under their general, de Flavy, who was a great ruffian, but a brave man, and loyal to France.

Why Joan, about five oaclock in the evening of May 23. rode out with her little force, crossed the bridge, galloped down the causeway, and rode through and through the Burgundians at Margny, we do not know. Her Voices seem to have ceased to give her advice, only saying that she would certainly be captured. Perhaps she only meant to take Margny; though it is not easy to understand how she expected to hold it, when the whole Burgundian and English armies came up to recover it, as they would certainly do. If she aimed at more, her charge was very brave but very ill-judged. Joan said that her Voices did not tell her to make her desperate sally; it was her own idea.

Nearly seventy years afterwards, two very old men said that, when they were young at CompiA"gne, they heard Joan tell a crowd of children, before she rode out, that aI am betrayed, and soon will be delivered to death. Pray God for me, for I shall never again be able to help France and the King.a One of the men was ninety-eight, so he would be quite twenty-eight when he heard Joan say this; if he really did hear her But, long before men are ninety-eight, or even eighty-six, line the other man, they are apt to remember things that never happened. But Joan may have told children, of whom she was very fond, that she knew she was soon to be taken.

Her enemies declared that she said she would take the Duke of Burgundy himself, but as he was several miles away, in the middle of a large army, while she had only three hundred of her own men, this cannot be true. Probably she only meant to break up the Burgundians at Margny, and show that she was there, to encourage the people at CompiA"gne.

Her own account is that she charged the Burgundians at Margny, the nearest village, and drove them twice back to Clairoix, where they were reinforced by the great Burgundian army there, and thrust her back to the middle of the causeway, where she turned again, charged them, and made them retreat. But then the English came up from Venette, on her flank, and came between her and the bridge of CompiA"gne, and she leaped her horse off the raised causeway into the meadow, where she was surrounded, and pulled off her horse and taken, though she would not surrender. No doubt she hoped that, as she refused to surrender, she would be killed on the spot. When they cried to her to yield she said, aI have given my faith to another than you, and I will keep my oath to Him,a meaning Our Lord.

But she was too valuable to be killed. The captors might either get a great ransom, a kingas ransom, or sell her to the English to burn. The French would not pay the ransom, and Jean de Luxembourg, who got possession of her, sold her to the English. The Burgundian historian, who was with the Duke, and did not see the battle, says, athe English feared not any captain, nor any chief in war, as they feared the Maid.a

aShe had done great deeds, passing the nature of woman.a Says another Burgundian writer: aShe remained in the rear of her men as their captain, and the bravest of all, there, where fortune granted it, for the end of her glory, and for that last time of her bearing arms.a

But, indeed, her glory never ceased, for in her long, cruel imprisonment and martyrdom, she showed mere courage than any man-at-arms can display, where blows are given and taken.



Chapter XV. The Captivity Of The Maid

WE might suppose that there was not a rich man in France, or even a poor man, who would not have given what he could, much or little, to help to pay the ransom of the Maid. Jean de Luxembourg only wanted the money, and, as she was a prisoner of war, she might expect to be ransomed like other prisoners. It was the more needful to get the money and buy her freedom, as the priests of the University of Paris, who were on the English side, at once wrote to Jean de Luxembourg (July 14), and asked him to give Joan up to the Inquisition, to be tried by the laws of the Inquisition for the crimes of witchcraft, idolatry, and wrong doctrines about religion.

The Inquisitor was the head of a kind of religious Court, which tried people for not holding the right belief, or for witchcraft, or other religious offences. The rules of the Court, and the way of managing the trials, were what we think very unfair. But they were not more unfair than the methods used in Scotland after the Reformation. With us old women were tortured till they confessed that they were witches, and then were burned alive, sometimes seven or eight of them at once, for crimes which nobody could possibly commit.

That went on in Scotland till the country was united to England, at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and the laws against witchcraft were not abolished till 1736. Many of the Presbyterian ministers, who were active in hunting for witches and having them put to horrid tortures, were very angry that the witchcraft laws were abolished. The Inquisition was better than the ministers and magistrates in one way: if a witch confessed, and promised not to do it again, she was not put to death, but kept in prison. In Scotland the people accused of witchcraft had not even this chance, which did not help Joan, as we shall see.

All this is told here, to show that the French were not more stupid and cruel four hundred years ago, than we were in Scotland, two hundred years ago. But it was a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the Inquisition, and therefore the French King and his subjects should have paid Joanas ransom at once or rescued her by force of arms. But not a coin was paid, and not a sword was drawn to ransom or to rescue her. The people who advised the King had never liked her, and now the King left her to her fate. She could have taken a bitter revenge on him, if she had chosen to tell tales; but she was loyal to the last, like Montrose to Charles II.

Of course Joan was not a witch, and was a most religious girl, but she did not deny that she had talked with spirits, the spirits of the Saints; and her judges, who hated her, could say, and did say, that these spirits were devils, in disguise, and that therefore she was a witch. She always had known that they would do this, if they got the chance.

Jean de Luxembourg did not hand Joan over to the priests at once: probably he was waiting to see if he could not get a better price from her French friends than from her English enemies. The Bishop of Beauvais was Joanas worst enemy: his odious name was Pierre Cauchon, and in July he kept pressing the Duke of Burgundy, then still besieging CompiA"gne, to make Jean give up the Maid. Jean kept the Maid in a castle called Beaulieu till August, and then sent her to another castle, Beaurevoir, near Cambrai, far to the north, where it would be more difficult for her friends like Dunois and daAlencon to come and rescue her by force, which we do not hear that they ever tried to do, though perhaps they did. The brave Xaintrailles was doing a thing that Joan longed for even more than for her freedom. She was taken in fighting to help the town of CompiA"gne, of which she was very fond, and her great grief at Beaulieu and Beaurevoir was that CompiA"gne was likely to be taken by the Burgundians and English, who threatened to put the people to death. All this while Xaintrailles was preparing a small army to deliver CompiA"gne.

At Beaurevoir the ladies of the castle were kinsfolk of Jean de Luxembourg. They were good women, and very kind to Joan, and they knelt to Jean, weeping, and asking him to give her back to her friends. But he wanted his money, like the men who sold Sir William Wallace to the English, and the great Montrose to the preachers and Parliament.

So Jean sold the Maid to the English. Joan knew this, and knew what she had to expect. She was allowed to take the air on the flat roof of the great tower at Leaurevoir, which was 60 feet high. She was not thinking so much of herself as of CompiA"gne. If she could escape she would try to make her way to CompiA"gne, and help the people to fight for their liberty and their lives. But how could she escape? She hoped that, if she leaped from the top of the tower, her Saints would bear her up in their arms, and not let her be hurt by the fall. So she asked them if she might leap down, but St. Catherine said, No; she must not leap. God would help her and the people of CompiA"gne.

But Jean would not listen, this time, to the Voice. She said that, if the leap was wrong, she would rather trust her soul to the mercy of God, than her body to the English. And she must go to CompiA"gne, for she heard that, when the town was taken, all the people, old and young, were to be put to the sword.

Then she leaped, and there she lay. She was not hurt, not a bone of her was broken, which is an extraordinary thing, but she could not move a limb. The people of the castle came and took her back to her prison room. She did not know what had happened, and for three days she ate nothing. Then her memory came back to her and to her sorrows. Why was she not allowed to die! St. Catherine told her that she had sinned, and must confess, and ask the Divine mercy. But she was to go through with her appointed task. aTake no care for thy torment,a said the Voice; athence shalt thou come into Paradise.a Moreover, St. Catherine promised that CompiA"gne should be rescued before Martinmas. That was the last good news, and the last happy thing that came to Joan in the days of her life; for, just before Martinmas, her friend, Pothon de Xaintrailles, rode with his men-at-arms through the forest of CompiA"gne, whilst others of the French attacked the English and Burgundians on the farther side of the Oise, and so the Saint kept her promise, and CompiA"gne was saved.



Chapter XVI. The Trial Of The Maid

AS Joan was a woman, and a prisoner of the Church, when the English had handed her over to the priests, she ought to have been kept in gentle prison, and with only women about her. But the English were very cruel. They had a kind of cage made, called a huche, and put in a strong room in the Castle of Rouen. In this cage they kept Joan, with chains on. her legs, which were fastened to a strong post or beam of the bed. Five common soldiers kept watch in the room, day and night; the eyes of men were always on the most modest of girls. We see how much they feared her. They wished to have her proved a witch, and one who dealt with devils, to take away the shame of having been defeated by a girl, and also to disgrace the French King by making the world believe that he had been helped by a sorceress and her evil spirits. In truth, if you read Henry VI., Part L, by Shakespeare, you will see just what the English thought about the Maid. Shakespeare, of course, did not know the true story of Joan, and he makes her say abominable things, which not even her enemies brought up against her at her Trial. If Shakespeare wrote the play, he did not care a penny for the truth of the story. He sends Joan to Bordeaux, where she never was in her life, and makes aFiendsa (that is, her Saints) appear to her, and show that they will help her no longer. So she offers her very soul as a sacrifice for the sake of France:

aThen take my soul, my body, soul and all,

Before that England give the French the foil.a

Later she turns on the English, and says what she might have said with truth:

aI never had to do with wicked spirits:

But you, that are polluted with your lusts,

Stained with the guiltless blood of innocents,

Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices,

Because you want the grace that others have,

You judge it straight a thing impossible

To compass wonders but by help of devils.a

The English had devils on their own side, the cruel priests and Bishop Cauchon, whom they had promised to make Archbishop of Rouen. But he never got it.

For three months these people examined Joan every day, sometimes all shouting at her at once, so that she said, aGentlemen, if you please, one at a time.a She had no advocate, who knew the law, to help her to defend herself. But once, when she appealed to the Council of Basle, a Council cf the Church which was then sitting, they bade her be silent, and told the clerk who took down everything in writing, in French, not to write down her appeal. There is nothing about this in the Latin book of the Trial, translated from the French, but in the French copy, mode in court, you see the place where the clerkas pen has stepped at the words, aand she appealsa (Et requiert, in French). He was going to write the rest. Now she had a right to appeal, and as the clergy at the Council of Basle were of many countries, they would not have taken the English side, but pronounced Joan innocent. The Bishops and clergy of the loyal French party at Poitiers, before she went to the war, had declared her innocent and a thing of God, after a long examination of her life up till April 1429. Joan often asked her judges to send for athe Poitiers book,a where they would find answers to their questions about her early days; but they vexed her about everything, even about the fairy tree, on which the children used to hang their garlands. Their notion seems to have been that the fairies were her helpers, not the Saints, and that the fairies were evil spirits.

Joan had shown that, in war and politics, she was wiser than the soldiers and statesmen. She went straight at the work to be done -- to beat the English, and to keep attacking them before they got back their confidence. At her Trial she showed that she was far wiser than the learned priests. They tried to prove that she was helped by fairies. She said that she did not believe there were any fairies: and though I would not say that there are none, there certainly are not so many, or so busy and powerful, as the priests supposed. They kept asking her about the prophecies of Merlin the Wizard: she thought nothing of Merlin the Wizard.

She vowed to speak truth in answer to questions, but she would not answer questions about her Saints and Voices, except when they gave her permission. The judges troubled her most about the secret of the King, and what she told him about that, before she went to the wars. You remember that the King had secretly prayed to know whether he really was the son of the late King or not, and that Joan told him of his prayer, and told him that he was the son of the late King, and had the right to be King himself. But she would tell the Judges nothing about all this matter. If she had, the English would have cried everywhere, aYou see he is not certain himself that he is what he pretends to be. Our King of England is the only King of France.a

Joan would not betray her Kingas doubts. She never would tell what happened. At last she cold a simple parable: an Angel came with a rich crown for the King. But, later, she explained that by the Angel she meant herself, and that by the Crown, she meant her having him crowned at Rheims. They never could get the Kingas secret out of her. At last they said they would put her to the torture. They took her to a horrible vault, full of abominable instruments for pinching, and tearing, and roasting, and screwing the bodies of men. There stood the executioner, with his arms bare, and his fire lit, and all his pincers, and ropes, and pulleys ready.

aNow will you tell us?a they said. Brave men had turned faint with terror in that vault, and had said anything that they were asked to say, rather than face the pain. There was a Marshal of France, Gilles de Rais, a nobleman who fought beside Joan at Orleans, at Les Tourelles, at Jargeau, at Pathay, and at Paris, and who carried the sacred vessel which the Angel brought, long ago, with holy oil, at the Kingas coronation. Later this man was accused by the Inquisition of the most horrible crimes. Among other things, he was said to have sacrificed children to the devil, and to have killed hundreds of little boys for his own amusement. But hundreds of little boys were not proved to be missing, and none of their remains were ever found. Gilles de Rais denied these horrible charges; he said he was innocent, and, for all that we know, he was. But they took him to the torture vault, and showed him the engines of torment, and he confessed everything, so that he might be put to death without torture, which was done.

Joan did not fear and turn faint. She said, aTorture me if you please. Tear my body to pieces. Whatever I say in my pains will not be true, and as soon as I am released I will deny that it was true. Now, go on!a Many priests wished to go on, but more, even of these cruel enemies, said, aNo!a they would not torture the girl.

aWhat a brave lass. Pity she is not English!a one of the English lords said, when he saw Joan standing up against the crowd of priests and lawyers.

Remember that, for six weeks, during Lent, Joan took no food all day. There she stood, starving, and answering everybody, always bravely, always courteously, always wisely, and sometimes even merrily. They kept asking her the same questions on different days, to try to make her vary in her answers. All the answers were written down. Once they said she had answered differently before, and, when the book was examined, it proved that there was some mistake in the thing, and that Jean was in the right. She was much pleased, and said to the clerk, aIf you make mistakes again, I will pull your ears.a

They troubled her very much about wearing boyas dress. She said that, when among men in war, it was better and more proper. She was still among men, with soldiers in her room, day and night, which was quite unlawful; she should have had only women about her. She would not put on womenas dress while she was among men, and was quite in the right.

She could hear her Voices in Court, but not clearly on account of the noise. Once, I suppose, she heard them, for she suddenly said, in the middle of an answer to a question about the letters which were written for her when she was in the wars:

aBefore seven years are passed the English will lose a greater stake than they have lost at Orleans; they will lose everything in France.a

Before the seven years were out they lost Paris, a much greater stake than Orleans, as Paris was the chief town and the largest They went on losing till they lost everything in France, even all that they had held for hundreds of years.

The Judges insisted that she should submit to the Church. Joan asked nothing better. aTake me to the Pope, and I will answer him, for I know and believe that we should obey our Holy Father, the Pope, who is in Rome.a Or she would answer the Council of the whole Church at Basle, but, as I said, the Bishop Cauchon stopped the clerk when he was writing down the words. The Judges said aWe are the Church; answer us and obey us.a But, of course, they were not the Church; they were only a set of disloyal French priests who sided against their own country, and helped the English.



Chapter XVII. How The Priests Betrayed The Maid

AT last, on May 24, 1431, they determined to force her to acknowledge herself in the wrong, and to deny her Saints. On that day they took her to the graveyard of the Church of St. Ouen. Two platforms had been built; on one stood the wretched Cauchon with his gang; Joan was placed on the other. There was also a stake with faggots, for burning Joan. They had ready two written papers: on one it was written that Joan would submit to them, and wear womanas dress. On the other was a long statement that her Saints were evil spirits, and that she had done all sorts of wrong things. She was told that if she would sign the short paper, and wear womans dress, she would be put in gentle prison, with women about her instead of English soldiers. Seeing the fire ready, Jean repeated the short form of words, and made her mark, smiling, on the piece of paper that they gave her, but it was the paper with the long speech, accusing herself of crimes and denying her Saints.

This is what we are told, but, later, she showed that she thought she had denied her Saints, so it is not easy to be quite sure of what happened. It is certain that Cauchon broke his word. She was not taken away from her cruel prison and the English soldiers, as was promised. She was given womanas dress; but, as they were determined to make her arelapse,a that is, return to the sin of wearing manas dress, for then they could burn her, they put her boyas dress in her room, and so acted that she was obliged to put it on. It is a horrid story, not fit to be told, of cruelty and falseness.

aNow we have her!a said Cauchon to an Englishman.

They went to her, and asked her if the Voices had come to her again?

aYes!a

aWhat did they say?a

aSt. Catherine and St. Margaret told me that I had done very wrong, when I said what I did to save my life, and that I was damning myself to save my life.a

aThen you believe that the Voices were the voices of the Saints.a

aYes, I believe that, and that the Voices come from God;a and she said that she did not mean ever to have denied it.

On the day of her burning, the Bishop and the rest went to Joan again, and wrote out a statement that she left it to the Church to say whether her Voices were good or bad. The Church has decided that they were good, and has given Joan the title of aVenerable,a which is the first step toward proclaiming her to be one of the Saints. Whatever the Voices were, she said they were real, not fancied things.

But this paper does not count, for the clerk who took all the notes refused to go with the Bishop to see Joan, that time, saying that it was no part of the law, and that they went as private men, not as Judges, and he had the courage not to sign the paper. He was an honest man, and thought Joan a good girl, unlawfully treated, and was very sorry for her. aHe never wept so much for any sorrow in all his life, and for a month he could not be quiet for sorrow: and he bought a book of prayers and prayed for the soul of the Maid.a

This honest manas name was Gilbert Manchon.



Chapter XVIII. The End Of The Maid

THEY burned her cruelly to death in the market-place of Rouen, with eight hundred soldiers round the stake, lest any should attempt to save her. They had put a false accusation on a paper cap, and set it on her head: it was written that she was aHeretic, Relapsed, Apostate, Idolatress.a This was her reward for the bravest and best life that was ever lived.

She came to her own and her own received her not.

There was with her a priest who pitied her, not one of her Judges -- Brother Isambert de la Pierre, of the order of St. Augustine. Joan asked him to bring her a cross, and to hold it up before her eyes while she was burning. aSaith moreover that while she was in the fire she ceased never to call loudly on the Holy Name of Jesus; always, too, imploring: ceaselessly the help of the Saints in Paradise; and more, when the end was now come, she bowed her head, and gave up her spirit, calling on the name of Jesus.a

The Saints had said to her, long before: aBear your torment lightly: thence shall you come into the kingdom of Paradise.a

So died Joan the Maid.

It is said by some who were present, that even the English Cardinal, Beaufort, wept when he saw the Maid die: acrocodilesa tears!a One of the secretaries of Henry VI. (who himself was only a little boy) said, aWe are all lost. We have burned a Saint!a

They were all lost. The curse of their cruelty did not depart from them. Driven by the French and Scots from province to province, and from town to town, the English returned home, tore and rent each other; murdering their princes and nobles on the scaffold, and slaying them as prisoners of war on the field; and stabbing and smothering them in chambers of the Tower; York and Lancaster devouring each other; the man Henry VI. was driven from home to wander by the waves at St. Andrews, before he wandered back to England and the dagger stroke-these things were the reward the English won, after they had burned a Saint, they ate the bread and drank the cup of their own greed and cruelty all through the Wars of the Roses. They brought shame upon their name which Time can never wash away; they did the Devilas work, and took the Devilas wages. Soon Henry VIII. was butchering his wives and burning Catholics and Protestants, now one, now the other, as the humour seized him.

Joan had said to the Archbishop, at Rheims, that she knew not where she would die, or where she would be buried. Her ashes were never laid in the earth; she had no grave. The English, that men might forget her, threw her ashes into the sea. There remains no relic of Joan of Arc; no portrait, nothing she ever wore, no cup or sword or jewel that she ever touched. But she is not forgotten; she never will be forgotten. On every Eighth of May, the day when she turned the tide of English conquest, a procession in her honour goes through the streets of Orleans, the city that she saved; and though the Protestants, at the Reformation, destroyed her statue that knelt before the Fair Cross on the bridge, she has statues in many of the towns in France. She was driven from the gate of Paris, but near the place where she lay wounded in the ditch, is her statue, showing her on horseback, in armour.



Chapter XIX. The Second Trial Of The Maid

THE rich and the strong had not paid a franc, or drawn a sword to ransom or to rescue Joan. The poor had prayed for her, and the written prayers which they used may still be seen. Probably the others would have been glad to let Joanas memory perish, but to do this was not convenient. If Joan had been a witch, a heretic, an impostor, an apostate, as was declared in her condemnation, then the King had won his battles by the help of a heretic and a witch. Twenty years after Joanas martyrdom, when the King had recovered Normandy and Rouen, he thought it time to take care of his own character, and to inquire into the charges on which she was found guilty. It is fair to say that he could not do this properly till he was master of Rouen, the place at which she was tried. Some of the people concerned were asked questions, such as the good clerk, Manchon, and DeaupA"rc, one of the Judges. He was a man of some sense: he did not think that Joan was a witch, but that she was a fanciful girl, who thought that she saw Saints and heard Voices, when she neither saw nor heard anything. Many mad people hear Voices which are also mad; Joanas Voices were perfectly sane and wise, and told her things that she could not have known of herself.

Not much came of this examination, but, two years later, Joanas mother and brothers prayed for a new trial to clear the character of the family. It is the most extraordinary thing that, up to this year, 1452, Joanas brothers and cousins seem to have been living, on the best terms, with the woman who pretended to be Joan, and said that she had not been burned, but had escaped. This was a jolly kind of woman, fond of eating and drinking and playing tennis.

Why Joanas brothers and cousins continued to be friendly with her after the King found her out, because she did not know his secret, is the greatest of puzzles, for she was a detected impostor, and no money could be got from the connection with her. Another very amazing thing is that, in 1436, an aunt of the Duke of Burgundy, Madame de Luxembourg, entertained the impostor, while the whole town of Orleans welcomed her, and made her presents, and ceased holding a religious service on the day of Joanas death, for here, they said, she was, quite well and merry! Moreover the townas books of accounts, at Orleans, show that they paid a pension to Joanas mother as aMother of the Maid,a till 1452, when they say aMother of the late Maid.a For now, as Joanas family were trying to have her character cleared, they admitted that she was dead, burned to death in 1431, as, of course, she really was. There are not many things more curious than this story of the False Maid.

However, at last Joanas family gave up the impostor, and, five years later, she was imprisoned, and let out again, and that is the last we hear of her. The new Trial lingered on, was begun, and put off, and begun again in 1455. Cauchon was dead by this time; nothing could be done to him. Scores of witnesses came and told the stories given at the beginning of this book, showing how Joan was the best and most religious of girls, and very kind to people even more poor than herself, and very industrious in knitting and sewing and helping her mother. Every one who was still alive, that had known her in the wars, came, like daAlenASSon, and Dunois, and daAulon, and her confessor: and many others came, and told about Joan in the wars, how brave she was and modest, and the stories of what she had suffered in prison, and about the unfairness of her trial, were repeated.

The end was that the Court of Inquiry-declared her trial to have been full of unlawfulness and cruelty, and they abolished the sentence against her and took off all the shameful reproaches, and ordered a beautiful cross to be erected to her memory in the place where she was burned to death.

So here ends the story of the Life and Death of Joan the Maid.

<eob>

The Boy Scouts In Russia

By

John Blaine



Chapter I

The Border


A train had just come to a stop in the border station of Virballen. Half of the platform of that station is in Russia; half of it in East Prussia, the easternmost province of the German empire. All trains that pass from one country to the other stop there. There are customs men, soldiers, policemen, Prussian and Russian, who form a gauntlet all travelers must run. Here passports must be shown, trunks opened. Getting in or out of Russia is not a simple business, even in the twentieth century. All sorts of people can't come in while a good many who try to get out are turned back, and may have to make a long journey to Siberia if they cannot account for themselves properly.

This train had stopped in the dead of night. But, dark and late as it was, there was the usual bustle and stir. Everyone had to wake up and submit to the questioning of police and customs men. About the only people who can escape such inquisition at Virballen or any other Russian border station are royalties and ambassadors. Most of the passengers, however, didn't have to come out on the platform. In this case, indeed, only two descended. One of these was treated by the police officials with marked respect. He was the sort of man to inspire both respect and fear. Very tall, he was heavily bearded, but not so heavily as to prevent the flashing of his teeth in a grim and unpleasant smile. Nor were his eyes hidden as the rays of the station lights fell upon them.

He was called "Excellency" by the policemen who spoke to him, but he ignored these men, save for a short, quick nod with which he acknowledged their respectful greetings. His whole attention was devoted to the boy by his side, who was looking up at him defiantly. This boy won a tribute of curious looks from all who saw him, and some glances of admiration when it became increasingly plain that he did not share the universal feeling of awe for the man by his side. This was accounted for, partly at least, it might be supposed, by the fact that he wasn't a Russian. The Americans in the train, had they been out on the platform, would have recognized him at once for he was sturdily and obviously American.

The train began to move. With a shrill shriek from the engine, and the banging of doors, it glided out of the station. Soon its tail lights were swinging out of sight. But the Russian and the American boy remained, while the train, with its load of free and cheerful passengers, went on toward Berlin.

"You wouldn't let me take the train. Well, what are you going to do with me now?" asked the boy.

His tone was as defiant as his look and if he was afraid, he didn't show it. He wasn't afraid, as a matter of fact. He was angry.

The Russian considered him for a moment, saying not a word. Then he called in a low, hushed tone, and three or four policemen came running up.

"You see this boy?" he asked.

"Yes, excellency."

"It has pleased His Majesty the Czar, acting through the administration of the police of St. Petersburg, to expel him from his dominions. He is honored by my personal attention. I in person am executing the order of His Majesty. I shall now conduct him to the exact border line and see to it that he is placed on German soil. His name is Frederick Waring. On no pretext is he to be allowed to return to Russian soil. Should he succeed in doing so, he is to be arrested, denied the privilege of communication with any friend, or with the consul or ambassador of any foreign nation, and delivered to me in Petersburg. You will receive this order in due form to-night. Understood?"

"Yes, excellency."

"Photographs will be attached to the official order." He turned again to the boy, and for just a moment the expressionless mask was swept from his eyes by a look of fierce hatred. "Now, then, step forward! As soon as you have passed the line on the platform you will be on German territory, subject to German law. I give you a word of good advice. Do not offend against the German authorities. You will find them less merciful than I."

"I'm not afraid of you," said Fred. He was angry, but his voice was steady nevertheless. "You've cheated me. You've had my passport and my money taken from me. What do you think I can do, when you land me in a strange country in the middle of the night, without a kopeck in my pocket? But I'll find a way to get back at you. Any man who would treat me the way you have done is sure to have treated some other people badly, too. And I'll find them -- perhaps they'll be stronger than I."

"Your papers were confiscated in due process," said the Russian. He smiled very evilly. "As for your threats -- pah! Do you think your word would carry any weight against that of Mikail Suvaroff, a prince of Russia, a friend of the Grand Duke Nicholas and General of the army?"

"Oh, you're a great man," said Fred. "I know that. But you're not so great that you don't have to keep straight. You may think I had no business to come to Russia. Perhaps you are right, but that's no reason for you to treat me like this. After all, you're my uncle -- "

"Silence!" said Suvaroff harshly, startled at the carrying power of the boy's voice.

Fred stepped nimbly across the line.

"You can't touch me now, by your own word!" he taunted. "I'm in Germany, and your authority stops at the border! I say, I could forget everything except the way you've put me down here in the middle of the night, without a cent to my name or a friend I can call on! You needn't have done that. I don't suppose you took my money -- you don't need it -- but you let your underlings take it."

"I do not know that you ever had the money you say was taken from you," said Suvaroff, controlling himself. "It is easy for you to make such a charge. But the officers who arrested you deny that they found any money in your possession. There is no reason to take your word against them."

Fred stared at him curiously for a moment.

"Gee! You do hate us -- and me!" he said, slowly. "I think you really believe all you've said about me! Well, I'm glad if that's so. It gives you a sort of excuse for behaving the way you have to me. And I'd certainly hate to think that any relative of mine could act like you unless he thought he was in the right, anyhow!"

Suvaroff strangled with anger for a moment. His cruel eyes became narrow.

"I have changed my mind!" he cried, suddenly. "Seize him! Bring him back!"

Fred stood perfectly still as two or three policemen and a couple of soldiers in the white uniform coats of Russia came toward him. He knew that it would be useless either to run or to fight. But, as it turned out, there was no need for him to do either, for from behind him a sharp order was snapped out by a young man who had been listening with interest. Quietly a file of German soldiers with spiked helmets stepped forward.

"Your pardon, excellency," said the German officer. "It is, of course, quite impossible for us to permit Russian officials or soldiers to make an arrest on our side of the line!"

"A matter of courtesy -- " began Suvaroff.

"Pardon again," said the German, very softly. "Just at this moment courtesy must be suspended. With a general mobilization in effect upon both sides -- "

Suvaroff suppressed the angry exclamation that was on his lips. For a moment, however, he seemed about to repeat his order, though his men had halted at the sight of German bayonets.

"I should regret a disturbance," said the German, still speaking in his quiet voice. "My orders are to permit my men to do nothing that might bring on a clash, for just now the firing of a single shot would make war certain. Yet there is nothing in my orders to forbid me to resist an act of aggression by Russia. We are prepared for war, though we do not seek it."

Fred, almost losing interest in his own pressing troubles at this sudden revelation of a state of affairs of which he had known nothing whatever, looked fixedly at Suvaroff. He saw the Russian bite his lips, hesitate, and finally take off his hat and make a sweeping bow to the German officer.

"I agree, mein herr Lieutenant," he said, mockingly. "The time has come, I think. It may be that the fortunes of war will bring us together. Meanwhile I wish you joy of him you have saved!"

The German did not answer. He watched the departing Russians and then, smiling faintly, he turned to Fred.

"I'll have to ask you to give some account of yourself, if you please," he said, in excellent English. "I'm Lieutenant Ernst, of the Prussian army. Sentenced to guard duty here -- for my sins. Now will you tell me what all this means?"

"I had a passport," said Fred directly, and meeting the German's eyes frankly. "Prince Suvaroff is my uncle, my mother's brother. Her family refused to recognize my mother after her marriage to my father, and so Prince Suvaroff does not like me. I had to see him on business and family matters. I was arrested. My passport and my money were taken away from me -- and you saw what happened. He took me off the train and put me across the border."

Ernst nodded.

"Things are done so in Russia -- sometimes," he said. "Not always, but they are possible, for a great noble. Well, I have seen things nearly as bad in my own Prussia! I shall have to see what may be done for you. If you reach Berlin, your ambassador will be able to help you, yes?"

"I am quite sure of it," said Fred, eagerly. "I don't want to trouble you, but if you could help me to get there -- "

A soldier interrupted him. He stepped up to Ernst, saluted, and, permission given, spoke in the officer's ear. Ernst started.

"One minute," he said. "I am called away -- I will return in one minute."

The minute dragged itself out. In all directions there was a rising sound, confused, urgent. Fifteen minutes passed. Then a soldier came to Fred.

"The lieutenant will see you inside," he said, gravely.

Fred followed him. Ernst, his face sober, but with shining eyes, spoke to him at once.

"War has been declared," he said. "War between Germany and Russia! My young friend, you are in hard luck! The train from which you were expelled is the last that will even start for Berlin until the mobilization is complete."

Outside there was a sudden rattle of rifle fire. Fred stared at the German officer.

"That is the beginning," he said. "We happen to have the stronger force here. We are taking possession of the Russian side of the border station! I wish we might catch Suvaroff -- he is a good soldier, that one at least, and worth a division to the Russians. But there'll be no such luck. He'll have got away, of course -- a fast motor, or some such way. And they've got more troops close up than we have."

And still Fred stared. He seemed unable to realize that this popping of rifles, this calm, undemonstrative series of statements by an unexcited German officer, meant that war had come at last -- the European war of which people even in America had talked for years as sure to come!

"As for you, I meant, of course, to lend you the money and let you go on to Berlin," said Ernst. "Now I can lend you the money, but there will be no trains. You can't stay here. The Russians, I think, will advance very quickly, and it will not be here that we shall try to stop them, but further back and among the lakes to the south. Even if there is a concentration, however, foreigners will not be wanted."

"What shall I do?" asked Fred.

"You speak German?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall lend you some money -- what I can spare. You can start back toward Koenigsberg and Danzig. Your consul will be able to help you. You can walk and the people will gladly sell you food."

"Yes, and thank you for the chance, I'm a Boy Scout; I won't mind a hike at all."



Chapter II

Under Arrest


So it was arranged for Fred Waring, thousands of miles from home, to start from Virballen. The lieutenant who had saved him from Suvaroff lent him what money he could spare, though all told it was less than a hundred marks, which is twenty dollars.

"Good-bye, and good luck go with you," said Ernst. "If we do not meet again it will be a real good-bye. If you can send the money back, let it go to my mother in Danzig. If you cannot, do not let it worry you! If any people ask you questions, answer them quickly. If any tell you to stop, stop! Remember that this is war time and every stranger is suspected. You will be in no danger if you will remember to answer questions and obey orders."

"Thank you again -- and good-bye," said Fred. He had known this German officer for only a few minutes, but he felt that he was parting from a good friend, and, indeed, he was. Not many men would have been so considerate and so kindly, especially at such a time, to a strange boy from a foreign land, and one, moreover, who had certainly not come with the best of recommendations. "I -- I hope you'll come through all right."

"That's to be seen," said Ernst, with a shrug of the shoulders. "In war who can tell? We take our chances, we who live by the sword. If a Russian is to get me, he will do so, and it will not help to be afraid, or to think of the chances that I may not see the end of what has been begun to-night! We have been getting ready for years. Now we shall know before long if we have done enough. The test has come for us of the fatherland."

And then Fred said a bold thing.

"I can wish you good luck and a safe return, Lieutenant," he said. "But I can't wish that your country may be victorious because my mother, after all, was a Russian."

"I wouldn't ask that of you," said Ernst, with a laugh. "Even though it is Prince Suvaroff's country, too?"

"There are Germans you do not like, I suppose -- who are even your enemies," said Fred. "Yet now you will forget all that, will you not?"

"God helping us, yes!" said Ernst. "You are right. Your heart must be with your own. But you don't seem like a Russian, or I would not be helping you."

Then Fred was off, going on his way into the darkness alone. Ernst had told him which road to follow, telling him that if he stuck to it he would not be likely to run into any troop movements.

"Don't see too much. That is a good rule for one who is in a country at war," he had advised. "If you know nothing, you cannot tell the enemy anything useful, and there will be less reason for our people to make trouble for you. Your only real danger lies in being taken for a spy. And if you are careful not to learn things, that will not be a very great one."

Fred was not at all afraid, as a matter of fact, as he set out. Before he had stepped across the mark that stood for the border he had been hugely depressed. He had been friendless and alone. He had been worse than friendless, indeed, since the only man for many miles about who knew him was his bitter enemy. Now he had found that he could still inspire a man like Ernst with belief in his truthfulness and honesty, and the knowledge did him a lot of good. And then, of course, he had another excellent reason for not being afraid. He was entirely ignorant of the particular dangers that were ahead of him. He had no conception at all of what lay before him, and it does not require bravery not to fear a danger the very existence of which one is entirely without knowledge.

The idea of walking all through the summer night, as Ernst had advised him to do, did not seem bad to him at all. As a scout at home, he had taken part in many a hike, and if few of them had been at night, he was still thoroughly accustomed to being out-of-doors, without even the shelter of a tent or a lean-to. Nor was he afraid of losing his way, for as long as the stars shone above, as they did brilliantly now, he had a sure guide.

Fred wasn't tired, for he had enraged Suvaroff, who had seemingly wanted him to be frightened, by sleeping during the journey to Virballen whenever he could. It had been comfortable enough on the train; he had not been treated as a prisoner, but as a guest. And he had, as a matter of fact, been aroused only an hour before the train had reached the frontier.

So he had been able to start out boldly and confidently. In the country through which he was now tramping the nights are cool in summer, but the days are very hot. So Fred had made up his mind, as soon as he understood that he had a good deal of walking before him, to do as much of his traveling as was possible by night, and to sleep during the day. In East Prussia, as in some parts of Canada, the summer is short and hot; the winter long and cold.

There was nothing about the silent countryside, as he tramped along an excellent road, to make him think of war. The fields about him seemed to be planted less with grain; they were very largely used for pasture, and he saw a good many horses. He remembered now that this was the great horse breeding district of Germany. Here there were great estates with many acres of rolling land on which great numbers of horses were bred. It was here, he knew, that the German army, needing great numbers of horses every year, found its mounts.

"They'll need more than ever now," he thought to himself. "If there's really to be war, I suppose they'll take every horse that's able to work at all, whether it's a good looking beast or not. Poor horses! They don't have much chance, I guess."

He thought of the Cossacks he had seen in Russia, wiry, small men, in the main, mounted on shaggy, strong, little horses, no bigger in reality than ponies. He had heard of the prowess of the Cossacks, of course. They had fought well in the past in a good many wars. But somehow it seemed rather absurd to match them, with their undersized horses, against magnificent specimens of men and horseflesh such as the German cavalry. He had passed a squadron of Uhlans, near Virballen, outlined against the sky. They had been grim and business-like in appearance. But then the Cossacks were that, too, though in an entirely different way.

"I wish I had someone along!" he thought, at last.

That was when the dawn was beginning to break. Off to the east the sun was beginning to rise, and in the grey half light before full day there was something stark and gaunt about the country. Before him smoke was rising, probably from a village. But that sign of human habitation, that certain indication that people were near, somehow only made him feel lonelier than he had been in the starlit darkness of the night. This would be good enough fun, if only one of his many friends back home were along -- Jack French, or Steve Vedder. It was with them that he had shared such adventures in the past. And yet not just such adventures, either. This was more real than anything his adventures as a Boy Scout had brought him, though he belonged to a patrol that got in a lot of outdoor work, and that camped out every summer in a practical way.

Being alone took some of the zest out of what had seemed, once Lieutenant Ernst's loan had saved him from his most pressing worry, likely to be a bully adventure. Now it seemed rather flat and stale. But that was partly because having tramped all night, he was really beginning to be tired. So he went on to the village, and there he found a little inn, where he got a good breakfast and a bed, in which, as soon as he had eaten his meal, he was sound asleep.

Few men were about the village when he went in. He had noticed, however, the curious little throng, early as it was, about a bulletin ominously headed, "Kriegzustand!" That meant mobilization and war. The men had answered the call already, all except those who were too old to spring to arms at once. Some of the older ones, he knew, would be called out, too, for garrison duty, so that younger men might go to the front.

In his sleep he had many dreams, but the most insistent one was made up of the tramp of heavy feet and the blowing of bugles and the rattling of horses' feet. And this wasn't a dream at all, for when he awoke it was to find a soldier shaking him roughly by the shoulders, and ordering him to get up. And outside were all the sounds of his dream. The sun was high for he had been asleep for several hours. So he got up willingly enough, and hurried his dressing because he remembered what Ernst had told him. Then he followed the soldier downstairs, and found himself the prisoner in an impromptu sort of court-martial.

Really, it wasn't as bad as that. Considering that he had no passports and nothing, in fact, to show who he was, and that no responsible person could vouch for him, he was very lucky. It was because he was a boy, and obviously an American boy, that he got off so easily. For after he had answered a few questions, a major explained the situation to him very punctiliously.

"You must be detained here for two or three days," said the major. "This is an important concentration district, and many things will happen that no foreigner can be allowed to see. We believe absolutely that you are not unfriendly, and that you have no intention of reporting anything you might chance to learn to an enemy. But in time of war we may not take any risks, and you will, therefore, be required to remain in this village under observation.

"Within the village limits you will be as free as if you were at home, in your own country. You will not be allowed to pass them, however, and if you try to do so a sentry will shoot you. As soon as certain movements are completed, you will be at liberty to pass on, on your way to Koenigsberg. I will add to Lieutenant Ernst's advice. When you reach Koenigsberg, after you have reported yourself to the police, wait there until a train can take you to Berlin. It will mean only a few days of waiting, for at Koenigsberg there are already many refugees, and the authorities want to get them to Berlin as soon as the movements of troop trains allow the railway to be reopened for passenger traffic."

Fred agreed to all this. There was nothing else for him to do, for one thing, and, for another, he was by no means unwilling to see whatever there might be to be seen here. He could guess by this time that without any design he had stumbled on a spot that was reckoned rather important by the Germans, for the time being at least, and he had heard enough about the wonderful efficiency of the German army to be anxious to see that mighty machine in the act of getting ready to move.

He did see a good deal, as a matter of fact, that day and the next. It was on the famous Saturday night of the first of August that he had left Virballen. Sunday brought news of a clash with France, far away on the western border, and of the German invasion of Belgium. Monday brought word of a definite declaration of war between Germany and France, and of the growing danger that England, too, might be involved.

And all of Sunday and all of Monday supplies of all sorts poured through the little village in an unceasing stream. Motor cars and trucks were to be seen in abundance, and Fred caught his first glimpse, which was not to be his last, of the wonderful German field kitchens, in the mighty ovens of which huge loaves of bread were being baked even while the whole clumsy looking apparatus was on the move. But it only looked clumsy. Like everything else about the German army, this was a practical and efficient, well tried device.

Then suddenly, early on Tuesday, he was told that he was free to go, or would be by nightfall. And that day all signs of the German army, save a small force of Uhlans, vanished from the village. That evening, refreshed and ready for the road again, Fred set out. And that same evening, though he did not know it until the next day, England entered the war against Germany.



Chapter III

A Strange Meeting


As he walked west Fred noticed, even in the night, a change in the country. It was not that he passed once in a while a solitary soldier guarding a culvert, as he neared a railway, or a patrol, with its twinkling fire, watching this spot or that that needed special guarding. That was part of war, the part of war that he had been able to foresee. It wasn't anything due to the war that made an impression on his mind so much as a sort of thickening of the country. Though he had traveled so short a distance from the Russian border, there seemed to be more people about.

Great houses, rising on high ground, with small, contented looking villages nestling, as it were, under their protection, were frequent. He was, as a matter of fact, in a country of great aristocratic landholders, the great nobles of Prussia, the men who are the real rulers of the country, under the Prussian King, who is also the German Kaiser. And in many of these great houses lights were burning, even after midnight, when all signs of life in the villages had ceased. The country was stirring, and there was more of it to stir. Now from time to time he heard the throbbing hum of an automobile motor. Only one or two of these passed him, going in either direction, on the road along which he was traveling. But there were parallel roads, and he could hear the throbbing motors on these, and often see the pointing shafts of light from their lights, searching out the road before them as they sped along.

Fred knew enough of Germany to understand something of what he saw and heard. It was from these great houses that a great many officers were contributed to the army. These young men had no real career before them from their birth, almost, except in the army. So it was easy to guess why the lights were burning in those mansions, and why there was anxiety among them, and why the throbbing motor cars were humming over the roads.

If Germany were beaten back in the beginning, if the task she had undertaken proved too heavy, this was the province that was sure to feel the first brunt of invasion. Behind him, to the east, Fred knew were the great masses of Russia, moving slowly, but with a terrible, always increasing force. No wonder these people were stirring, were sending out all their men to drive back the huge power that lay so near them, a constant menace!

But now, though he did not know it, Fred was approaching real danger for the first time. Many of the motors he saw and heard were going west. Though he could not guess it, they were carrying women and children away from the old houses that were too much exposed, too directly in the path of a possible invasion for the helpless ones to be left in them when the men had gone to fight. All Germany had to be defended. It happened to be the part of East Prussia to bear invasion, if it came to that.

And so the people of the great houses were making their migration. The men went to their regiments; the women to Berlin, and to the great fortresses that lay nearer than Berlin -- Koenigsberg, Danzig, Thorn. This was historic country that Fred was traversing, the same country that had trembled beneath the thundering march of Napoleon's grand army more than a hundred years before, when the great Emperor had launched the mad adventure against Russia that had sealed his fate.

But he didn't think of these things, except of Napoleon, as he trudged along. Once more he traveled through the night. Once more, as the first signs of morning came, he began to feel tired, and, despite the food he had carried with him which he had stopped to eat about midnight, he was hungry. And, as had been the case on the night of his tramp from Virballen, the first rays of the rising sun showed him a village. It was in a hollow, and above it the ground rose sharply to a large house, evidently very old, built of a grey stone that had been weathered by the winds and rains of centuries. It was a very old house, and strangely out of tune, it seemed to Fred, with the country though not with the times. It was so old that it showed some traces of fortification, and Fred knew how long it was since private houses had been built with any view to defence. It was a survivor of the days when this whole region had been an outpost of civilization against hordes of barbarian invaders.

One curious thing he noticed at once about the great house. No flag was flying from it, though it boasted a sort of turret from which a flag might well have been flung out to the wind. All the other big houses he had seen had had flags out and the absence of a standard here seemed significant, somehow.

When he entered the village he found that there was no inn. He saw the usual notice of mobilization and the proclamation of war, but the people were not stirring yet. He had to wait for some time before he found a house where people were up. They looked at him curiously, but grudgingly consented to give him breakfast. There was an old man, and another who was younger, but crippled. And this cripple was the one who seemed most puzzled by Fred's appearance in the place. He surveyed him closely and twice Fred caught him whispering, evidently about him.

Then the cripple slipped away and came back, just as Fred was finishing his meal, with a pompous looking, superannuated policeman, recalled to duty since the younger men had all gone to war. This man asked many questions which Fred answered.

"You are American?" asked the policeman, finally. "You are sure you are not English?"

All at once the truth came over Fred. They thought he was English! Then England must have entered the war! They would think that he was an enemy, perhaps a spy! Yet, though he knew now the cause of the suspicious looks, the mutterings, he couldn't utter a word in his defence. He hadn't been formally accused of anything.

"Yes, I'm an American," he said, quietly. "I'm not English. I've no English blood in me."

He had intended to try to get a place to sleep in the village, but now he decided that it would be better to get away as soon as he could. If there had been soldiers about, or any really responsible police officials, he would not have been at all disturbed. But these people were nervous and ignorant; the best men of the place had gone, the ones most likely to have a good understanding. So he paid his little reckoning, and started to walk on.

They followed him as he started. As soon as he was in the open road again, a new idea came to him. Why not try the great house on the hill? There certainly someone would know the difference between an American and an Englishman. He was very tired. He knew that, even if he went on, he would have to stop at some village sooner or later. And if he was suspected here, he would be at the next place.

And so, trying to ignore the little crowd that was following him, he turned off and began climbing toward the mansion above the village.

It was like a signal. From behind him there rose a dull murmur. A lad not much older than himself raced up and stood threateningly in his path.

"If you are an American and honest, why are you going there?" asked this boy, a peasant, and rather stupid in his appearance.

"None of your business!" said Fred, aroused. He didn't think that the advice of his friend Lieutenant Ernst to answer questions covered this.

"You can't go there. There are spies enough there already!" cried the other.

And then without any warning, he lunged forward and tried to grapple with Fred.

That aroused all the primitive fight in Fred. He met the attack joyously for wrestling was something he understood very well. And in a moment he had pinned the peasant boy, strong as he was, to the earth.

But he had got rid of one opponent only to have a dozen others spring up. There was a throng about him as he shook himself free, a throng that closed in, shouting, cursing. For a moment things looked serious. Fred now understood these people thought he was a spy. And he could guess that it would go hard with him if he didn't get away. He forgot everything but that, and he fought hard and well to make good his escape. But they were too many for him. Try as he would, he couldn't get clear, although he put up a fight that must have been a tremendous surprise to his assailants. In the end, though, they got him down, with cries of triumph.

And then there came a sudden diversion from outside the mob. Down the road from the great house, shrieking a warning, came a flying motor car. Its siren sounded quick, angry blasts, and the mob, terrified, broke and scattered to get out of the way of the car. Fred, stupefied, didn't run. He had to jump quickly to one side to get out of the car's path. Then he saw that it was slowing down, and that it was driven by a boy of his own age. This boy leaned toward him.

"I'm going to turn and go back. Jump aboard as I come by -- I won't be going very fast!" he cried.

Fred didn't stop to argue or to wonder why this stranger had come to his aid in such a sensational and timely fashion. Instead, he gathered himself together and, as the car swung about and passed him, leaped in. As he grasped the seat, the driver shot the car forward and it went roaring up the hill, pursued by a chorus of angry cries from the crowd, utterly balked of its prey.

"That was a close call for you!" said the driver, in German.

But something in his tone made Fred look at him sharply. And then part of the mystery was solved. For the driver was not a German at all, but plainly and unmistakably a Russian.

"Yes -- but how -- why -- ?"

"Wait! Don't talk now!" said the driver. "Wait till we're inside. We'll be all right there, and I've got a few questions I'd like to ask, too."

There was no more danger from the mob of villagers, however. The speed of the car, even on the steep grade, was too great to give pursuers on foot a chance, and so its driver was able, in a few moments, to drive it through great open gates into a huge courtyard.

"Now who are you?" he asked. "And why were those people attacking you?"

"They thought I was English," said Fred. "I suppose England must have declared war on Germany, too."

"She has. Aren't you English, then?"

"No, I'm American. My name's Fred Waring. You're a Russian, aren't you?"

"Yes. My name's Boris Suvaroff. This is a summer place my father owns here. He's away. I'm glad of that, because the Germans would have taken him prisoner if he'd been here."

For just a moment neither seemed to catch the other's name. Then the Russian boy spoke.

"Fred Waring -- an American?" he said. "I -- is it possible? I've got a cousin called Waring in America! My father's first cousin married an American of that name years and years ago."

"She was a Suvaroff -- my mother," said Fred, but he spoke stiffly. "Her family here disowned her -- "

"Some of them -- only some of them," said Boris. "Are you really my cousin? My father wrote to your mother long ago -- but he got no answer! He has often told me of her. He was very fond of her! Are you really my cousin?"

"I guess I am!" said Fred. "I'm glad to know that some of you will own me! My uncle Mikail had me arrested when I went to see him in Petersburg!"

And then while they learned about one another, the two of them forgot the war and the danger in which they stood.



Chapter IV

Cousins


"So you have seen Mikail Suvaroff!" said Boris. He shook his head. "We have seen little of him in the last few years. He and my father do not agree. Mikail is on the side of the men about the Czar who want no changes, who want to see the people crushed and kept down. My father wants a new Russia, with all the people happier and stronger."

"Then I should think they wouldn't agree," said Fred, heartily. "Mikail is like the Russians one reads about, dark and mysterious, and always sending people to Siberia and that sort of thing."

"It isn't as bad as that, of course," said Boris, with a laugh. "Russia isn't like other countries, but we're not such barbarians as some people try to make out. Still, of course, there are a lot of things that ought to be changed. Russia has been apart from the rest of the world because she's so big and independent. That's why there are two parties, the conservatives and the liberals. My father is all for the Czar, but he wants the Czar to govern through the men the people elect to the Duma. After this war -- well, we shall see! There will be many changes, I think. You see, this time it is all Russia that fights. Against Japan we were not united. It is the Russian people who have made this war."

"I only knew there was danger of war the night it began," said Fred. "I suppose it is on account of Servia, though?"

"Yes. That started it. They are Slavs, like ourselves. It is as it was when we fought Turkey nearly forty years ago. The Turks were murdering Slavs in the Balkans, and all our people called on the Czar to fight. This time we could not let Austria bully a nation that is almost like a little brother to Russia."

"I can understand that," said Fred. "I suppose there's enough of the Slav in me, from my mother, to make me feel like that, too."

"Even after the way Mikail treated you? Tell me about that. Why did he behave so, though I suppose you may not know?"

"I don't, really. My father is dead, you know. I and my mother are alone. She has always loved Russia, though she calls herself an American, and is one, and has always made me understand that I am an American, before all. But she has taught me to love Russia, too. And she has always told me that there were estates in Russia that belonged to her, and would belong to me. She and my father were angry and hurt because of the way her family treated them, but she said that some time she wanted me to take possession of the estate, and to live for a little time each year in Russia. She said that the peasants on the place would be better off if I did that."

"Yes," Boris nodded. "That is what those who criticise us do not always remember. Russian nobles do look after their peasants. The peasants in Russia have not had the advantages of the poor in other countries. They are like children still. My father is a father to all the people on our estate. When they are sick, he sees that they are cared for. If there are bad crops, he gives them food and money. We must all do such things."

"That's what she told me. Well, she wrote letters and she could get no answers. So she decided to come herself. But she was taken ill. Not seriously, but ill enough so that the doctor did not want her to travel. And that was why I came. I went to my uncle, because he was in charge of her affairs. And then, though he was kind enough when I first saw him, and promised to help me, I was arrested. All my papers were taken away, and all my money. And he brought me to Virballen, after I had been kept in a sort of prison for three or four weeks. There I was taken off the train for Berlin and put across the border, without any money or passports. The German lieutenant himself was going to send me to Berlin, but then the news came that war had been declared, and he advised me to walk. I was held up at the first village I came to, and I got as far as this. You saw what happened here in this little village."

"That is very, very strange," said Boris, vastly puzzled. "Do you know what charge was made against you?"

"No! Some tommyrot about a conspiracy against the Czar. But just what it was I was never told. I am forbidden to re-enter Russia."

"I don't understand at all," said Boris. "Mikail can't want to keep your mother's property for himself. He is a very rich man -- by far the richest of the family, though none of the Suvaroffs are poor. And I know about your mother's lands, because they are next to our own."

"The money that comes from them has always been sent to her," said Fred. "That was what I was thinking of, too. There was no trouble, you see, until it seemed that we might want to live on the place from time to time."

"Yes. My father has had something to do with the arrangements. Your mother is well off, even without her own property, isn't she?"

"Yes. My father was not a millionaire, but he always had plenty," answered Fred, very frankly.

"Mikail did hate the idea of her marriage," said Boris, reflectively. "I could understand this better if I thought that he was trying to keep her inheritance from her to show his dislike. But it cannot be that. There is something very mysterious. I wish my father were here! I think perhaps he would understand."

"Where is he, Boris?"

"With the army by this time! He did not believe there would be war, to the very last. That is the only reason I am still here. But he himself was called back as soon as things began to look serious. I stayed here with my tutor but he is gone now. He is a German, and has been called out. It is fortunate that my father had gone, because the Germans would have held him, of course, if he had been here. They have come here three or four times to look for him, but now I think they have decided that we have told the truth, and that he is not here."

"How did you happen to come to my aid in such a fashion? I was beginning to think that I was in serious danger down there."

"You were, Fred! They thought you were an English spy. And they hate the English worse than they do us, I think. They have thought that the English should be on their side. When they found it could not be so, they thought that at least England would be afraid to fight."

"I see that. But you -- what brought you out?"

"I know those people. And when I saw that they were attacking someone, it seemed to me that I couldn't just stand by and look on. It was sure to be someone on my own side that they were treating so -- the cowards! But a mob is always cowardly. And, of course, I knew that I could manage easily with the automobile. They were sure to scatter when they saw it coming, because they are afraid of motors, anyway."

"Well, you can belittle it as much as you like, but you certainly saved me from an awfully nasty situation. And you didn't know who I was, either!"

"No, I didn't, of course. But it makes me feel all the better to find out it was you, Fred. Still you know we're not out of the woods yet."

"We're all right here, aren't we?"

"I don't know. I think the Russians will be in East Prussia, and well in, before very long. If that happens and the German army is pushed back of this line, these people will be entirely out of control, except if Russian troops happen to come to this particular spot -- and there's no especial reason why they should."

"You mean they might attack the house?"

"They might do anything, especially if the war seems to be going against them. They're good enough people, as a rule, but in times like these there's no telling what will happen."

"I hadn't thought of that. But -- yes, you're right, of course. What do you think we'd better do, Boris?"

"There's nothing to be done at once. We've got to wait a little while, and let the situation develop. If we tried to get away now, it would be very risky indeed, I think. You see, between us and the Russian border there are a lot of German troops. And, even if you went back now toward Koenigsberg and Berlin, I'm afraid you'd have a hard time. You see, you haven't any passport. And you're partly Russian. Then you've been here, and they'd know that. I'm afraid you'd stand a good chance of being locked up. Tell me just what happened at Virballen."

Fred told him all that he could remember, and Boris frowned.

"Ernst will make a report, you see," he said. "I'm afraid they'll be looking for you. It makes it look as if you were in a bad hole."

"How do you mean? There's nothing in what happened there to interest Germany, is there?"

"If things had been normal that night, you'd have found out what there was, I can tell you! You see the Russian and the German secret police work together very well. It's all right when they're looking for nihilists and violent revolutionaries -- the sort of people who would think it a great thing to assassinate either the Kaiser or the Czar. But the trouble is that if a big man in either Germany or Russia has a grudge against someone, he can use that whole secret police machinery against him. That's what Mikail Suvaroff was doing to you."

"But the Germans?"

"He would have seen to it, I suppose, that the secret police on our side told the Germans here some cock and bull story -- enough to induce them to make it unpleasant for you. That was arranged in advance probably. Right there on the border, with war starting, those fellows lost their importance. The soldiers, like Ernst, were in full command. But they'll be as busy and as active as ever a little way behind the fighting line, looking for spies. They'll remember what the Russians had to say about you, and they'll decide that you're a suspicious character, and lock you up in some fortress till the war's over!"

"Gee! That's a nice prospect! Say, Boris, what am I to do? If I go to Berlin, I'll be arrested! If I go back to Russia, my uncle will probably have me boiled in oil or something! If I stay here, your peasant friends down below will lynch me! I'm beginning to think I'm not popular around here!"

Boris laughed, but his eyes were grave.

"It's a ridiculous situation," he said. "I don't really know what to say. I don't believe you need to fear Mikail very much. He has a good deal to think of by this time, because, now that the war has come, he won't have time for intrigue. He's a first-class soldier. He made a splendid record in the war with Japan -- and not many of our generals did, you know. But I tell you what I think we'd better do. Wait here until we hear from my father. He will know. And when he learns that you are here, he will be able to protect you in some fashion."

"But how are you going to hear from him here?"

"That's a secret -- yet! But there's a way, never fear. A way that the Germans don't suspect, and won't be able to interfere with. Tell me, Fred. If it is safe for you to go back into Russia, will you stand by me? Or would you rather take your chance of going home through Germany? I'm a Boy Scout, and we have known for a long time some of the work we would have to do if war came."

"I'm with Russia, even if America stays out," said Fred, with instant decision. "Blood's thicker than water -- you know the old saying. And I am half a Russian. If there's any way that I can help, you can count me in. I'm a Boy Scout, too, when it comes to that. I didn't know there were any in Russia, though."

"There are. They're all over Europe now, you know. Well, we'll see. What's this?"

A servant had entered.

"There is a man who would see you, Boris Petrovitch," he said, using the familiar address of Russian servants.



Chapter V

The Germans


Boris jumped up.

"That is good!" he said. "I have been hoping he would come."

"You do not know who it is," said the servant. "Boris Petrovitch, do not see this man. He is a German. He looks to me like one of their spies."

"I will look at him first," said Boris, with a smile. "But, Vladimir, I think your eyes are getting feeble. It is time you were sent to the place in the Crimea to rest, like the old horses that can no longer do their share of the work."

Vladimir bridled indignantly. But then a slow smile came over his face.

"Is it Ivan?" he asked.

"It should be," said Boris. "I shall know as soon as I see him."

The newcomer was waiting in the great hall. Boris, with Fred at his heels, got a glimpse of him; then without ceremony he ran down the polished staircase.

"So you have come at last!" he cried.

Ivan was a loutish German in appearance, and only his eyes betrayed the fact that he was not as stupid as he looked. At the sight of Boris he smiled, and the act changed his whole expression. But Fred thought he had never dreamed of so splendid a disguise. This man, he guessed, must have come many miles through Germany, in a country where the closest possible watch was being kept for spies, and for all, indeed, who might even be suspected of espionage. And it was easy to see how he had been able to do it. Fred knew that he must be a Russian. Yet in every detail of his appearance he was German. His clothes, his bearing, his every little mannerism, were carefully studied. Fred guessed that this was no servant, but a secret agent of much skill and experience. He was to learn the truth of his surmise before many days had passed.

"Ivan Feodorovitch!" said Boris. "So you really got through! Have you brought the -- "

He stopped at a forbidding look in the man's eye. For a moment he seemed to be puzzled. Then he understood that it was the presence of Fred, a stranger, that was bothering Ivan.

"Oh!" he cried, with a laugh. "Ivan, you may speak before this stranger as freely as before me. Let him be a stranger to you no longer. He is my cousin from America -- the son of Marie Feodorovna, who went away to be married before I was born!"

Fred was not prepared for what followed. There was an outcry, first of all, from the half dozen servants in the great hall. They crowded forward curiously to look at him. And as for Ivan, he stared blankly for a moment, and then plumped down on one knee and, to Fred's unspeakable embarrassment, seized his hand and kissed it.

"He and all of them are old, old retainers of our house," Boris explained swiftly. "To them one of our blood ranks second only to the Czar himself. My father saw to it always that here we were surrounded only by such faithful ones. These people and their ancestors before them have been in the service of us and of our ancestors for many, many generations -- since before the freeing of the serfs, of course."

It was Boris who brought Ivan back to the errand that had caused his sudden appearance.

"Have you brought the parts for the wireless?" he asked. "It was as my father foresaw. The first thing the Germans did was to come here and render the installation useless, as they supposed."

"It need not remain useless," said Ivan. "Everything needful I have brought. The station may be working by to-night. Except that there can not be anything worth sending for a few hours, it might be set up now. Better not to use it and risk betraying our secret until there is real need of it."

Boris turned to Fred to explain.

"We have spies all through East Prussia, and through Galicia and Silesia, too, of course," he said. "They can find out a good many things of interest and importance to our army. But it is one thing to obtain such knowledge and quite another to find some means of sending it back to our people. We hope, if we are not sent away from here too soon, that we can make this house very useful that way. It stands high, you see, and we have a very powerful wireless. The Germans knew this and they thought they had made it useless."

"Oh, that's great!" said Fred. "Perhaps I can help, too, because I can send by wireless. I don't know whether I would be much good with the Continental code, because I've learned only with Morse. But I might be of some use."

"Another operator will be of the greatest use," said Boris. "I know a little, a very little, about it. And there is a man here. But I am afraid that they will come very soon and take every man who is of fighting age away."

"But your men aren't soldiers!"

"Most of them have served their term in the army. But, even if they had not, the Germans would take every able-bodied man. That is all right. We are probably keeping back all Germans who might go home and go into the army, and all the other countries will do the same with men of a nation with which they are at war."

"Vladimir has all that I brought," said Ivan, breaking in now. "As for me, I must go again."

"Go? Now? Aren't you going to stay?"

"No! I have much to do. I may be back. But if I return, I shall come through the cellar -- you understand? There are strange movements of troops in this region that I cannot understand at all. There are far fewer soldiers here than I thought there would be. I have not been able to find traces of more than a single corps of Germans -- and we had expected them to have three or four, at the very least, concentrated in East Prussia as soon as the war broke out. At Augustowo they were even expecting an attack."

"Then if there are so few as that, won't we advance?"

"Ah, that I don't know! The Austrians, I hear, are very busy. They say they are moving already in great strength across the border, but that is far away from here, and it is not our concern. It is for us to keep the Germans so busy here that they will not be able to crush France before England can get her army into action. At the beginning it does not matter so much whether we win victories or not, so long as we can force the Germans to send many corps here instead of using them to invade France. But I have talked enough. Now -- good-bye, and may God be with you here!"

"Good-bye," said Boris, and Fred repeated Ivan's wish in Russian. Ivan seemed astonished.

"So your mother taught you her mother tongue!" he said. "Ah, but that is splendid!"

Then he was off.

"Ivan might have been a great actor, I believe," said Boris. "See, isn't he the German to the life as he goes, there? No wonder he can deceive them so!"

"It's pretty dangerous work for him, though, I should think," said Fred. "They wouldn't waste much time on him if they caught him, would they?"

"Only the time they needed for a drumhead court-martial. After that, if he was lucky, he would be shot instead of being hung. But he is ready, you see. It is his part. Oh, we Russians are all united now, if we never were before! Germany has threatened us for years. She has set Austria against us. This time we had to fight, and you will see that all Russia will be behind the Czar. We learned our lessons against the Japanese. That was not a popular war. It was not made by the people, but by a few who forced the Czar's hand. Now we shall make the world see that though Russia may be beaten, she has the power to rise from defeat."

"What will happen here if they do take the men away?"

"They won't take them all. Only the younger ones. There will be enough left to look after the place and after us. Though if they come, I shall have to hide you, my cousin! I am just thinking of that. I shouldn't wonder if those stupid people would have sent word to someone. We had better be prepared. Come with me -- I will show you something."

Fred followed Boris, and in a few minutes found himself in a great room that was obviously the dining-room of the house. In this room there were many pictures, and the walls were panelled in oak, blackened by smoke and age. Boris looked about to make sure that they were not observed, then he touched a spot in one of the panels, and it slid open. Beyond this, however, was revealed an unbroken wall. Again Boris touched a certain spot, and now this wall, seemingly solid and unbroken, gave way, just as the oaken panel had done.

"Even if they discovered the panel, you see, they would not have the secret," said Boris. "I will show you the exact spots you must touch. Then if they come, you can reach this place by yourself. Once in here, you will be safe. Carry an electric torch always with you. I will give you one later. You will find two sets of arrows marked every few feet through the passages to which this leads. The upper ones point to the outside door that is at the end of a passage far beyond the house. The lower ones, if you follow their course, will bring you back to these panels. So you cannot lose your way."

"By George, that certainly sounds mysterious! Have you always planned for something like this?"

"Oh, these passages are very old. This house, you see, was built at a time when intrigue was more common than now. But when my father began to see, as he did years ago, that Germany was sure to force war upon us, and that it would probably come in his lifetime, he made many changes. This is not really a private house at all -- it is a little outpost of Russia, here in the midst of an enemy's country. And it is not the only one. In Silesia and in Galicia we have places like it."

"Perhaps the Germans will find that Russia is not so slow after all!"

Outside now there rose a peculiar sound, but one that Fred identified at once.

"That sounds like your Germans coming now, Boris," he said, quietly. "I've heard crowds making just that same noise at home -- on election night, for instance, when they were coming to make the winner give them a speech."

Boris listened for a moment, then he went to a window.

"Yes," he said. "But it's not the sort of Germans we need to worry about. It's only the people from the village. Old men, and women, and children -- boys, of course. I'm surprised that they should come for they know they can't get in."

But even as he spoke, there came a thunderous sound of knocking at the outer door and the sharp grounding of arms -- a noise as ominous as it was unmistakable.

"There are soldiers, too. They are here much sooner than I thought they could come!" exclaimed Boris. "Here, into that passage with you! Listen! Follow the arrows! They will lead you down. Stop at a double arrow. You will be able to hear. The wall is very thin there, on purpose. You can hear what is going on in the great hall and still be perfectly safe. I'll come for you as soon as I can get rid of them."

"All right. But will you be safe yourself? Oughtn't you to come with me, Boris?"

"Oh, they won't do anything to me! I'm only a boy, you see. They'll never think that I could be dangerous. In with you, now! We can't keep the soldiers out. I don't want to give them an excuse for burning the place down, and they'd do it in a minute if there was any resistance."



Chapter VI

The Tunnel


Fred found the secret passage much less confusing than he had thought it likely to be. As soon as he had stepped in, the panels slid back into place, and the passage was immediately dark. But Boris had had time to find an electric torch for him, and had told him where to find another -- or two or three, for that matter -- when that was exhausted.

"We've always kept them there in case of emergencies," he had explained.

So Fred had felt assured of a supply of light, which was the one absolutely necessary thing if, as was entirely possible, the German soldiers stayed in the house for any time. One other thing, of course, was necessary; food and drink. And that, too, he knew where to find. Boris had told him of a store of compressed foods, and of fresh water, piped into this amazing passageway from the outer entrance, far beyond the limits of the gardens and grounds of the house.

The first thing Fred did was to switch on the light of his torch and inspect the warren in which he had found sanctuary. It was not at all the musty, bad smelling place he had expected it to be. The walls had been plastered and stained a dull grey, which did not reflect the light from his torch appreciably. The arrows appeared, as Boris had said they did, at frequent intervals.

"Not much of a secret." That was Fred's first thought. "But it needn't be. The men who worked in here are the ones the family can trust absolutely, I suppose."

It gave Fred a certain thrill to feel himself in touch with such things, to know that he belonged to such a family as the Suvaroffs, capable of inspiring such devotion in its retainers -- which, though Boris regarded it as a matter of course, seemed a great thing to Fred, with his American upbringing.

"What a piece of luck!" he reflected. "Imagine my stumbling on such a splendid fellow as Boris! If it hadn't been for all this trouble, I might never have known I had a cousin! And he's the sort of cousin I call worth having! He amounts to something -- and I don't believe he's as old as I am. Well, I've got to show him that an American scout can keep up his end! I'll try to play the game with him."

It made up for all the trouble he had had since he had first seen his uncle. He was more puzzled than ever, after what Boris had told him, to account for the behavior of Mikail Suvaroff.

"I'll bet there's some explanation," he said to himself. "I certainly hope so! Seeing Boris makes me inclined to like these Russian relatives a whole lot, and I'd like to think that Uncle Mikail could square himself somehow. He's got a whole lot to make up for, of course."

Though he did feel that very strongly, he was able now to frame a thought that had come to him more than once after he had become certain that it was Prince Suvaroff who had caused his arrest. And that was that Suvaroff had seemed far too big and important a man to do a small, petty thing.

"He's got a wrong idea of me, some way," Fred decided. "He has heard something, or made up his mind to something that isn't so. Well, I hope I get back to Russia and stay out of jail long enough to find out what was wrong. Perhaps this war will make a difference, especially if I'm lucky enough to be able do something for 'Holy Russia'."

Fred moved along quietly while he was thinking of the extraordinary sequence of events that had brought him to where he now was, flashing his light on the arrows, and looking for the double mark that would show him he had reached the spot of which Boris had told him. But when he got there he had no need of any sign, for he could hear voices distinctly on the other side of a very thin wall. Boris was speaking.

"I'm so sorry, Herr Hauptmann," Boris was saying, in faultless German. "I did see some of the peasants chivying a fellow down below. And I did go out, of course, in my car, to see if I could help him. I got him away from them. But he didn't come all the way back. He wanted to go on, and it's not just the time I should choose for entertaining guests. So I didn't urge him to stay."

"I'm sorry to seem to doubt your word. In fact, Prince, I don't," said a rumbling voice, that of the German captain Boris had been addressing, as Fred could guess. "But was this person you rescued so -- chivalrously -- an Englishman?"

"I really don't know, Herr Hauptmann. He might have been. Or an American. One or the other, I should think."

"Clever Boris!" thought Fred. "He'll tell him some truth and some fiction! He has got to deceive him, of course -- that's war."

"I have reason, Prince, to think that he was an English spy," the captain went on. "You will allow my men to make a search? And, by the way, I shall be sorry to take away your servants, but my orders are to arrest and send to detention camps every man of military age I find here."

"I understand, captain. I am entirely in your hands, of course. I should like to know if it will be possible for me to return soon to Russia?"

"You must go to higher officers than myself, Prince," said the captain. "If it rested with me -- ! But, of course, it does not. If you see your father soon, however, will you give him my compliments? And tell him from me that I should esteem it an honor if we should meet in the field?"

"Gladly, captain. It is a pity that such good friends and neighbors as we have all been must be enemies, is it not? But it was not our doing."

Fred frowned a little.

"That sounds rather bad," he said to himself. "If this captain has lived near here, he must know a good deal about the place. And, by George, if they make a search they will find the wireless machinery that Ivan brought in with him! It may be a mighty bad thing for this house and for Russia that Boris saw me and brought me in, though it was certainly lucky for me!"

But even then Fred did not guess the extent of the trouble he had really caused. He listened intently, but for a time there was silence beyond the wall. Then he heard a murmur of voices, and guessed that a report of the search for him was being made. And then the captain's voice boomed out.

"Prince," he said, "I must ask you to come with me and to consider yourself under arrest. It is very painful but those are my orders. Colonel Goldapp wishes to see you. I think it is only a form."

"What? You will take me away?" Fred caught the dismay in his cousin's tone, and winced slightly. But then he understood that it was not fear for himself that moved Boris, but anxiety lest the important plans of which he was such an essential part should be spoiled. "But my father -- he thinks that I am safe here until he can make arrangements for me to return to Russia."

"I am sorry." The German's tone, gruff though it was, was by no means unkindly. "Orders, however -- I have no choice. Doubtless you will be allowed to return as soon as the colonel has seen you."

"Well, there is no use in arguing, of course," said Boris. He raised his voice, and Fred understood that what followed was meant especially for his ears. "Where will you take me, Herr Hauptmann?"

"Colonel Goldapp's quarters are at present in the parsonage near the village. You will be examined there, Prince. We shall be there to-night, at least, perhaps longer."

"I see. I will be ready in a few moments. Will you excuse me if I write some instructions for Vladimir, who will be in charge after I go? You may, of course, read what I write."

"Assuredly."

Then there was silence. The room outside was so quiet that Fred had a chance to realize how perfectly the place in which he was hidden served its purpose. He could hear the heavy breathing of someone near the wall. Then a chair scraped along the floor, and in a moment he heard the scratching of a pen. And then there came a new sound, a tapping, as with two fingers. That was Boris, and quite suddenly Fred understood. Boris was tapping out a message to him in telegraphic code.

"You must take charge here," Boris tapped with his fingers. "I will tell Vladimir to get you as soon as it is safe. The parsonage where I will be taken is very near the outlet of the secret passage. If Ivan returns, tell him I am there, and that I will sing or whistle the song of the Volga boatmen from time to time, so that he may know the window of my room, if there is no guard in the room with me. Do not answer, for they might hear."

"Good boy! He certainly has nerve!" said Fred to himself, admiringly. "He doesn't know what's going to happen to him next, but he is certainly doing all he can to make things come right."

Then there was a new confusion of noise outside. Fred heard Boris call Vladimir and speak to the old servant in Russian. Then the German officer gave Vladimir his instructions.

"This place will be left alone for the present," he said. "Prince Alexander Suvaroff has been a good friend and neighbor, and, though he is an enemy, we desire to respect his property as long as possible. But neither you nor any who are left in the house with you must go out -- this for your own safety -- except to get food and then go yourself."

Fred heard a general movement then, and guessed that they were going out. Silence followed, and, after listening for a time, he decided upon an exploration of the secret passage. A vague plan was taking form in his mind already. It seemed to him that, as he was at liberty, he should do anything that was in his power to free Boris. Until he knew more of the lay of the land, he could not even make a real plan, but it was possible, he thought, that something that was in his mind might easily prove to be feasible.

It was easy, with his torch and the guiding arrows, to follow the devious, winding course of the passage. He surmised that its ascents and descents, which seemed arbitrary and unreasonable as he pursued them, were due to other entrances than the one he knew. It would be necessary, as he could understand, to have more than one means of getting in and out of such a passage. And when he found himself at last going in a straight path which sloped easily downward, he guessed that he was beyond the house, and that he had come to a part of the passage that led to the outer world.

Here there was a trace of dampness, but nothing like what might have been expected in what was really a tunnel. Fred had to admire the excellence of the construction work. The descent, as he knew from what he had seen outside, must really be very sharp. But it was managed here with turns and zigzags so that the grade was never very sharp.

Fred became suddenly conscious of a change in the air.

"I must be near the opening," he thought.

A couple of minutes proved that he was right. He now remembered that Boris had not had time to tell him how the door or gate was operated. But he decided not to go back at once, but to try to discover the secret for himself. It had occurred to him that it was more than probable that a sentry or two might be left in the house, and he had no mind to stay in the passageway, helpless and useless, if Vladimir found it impossible to let him out at once.

At the end of the passage he found a solid, seamless door. He decided at once it must work on an axis of some sort and that it must be set in motion by pressing a spring. And so, steadily and systematically, he searched the whole door, until he struck the right spot at last. As the door moved, he marked the spot with a tiny pencil mark. It swung open -- and he looked into the eyes of a startled German soldier, his mouth wide open!



Chapter VII

A Daring Ruse


It would be hard to say which was more surprised -- Fred or the soldier. For just a moment they stood, both of them, perfectly still, staring at one another with fallen jaws. And then Fred acted by pure instinct, and without the semblance of a plan in his mind. He had played football in school and on the team of his scout troop in America. And now he dived for the astonished German's legs and brought him down with a flying tackle. The heavy gun flew out of the soldier's hands, and, fortunately for Fred, he fell so that his head struck the ground heavily. He was stunned and, for the moment at least, safe and out of commission.

There was time, therefore, for Fred to see how the ground lay. He found that he was in a slight hollow, sandy in the bottom, where he stood and the soldier lay. He imagined that at certain times this hollow might be filled with water, for the sand had that appearance, and, moreover, there was a gully, evidently washed out by water, leading down into the pit.

"Wonder how long he's good for?" speculated Fred, looking at the soldier. "A few minutes, anyhow. He got quite a bump!"

He satisfied himself in a moment that the soldier was not badly hurt. He was a ridiculous figure as he lay there sprawled out. His breathing was heavy; it sounded almost like heavy snoring. He was very young, scarcely more than a boy himself. His uniform was entirely new, as was his equipment. He was very slight too, and his face was typical of a certain sort of German. He looked, Fred thought, like a bird. It was a queer idea, and he laughed as it came to him, but it did describe this German absolutely.

"I'll risk it," Fred decided. He hesitated about the door. Perhaps he ought to close it. But if he did, he couldn't open it again from this side for that was a secret he hadn't learned. And, after all, the only danger was that the soldier might come to his senses and go in -- and if he did that, Fred could follow him. So taking the rifle, he crawled along the gully the rain had washed out, moving very cautiously. As he neared the top, he lifted his head and saw, not more than fifty yards away, a grey stone house, simple and unassuming. A flag pole had been put up in front of this house, and a German flag drooped from it. Soldiers were all about the place, and two automobiles stood before the door. Motorcycles were lying on the ground. While Fred watched, two men rode up on the snorting, crackling little machines and hurried into the house.

This was undoubtedly the parsonage, now being used as the headquarters of Colonel Goldapp. Fred's heart sank as he surveyed the place. It seemed to him that there wasn't much chance that he could rescue Boris. There were too many Germans about. Even though there was no reason for the staff to anticipate an attack, he could guess that the place would be well guarded. And yet he was here because he hoped that he would be able, after seeing the parsonage, to devise some plan of getting Boris away.

However, that was something to be attempted later, if at all. His chief concern now was for the soldier he had thrown. And now he made his way back, and found to his dismay that the man was beginning to recover his senses. As Fred came back he stretched, yawned, and sat up, with the most ludicrous mixture of fright and wonder in his eyes. Fred had his gun, and at the sight of that the soldier spoke indignantly.

"Give me back my gun!" he said, testily. "It is against the rules for anyone to touch my gun. If you let the corporal catch you with that, there'll be trouble. I promise you!"

Fred had hard work to control his features. He wondered if the man was really a little simple-minded, or if the effects of his fall still confused him. He finally decided that both theories were right. For a moment he hesitated, wondering what to do. He wanted to get back into the passageway, and he did not want the German to see him doing it. As he thought, he studied the entrance attentively. And he was startled suddenly to find that he could not see it! Had something happened? Had the door closed automatically? If that were so, he was in a nice fix, and he would soon join Boris as a prisoner.

But then he realized that the seeming disappearance of the opening was simply the result of clever screening, by means of bushes. It had deceived him for the moment. He saw that the door was so contrived that anyone emerging from it would seem to anyone even a few feet away, to be simply coming out from behind a bush. And then he got his great idea, an idea that made him turn his head, so that the soldier would not see the grin he could not suppress.

"Here, give me that gun!" said the soldier, again. He was more impatient than before, and his tone was one of anger. He struggled to his feet, too, and stood, swaying uncertainly, still weak and very dizzy as the result of his fall.

"Beware!"

The word came in a sepulchral, heavy voice from directly behind the soldier. He swung around, greatly puzzled.

"Who's there?" he called, sharply.

"I am everywhere!" said the same voice.

But now it came from the very ground at his feet.

And then the voice spoke, swinging around, as the soldier turned, like a dancing dervish, trying always to face the voice, only to have it come from some new quarter.

"Attend carefully to what I say!" said the mysterious voice. "You have risked death by coming to this spot! But I am merciful, and I wish to preserve all soldiers who fight for their fatherland! I am the spirit of this place! I command you to go! Go up the gully. Stand with your back turned to this place and count one hundred. Then, and only then, you may return. Your gun will be here, and you may then go in peace. This ground is sacred to me. On your life, when you have regained your gun, go! Do not look back! Do not hesitate! And, above all, tell no one what you have seen! I have spoken!"

The soldier was trembling now in every limb. He looked hard at Fred, as if he suspected that he might have something to do with this mysterious, awesome voice. But Fred's lips had never moved. Fred, at home, had often amused the guests of his family and the gatherings of the scout patrol to which he belonged with this trick of ventriloquism. But the German evidently had never heard of such a thing. And suddenly he broke into a run. He made for the gully and ran along it with stumbling feet.

"Now stop!" boomed the voice -- directly in front of him! "Not a step further! Begin to count aloud. But do not shout!"

"Ein, zwei, drei, vier -- " began the German, obediently.

And Fred, half choking with suppressed laughter, slipped behind the screened entrance of the secret passageway, while the soldier's back was still turned. He did not quite close the door, but waited to make sure that the German's curiosity did not get the better of his fright, which had certainly been real enough. But it was all right. The man counted right up to a hundred, and once or twice, to Fred's huge amusement, when he stammered, and lost track of his numbers, he went back and counted several of them over again! But he finished at last, and Fred heard him come stumbling down the gully. He seemed to hesitate then.

"May I really go now?" he asked. "I did not know there was a spirit here, or I would not have come."

"Yes. Go, and quickly!" said Fred, throwing his voice out so it came from far above the soldier.

He heard the soldier running then, and in a moment closed the door behind him, and began retracing his steps along the secret tunnel.

"Gee! That was a close call!" he said to himself. "Serves me good and right, too, for doing more than I was told! I might have spoiled everything by not waiting until I knew more about the place. If that soldier hadn't been ready to see a ghost in anything he didn't have some reason to expect to meet, I'd be in a lot of trouble now. And yet I'll bet he's brave enough, too. If he had an enemy he could see and touch, he'd fight all right."

But Fred had more to think about now than what had happened, or what might have happened, either. He was more interested in what was to come next. He went along, flashing his torch. There was no sound at the thin wall, where he stopped, when he reached it, to listen for the sound of voices in the great hall. That encouraged him. He decided that if any soldiers had been left on guard in the place, they would have been in there. And when he came near to the panel by which he had entered, when he let his torch wink out he saw that there was a light ahead of him.

For a moment he caught his breath, wondering if some enemy had discovered the secret, and was waiting to pounce on him. But he went on, because he decided that if anyone were waiting they must know already that he was in the tunnel. And in a moment he came face to face with old Vladimir.

"The coast is clear, excellency," said the old Russian. "All the Germans have gone -- a curse upon them! My master has told me to treat you as if you stood in his place until he returns. I have the things that Ivan brought. Is it your pleasure that I should deliver them to you?"

Fred was puzzled for a moment. Then he remembered the wireless.

"Oh, yes, by all means!" he said. "And show me the room where the wireless is. You know all about that, Vladimir?"

"I know where it is. I do not understand such devil's work, but I am an old man, and stupid."

Fred laughed.

"Perhaps it's devil's work, but if we have any luck it will be pretty useful to us," he said. "Come on, if it's safe for me to come out. There's a lot for me to do."

Vladimir led the way to the top of the house. On the roof, like a pent-house, there was a little room or cupola, and in this was a partially dismantled wireless installation. Fred was left there alone while Vladimir went off to get the things that Ivan had given to him for safekeeping, and he studied the installation closely. It was different from any that he had ever seen, but its leading principle, of course, was familiar to him. At first it surprised him to find that it was supplied with power by weak batteries, which the Germans had ruined.

"You couldn't send more than twenty miles with those batteries!" he said to himself.

But when Vladimir returned that was explained. For he removed a picture that hung on the wall and disclosed a number of wires.

"I do not understand," he said. "But my master and Ivan have told me that those wires that you see run down to a place far below the cellar, where there is a great engine that moves when petrol is put into it -- "

"Oh, I see, a dynamo run by a Diesel engine, probably!" said Fred, suddenly enlightened. "That's a fine idea! They can develop power without steam! Costs a lot -- but it's worth it, of course! I'll just try that out!"

Quickly he connected up the wires, tried out his key, after replacing the parts that had been taken away, and in a moment got a powerful spark.

"That's great!" he said, to himself, ignoring old Vladimir, who watched him in fascinated wonder. "I can send a long distance with that spark!"

Then he pounced on something he had overlooked before, -- a little book bound in black leather. As he opened it, he gave an exclamation of joy. It was a code book, as he saw at once, and on the inside of the cover was a list of wireless stations, with their calls. There was one at Virballen, he saw, and a dozen other places just over the border, and running quite a distance into Russian territory, including one at Augustowo, were named.

"Ivan told me to guard that book as if it were my life," said Vladimir. "He said to put it in a safe place, and to destroy it if the Germans found it, even if they killed me for doing it."

"He was right," said Fred, soberly. "If the Germans got that book, it would be as valuable to them as a whole army, Vladimir."

"It is very strange," said the old man. "I do not understand, but I am old and stupid, and it is not for me to question my betters."

Fred sat down and studied the code for a few moments. More than ever he was glad now that his mother had always insisted that he must be able to read and speak her Russian tongue. He would have to send in Morse, instead of in the somewhat simpler Continental code, but that, he thought, would make little difference. Some operator would be certain to understand his sending.

And now he sat down and began calling Suwalki. He would have liked to call Virballen, which was nearer, but he was not sure that the Russians were still in possession of their station there, since he remembered that the Germans had had the superior force there on the Saturday night when the war broke out -- a night that seemed to lie a century in the past now!

For a long minute he hammered out his call. And then through the air, over miles of hostile country, came a welcome whisper in his ear -- the whisper of the answering call from Suwalki! He was in touch with Russia!



Chapter VIII

Within The Enemy's Lines


For many reasons Fred did not want to hold a long talk with the Suwalki operator. German wireless stations were undoubtedly at work in the surrounding country, and, though there was no great danger that his messages might be intercepted and read, it was not advisable, of course, to let the Germans, who were sure to be watchful, know that there was a private Russian station somewhere within German limits. The instruments here were tuned to a certain wave length, and he guessed that this was standard for all Russian military stations, and different from that of the Germans. But when he held his circuit to listen he got whisperings that sounded almost like static electricity. It was evident that a good many stations were sending, and that the air all about was full of the waves.

So he contented himself with a brief and direct report of what had happened, explaining why Boris was not himself present to make this report. He asked for information as to the movements of the Russian army, but got no satisfaction.

"We don't know ourselves," said the Suwalki operator. "Things are moving very fast, but absolutely no news is being given out. I know that our cavalry -- Cossacks, chiefly -- have crossed the border at half a dozen different points. The Germans and the Austrians have invaded Poland, and our troops have all been withdrawn from that region. The concentration there is going on at Brest-Litovsky, and behind the line of Warsaw-Novo Georgevsk. But here there are a good many troops. There may be Cossacks within a few miles of you. They are raiding. Here it is said that our first move will be to try to cut the German railways."

That was all he could find out. He arranged for word of Boris's seizure to be sent to his father, and then closed his circuit and went below, in search of old Vladimir.

By now it was afternoon, and Fred began to think that if Boris had been coming back that day he would have arrived already. Plainly, it seemed to him, Colonel Goldapp must have decided to retain him as a prisoner. He wanted to get down near the parsonage again, but he was afraid to venture out by the secret passage. He didn't know how thoroughly he had frightened the soldier who had so nearly caught him. If the man had recovered his wits and decided that it was no ghost, but a very substantial and real person who had bowled him over, there would doubtless be a guard in the hollow, by the outer entrance of the tunnel. And, in any case, it was too risky to seek egress by that means again in broad daylight.

"Vladimir," he said, when he found the old servant, "I want you to make me look like a German, if you can. Disguise me, so that I may go down toward the village safely. Is it possible?"

Vladimir studied him for a moment.

"I think so," he said. "There are plenty of clothes here, and there is a man who has often helped when there were to be private theatricals."

The transformation was soon completed, and when he looked at himself in a glass Fred had to laugh. His clothes were those of a Prussian peasant, and a few very slight changes in his appearance had been made by the man to whom Vladimir had spoken. They worked wonders, and Fred decided that he could go anywhere in Prussia now with impunity.

"Is it safe for you to leave the house?" he asked Vladimir.

"Yes, for they think that I am harmless," said the old man.

"I wish to know how to open the door of the tunnel from the outside," said Fred. "But I think it would be unsafe to go there directly. It will be better for you to start out and get there as if you had gone by chance. It is near the parsonage where my cousin is, and if anyone questions you, you could say, I should think, that you wanted to be near your master."

"Yes," said Vladimir. "That would be safe."

"Then do you go there and stay, unless they drive you away. I will go there, too, if I can, and if the coast is clear and no one is watching, you can show me. Unless, indeed, you can tell me now?"

"It will be better for me to show you," said Vladimir. "The looks of the outside change constantly. A storm will destroy a bush, or some other landmark there, and, though I could touch the proper spot in the darkness myself, I would find it hard to describe it to you. I will start at once?"

"Yes. And I will come to you, if it is safe, as soon as I can. I should not be more than ten minutes behind you in reaching the hollow."

Nothing about the whole adventure upon which he had embarked so strangely, and with so little intention on his own part, impressed Fred more than the unquestioning obedience old Vladimir yielded to him. More than ever before, he realized that the Suvaroffs must indeed be as great a family as his mother had declared. Though she had become a true American, Mrs. Waring had never ceased to love the land of her birth, and she had always tried to impress Fred with her own feeling for the great house to which she had belonged.

"Such families as the Suvaroffs can do much harm to themselves and to others," she had said. "But they can also be of great service to those of their blood, to those who are dependent upon them, and to their country."

The truth of this was constantly being impressed anew upon Fred at this time. He was struck especially by the difference between the way that the people of this house treated Boris and himself, and the attitude that had been noticeable in those who had served his uncle, Mikail Suvaroff. Mikail was decidedly a greater figure than Boris's father. Yet it was not devotion that he seemed to inspire. He won obedience, not because his people were devoted to him, but because he had filled them with fear, and because they knew the consequences that would certainly follow if he were displeased in any way.

It was still light when Fred left the house. He went out by a side entrance, reaching the road from the garden. Vladimir had gone down the hill before him. It was understood that he would manufacture some errand as an excuse for his appearance in the village. A number of the people of the village were in the road near the great house; they stared at it curiously, and with hostile murmurs. They paid no attention to Fred, however, and this convinced him that his disguise was good. He passed near them, and he breathed more freely when he had gone by.

At the foot of the hill he turned away from the village. Here he remembered something that both amused and annoyed him. He had not asked just where the parsonage was. He knew its location with reference to the outer portal of the tunnel, to be sure, but he had come to that underground. However, he remembered where the sun had been when he had emerged into the open air before, and, after some profitless scouting about, a passing motorcycle set him on the right track. It set him thinking, too.

"There are an awful lot of these fellows with dispatches running about," he said to himself. "It seems to me that this place is more than a colonel's headquarters. A colonel has just one regiment under him, and he certainly wouldn't need so many riders to carry his orders about -- unless he were in command of a detached fort or position, and Colonel Goldapp isn't. I guess he's there, right enough, but I've an idea there's someone more important, as well. It might be worth while to find out just what is going on around here."

But that could wait. For the moment his task was to meet Vladimir and then to spy out the parsonage. Meeting Vladimir proved easier than he had hoped. He followed the trail of the man on the motorcycle until he was within sight of the grey stone parsonage, and then had his bearings exactly. He approached the hollow cautiously, but no one was around. The ground was fairly soft; there had been rain within the last three or four days. And so, as he approached the spot of his encounter with the superstitious soldier, Fred was able to tell that no visitation had been made to the hollow. He marked the footsteps of the soldier; the man had evidently run from the place.

Looking around cautiously, he saw that everything was clear, and dropped down on hands and knees as he reached the gully. Vladimir was waiting, and in less than a minute explained the secret of the door.

"All right," said Fred. "Now you get back to the house, and either be near the entrance to the passage yourself, or keep someone stationed there. I don't know what's going to happen, so I can't tell you, but I think that maybe I shall get Boris away from the parsonage."

Vladimir's eyes gleamed.

"I am an old man," he said, "and I fear that I am useless. But if I can help to rescue him -- "

"If you can help, I'll let you know," said Fred. "But I don't know yet even how I shall set about it. And I think it's more important for someone we can trust absolutely to be in the house. There may be nothing for you to do there, and yet, if anything does come up, you will be needed there very quickly. Shall you go back through the tunnel?"

"No. They may have watched me as I came out, and it will be better for them to see me return. No one suspects the tunnel yet, but some of these Germans are clever."

"Right! Well, I know how to get into it now from this end, and that may help a lot. But I hope that when I use it again Boris will be with me."

He let old Vladimir go out first. Then, after waiting for several minutes, he went up the gully in his turn, and set out boldly and with no attempt to hide his movements, for the parsonage.

There was even more activity there now than there had been when he had first set eyes upon it. There were more automobiles; four of them altogether. At the wheel of each sat a soldier driver in grey uniform, and with a cloth covered helmet. Each car was of the same type, a long rakish grey body, low to the ground. As he neared the house an officer wearing a long, grey coat came out, accompanied by two or three younger men. He turned to speak to them, then got into one of the cars, which immediately drove off. As it went a peculiar call was sounded, more like a trumpet than an automobile horn. Fred guessed then what he afterward learned to be a fact; that the automobiles used by the German staff officers on active service had horns that indicated the rank of the officer using them.

It seemed to Fred that there were more officers than soldiers about. There seemed to be only enough soldiers to provide a guard. Sentries were all about, but there were officers almost in swarms. He walked along, indifferently rather than boldly, and he was sharply challenged when he drew fairly near to the house.

"You can't go any further, youngster," said the soldier. "The staff has taken this house."

Fred stared at him rather stupidly, but turned away. Then he was called back suddenly, and for a moment his heart was in his mouth at the thought that his disguise had been penetrated and that he was about to be made a prisoner. Like Boris, he was concerned only with the effect of this upon his plans. He did not think of his own safety, although, had he been caught, he might have expected the fate of a spy, since he was in disguise within the German lines. It proved, however, that he was not to be arrested. A young captain was eyeing him sharply.

"Come with me, boy," he said. "We are short of servants in the house here. You will do."

For a moment he was indignant, but then his heart leaped happily. If he was taken into the house as a servant, he could find out all and more than he had hoped, and that without risk.



Chapter IX

"Theres Many A Slip -- "


Once inside the house, Fred found a scene of orderly confusion. That is, it looked like confusion to him, but he could see that, for all the bustling and the hurrying that went on, everyone knew just what his part in the work was. Telephone bells were ringing all the time, and Fred noticed now that wires entered the house through the dining-room window. Evidently a field telephone system had been installed and connected this house with a whole region, of which, in a military way, it seemed to be the brain. Then Fred heard a voice that he recognized at once, and started at the sound, until he placed it as that of the captain who had taken Boris away, and remembered that the captain had not seen him, even before he was disguised.

Fred's work, he soon found, was simplicity itself. He was to do the bidding of any officer. He was sent on errands, from one part of the house to another; often he carried written messages, handed to him by staff officers, to the room in which three telegraph operators were hard at work. Generally speaking, he was there to do odd jobs and make himself generally useful. Luckily, he was taken for granted. Everyone seemed assured that he was one of the village boys, pressed into service because he happened to be the first one to come along.

But for the first hour or so it was impossible for him to make any attempt to discover if Boris was still in the house. He was too busy, and he dared not spoil his opportunity to learn something really worth while by seeming to spy about. He was rewarded before long for his patience, for just as he was beginning to despair, an officer spied him in a moment when he was not actively engaged upon some errand.

"Here, boy," called the officer, "take this tray!"

Fred took a tray from a soldier who was holding it awkwardly.

"Take it upstairs to the room on the third floor where a sentry is on guard. He will let you in. When the prisoner there has finished his meal, return with the tray to the kitchen. Do not let any knife or fork or spoon stay in the room when you go. So you will make yourself really useful and release a man who can do things for which you are too young."

It seemed to Fred, as he started upstairs with his tray, that this luck was almost too good to be true. He scarcely dared to hope for what had seemed to him the inevitable explanation of his errand. But when the sentry opened the door of the locked room, and he looked in, he saw Boris sitting dejectedly on the side of a bed. It was all he could do to suppress a cry of delight, but he managed it, and he was hugely tickled as he saw Boris's indifferent glance at him. His disguise must be good, or Boris would have known him. He put the tray down, and then walked to the window. He looked down first, and then up. Then with a grin, he turned to his cousin.

"Not a word," he said, quickly. "Do you know me?"

Boris stared; then a smile broke out all over his face. There was no need for him to put his answer into words. Fred came very close.

"Speak low, but do not whisper," he said. "Tell me, what have they done to you?"

"Nothing. Colonel Goldapp has been too busy to see me."

"I don't wonder! Boris, this is no colonel's headquarters. It is more like that of an army corps. And there is at least one general here. His name is von Hindenburg."

"Von Hindenburg? He is commander-in-chief in East Prussia! If he is here, there must be a German concentration in this region! They did not expect that! Oh, I must get out and get the news back -- "

"Yes. The wireless is working. I talked this afternoon to Suwalki."

And in a few words he told Boris the essential facts of what had happened since the raid upon the great house on the hill on that morning.

"How often do they come in here?" he asked.

"Only when my meals are brought to me. There will be no one else now to-night, I think, unless Colonel Goldapp sends for me. They are very polite. I think I shall be alone most of the time. They have no idea that I will try to get away, because they think I know they have so many sentries and patrols about that it would be useless for me to try to do it."

"Listen, then, Boris. I will go now. I think they will let me go now. I have been working hard for them about the house. But I will come back later. Stay near your window, so that I can see a handkerchief if you hold it. Then I will throw up a stone with a string tied about, and you can draw up a rope and slip down. If this general is so important we ought to let them know. I will send the word by wireless and then come back."

"Good! It is risky for you. They wouldn't spare you if they caught you trying to help me to get away. But if you can manage it at all, have clothes like the ones you wear ready for me, in a bundle. Vladimir will get them for you."

Fred nodded, and was off at once. He was detained a little time when he went down with the tray, but he pleaded finally with a kindly looking officer, telling him that he was very tired, and had not expected to stay away from home so long, and was allowed to go. He went to the opening of the tunnel, found that the place was unguarded, and decided from the general appearance of the hollow that it was not visited by soldiers. Indeed, it was within the outer line of sentries, and, in a way, safer because of that. Had it been beyond that line, it would have been much harder to reach.

The operator at Suwalki, when he called him by wireless, complained bitterly, saying that he had been trying for hours to get an answer. Boris's father had been heard from and was extremely anxious to get into touch with his son. But it seemed the news that Fred sent made up for this. The man at Suwalki was incredulous.

"Our information is that General von Hindenburg is many miles from where you are," he flashed back. "Are you sure of your facts?"

"Absolutely sure," Fred answered. "Do you want the exact location of the house used as headquarters? I can describe it for you if you have the village shown on your map."

"Yes. Give it to me," came the answer.

Before he finished his wireless talk, Fred felt that the Russian operator did not fully trust him. Nor did he blame him. He knew the excellence of the German spy system; he had heard a good deal about it from Boris, and, for that matter, before he had even seen Boris at all. So he only laughed, though he hoped that this feeling would not prevent the Russians from using the information he had given. He could not see just how it was to be useful to them, however. Possibly the fact that von Hindenburg was here, and not to the south, was the important thing.

By this time it was growing dark, and Fred decided that it would soon be safe to try to throw the cord up to Boris's window -- as safe, at least, as it would ever be. He got a bundle of clothes from Vladimir, and this time he determined to travel through the tunnel, since he knew that if he went by the outside route he would have trouble in getting through the sentries. Luck was with him again. He was nervous as he opened the door and came out into the night, but there was no one about. At a little distance he could hear steady footsteps; evidently a sentry was walking his beat near by. But Fred's scout training had taught him how to move quietly and he slipped through the gully and toward the house without raising an alarm.

Once he was on the right side of the house, he found shelter in a clump of bushes, where, unseen himself, he could study the situation. His first thought was of the house. He soon found the window of Boris's room. Immediately below it were the windows of corresponding rooms, and one of these was lighted. This made him pause at once. For the rope to be drawn up, or for Boris to show himself before that lighted window for even the moment of a swift descent, might well be fatal. That was one point, but he speedily devised a way of overcoming that.

There was another danger to be considered, and it took him longer to calculate this. Naturally there was a patrol about the house. Fred himself had had to avoid the sentry, making his steady round. Now he lay in the bushes and timed the man's appearances for nearly half an hour. There were two men, as a matter of fact, and they met on each circling of the house. Fortunately, their meeting came at the very end of the garden. So Fred was able to work out a sort of mental chart of their movements, and to confirm it by timing them. The two sentries met on his side of the house at the eastern end. The first walked west, the second north. The one who walked west had his back to Fred and to the window where Boris waited for a minute. Then he, too, turned north. Then came a blessed interval of just a minute, in which neither sentry was in sight. Altogether, there was a period of almost two minutes in which no eye would be fixed on Boris's window, unless the sentry chanced to turn and look back.

To make sure, Fred studied both men. And not once did either of them look back or up. Their attention did not seem to centre on the house at all. It was as if their instructions were more to prevent a surprise attack from outside, or the coming of some spy, than to watch those who were already in the house.

Once he had made up his mind, Fred buried himself deeper in the shrubbery and risked using his pocket flashlight while he wrote a note to Boris, telling him what he had learned of the movements of the sentries. He told Boris, also, not to draw up the rope at once, but to climb from his window to the flat roof, something easy enough to manage, and then to move along five paces. There the rope, when it was drawn up, would be invisible against the grey stone of the house wall, whereas, against a lighted window, it would show up so plainly that the most stupid sentry would be sure to see it.

Fred had substituted a tennis ball for the stone he had originally intended to throw. The ball had many advantages. In case his aim was bad, the ball would not make a noise if it fell or if it struck against the wall, while the sound of a stone would have betrayed them had he failed to put it through the window. Now he tied his note to the ball, making it firm and secure with the end of a ball of twine. About his body he had coiled a long, very thin, very strong rope. After Boris had the end of the cord he would fasten the rope to his end, and so enable Boris to draw it up. And to guard against losing the end of the cord, he tied it to his own left wrist.

He waited for the sentries to meet; gave the one who stayed on his side a start, and then, taking careful aim, threw his ball. At home Fred had played baseball. More than once a game had depended on the accuracy of his toss of a hot grounder to the first baseman. In basketball games, he had stood, with the score tied, to shoot for the basket on a foul, when the outcome was to be settled by the accuracy of his throw. But never had he been as nervous as he was now. The ball flew straight and true, however. He saw it enter the window. And the next moment a tug on his wrist told him that Boris had it.

He waited breathlessly. Then two short pulls signalled that Boris had read his note and would follow his instructions. He gave three sharp tugs, and then settled down to wait, with beating heart, for now the crucial test was coming. The other sentry was about to appear. If he noticed the thin string, by any chance, the whole scheme would be spoiled and Fred, in all probability, would be caught and treated as a spy.

The man came around the corner of the house, walking slowly, his head down. As he neared the twine he stopped for just a moment and looked up. Fred scarcely dared to breathe. He knew what had happened. The twine had brushed against the sentry's cheek. But then a puff of wind carried it away, and the man went on, brushing at his cheek, thinking, perhaps, a moth had touched it.

One sharp tug of the twine. That was the signal to Boris to go ahead. His eyes strained on the window, Fred saw his cousin's figure appear on the sill, saw him climbing swiftly up a water pipe, and then saw him drop to the flat roof, hidden for the moment by a low parapet. Then there was another period of agonized waiting, for again a sentry was to pass. Fred used the brief interval of enforced inaction to loosen the rope and place it on the ground, tied to the loose end of the twine he took from his wrist, so that it would have a clear passage through the bushes. Then the coast was clear again, and he signalled to Boris to draw it up. Up, up went the twine; then the rope started. And at last it dangled against the side of the house. Fred, knowing it was there, could scarcely see it himself. He decided that the sentries would never notice it.

Then came the last pause. And when the sentry had passed the rope, Boris slipped over the parapet and started his descent. He had to come quickly for he had less than two minutes to reach the ground and join Fred in his shelter. Down he came, hand over hand, so fast at the end, when he just slid, letting the rope slip through his fingers, that he must have burned the skin from his palms. But he made it, and came running toward Fred. He was crouched low against the ground. But, just before he reached the bushes there was a shout from above, a flash, a loud report. A bullet sang over Fred's head, and the next moment the garden was alive with rushing, shouting men, ablaze with flashing points of electric light. They tried to hide in the shrubbery. But in vain. At this last moment, when Fred's plan had seemed sure of success, disaster had come -- for some German officer, going on the roof, had been just in time to see the rope and spoil everything with his chance shot!



Chapter X

Sentenced


Both Fred and Boris recognized at once the hopelessness of flight. Both thought instinctively of the hollow and the concealed entrance to the tunnel, and both knew that to attempt to use that now would not save them, and would give away a secret that might be supremely important at some future time, either to them or to someone else among those who shared the precious secret. The grounds were flashing with light in all directions; soldiers called to one another; men ran all around, looking for them.

And yet, hopelessly caught as they were, neither could give up supinely. Both had the dauntless fighting spirit that must be conquered, that will never give up, not only while hope remains, but while disaster, be it ever so certain, has not actually come to pass. They were in a sort of thicket, almost as thick as a primeval jungle. At the same moment the thought seemed to come to each of them that the one chance for momentary safety lay in keeping perfectly still. They were side by side, wedged in a little opening they had made for themselves, and now they went down together.

All about them the din of the pursuit continued. Officers were pouring out of the house to join the hunt. Shouts and cries resounded. Fred had to smile to himself. It seemed to him that the boasted system and order of the German army could not be what he had always heard about it if the escape of two boys could produce such a disorganization.

And then there was a sudden diversion. The noise seemed to die away. It did not cease for there was still a good deal of talking, but there was no more shouting, until there was a sudden whirring sound.

"An aeroplane!" whispered Boris. "I've seen them for the last few days, flying in all directions. They use them for scouting."

"I knew I ought to recognize that sound!" said Fred.

It seemed fairly safe for them to speak to one another now. For some reason it was quite evident they had been forgotten.

There was an interval of almost complete silence; then came a sudden explosion of orders. Half a dozen motorcycles sprang into crackling life; there was the unmistakable din of a powerful aeroplane engine, which, with no muffler, is noisy enough to wake the dead. Then came the whirring of its propeller. They were sure that if they only dared to raise their heads, they would see the machine rising near by.

But there was more to follow that was just as inexplicable. The motorcycles chugged away; then three automobiles started. Their engines roared for a moment before they subsided to the ordered, steady hum of a smooth running motor. On the first car that got away there was a horn that made Boris start convulsively as he heard its bugle note, and grasp Fred's shoulder.

"That horn belongs only to a car used by a full general!" he said. "It must be von Hindenburg going, Fred! That flying machine brought important news!"

That had been evident to Fred almost from the first. He wondered mightily what was going to happen next. It seemed incredible that the Germans, knowing that he and Boris must soon be found, and that only patience was necessary if they were to be caught, would so quickly give up looking for them. And yet -- Boris was right, of course. A general would not depart with such abundant evidence of haste and sudden decision unless some grave news had come through the air.

One question was soon settled. Scarcely had General von Hindenburg's car started, with the musical call of its horn clearing the way for it, when the search for the two scouts was renewed with as much vigor as had been shown before the coming of the aeroplane. And this time it was speedily successful. There was less din and confusion. Fred saw at once that some officer with a cool and level head had taken charge. The searchers now did the simple, obvious thing. They divided the grounds up into sections, and beat over each section thoroughly, with the result that a corporal and a private speedily came upon Boris and Fred, and, raising a sort of view halloo, dragged them out into the open, flashing their electric torches in their eyes.

"Here they are!" cried the corporal. "Herr Hauptmann, here they are!"

A captain came up quickly, and at the sight of Fred exclaimed sharply in his surprise.

"You're the boy I chose to help with the work in the house here!" he said. His face darkened. "He is a spy! Take him into the guard room and lock him up." He barely glanced at Boris. "Yes, that is the other. See that he is taken back to his quarters, corporal, and that a sentry remains constantly on guard."

"He is not a spy! If he is one, then so am I!" Boris broke out in a sharp protest. "He must be treated exactly like myself, or I must be used as he is!" throwing caution to the four winds.

"I am giving the orders here," said the German, coldly. "We have no desire to treat you harshly, Prince. You and your father have won the liking and respect of all your neighbors here, and it is a matter of regret that we must detain you at all. But you must be able to see for yourself that there is a great difference between an open enemy like yourself and one who pushes his way among us to get what information he can -- "

"I beg your pardon, captain," Fred interrupted, thoroughly awake by this time to the danger in which he stood. "It was by your orders, and against my own protest, that I came into the house here at all."

"You will have an opportunity to explain all such matters at your trial," said the captain. "I can assure you that all will be done in a regular fashion, and that you will have every opportunity to defend yourself. Colonel Goldapp will doubtless arrange for a quick hearing since we shall not be here much longer."

Fred was quite cool and collected. He was frightened, to be sure, and he was brave enough to admit that to himself. He had good reason to be frightened. There is no offence more serious than espionage in time of war, and by every rule of war he was a spy. He had pretended to be a German, which he was not, and had been found within the German lines. It was true, of course, that he had been ordered into headquarters, but that was a trifling point, and, though he had raised it, Fred knew very well that no technicality would save him if the truth about him came out.

Boris understood all this, undoubtedly, quite as well as Fred or the German captain, but he was beside himself. He felt that Fred had run into this terrible danger because of him, in order to try to rescue him from an imprisonment that, though annoying, was by no means a serious matter.

"Take me instead of him!" he cried, forgetting that with every word he was really making Fred's case worse. "I -- "

"I'll be all right," said Fred, with a cheerfulness he certainly did not feel. "All I want is a fair trial. If I get that, I'll be all right."

Unwillingly enough, Boris let himself be led away. Something in Fred's look, or in his voice, had warned him not to say anything more. So Fred saw him go, and was taken himself to the guard room, of which he was the only occupant save for the impassive Pomeranian sentry. Fred guessed, somehow, that German soldiers in war time did not often do things that caused them to be put under arrest. In the little he had seen of them he had come to understand what it was that made a German army so formidable.

He expected to be brought before the court early in the morning but, in fact, he was called out in less than an hour, and taken into the dining-room of the parsonage. Here, at the head of the table, sat an officer in a colonel's uniform; Colonel Goldapp, unquestionably, presiding over the court, which included four officers beside himself. Fred knew enough of the military law to understand what was going on. He saw a young lieutenant sitting with some papers before him. Another came and drew him aside.

"I am to defend you," this officer said, pleasantly. "That is, of course, I am to see that you get fair treatment. You are accused of being a spy. The charge, as I understand it, is that you are a Russian, but have disguised yourself as a German. If this is true, the best advice I can give you is to plead guilty and throw yourself on the mercy of the court. Your age will be taken into consideration."

"I am not a Russian," said Fred, quickly. "I am an American. I demand an opportunity to see the American ambassador, or at least the nearest American consul."

"Is that all?"

"That is all I can say. It is true that I am an American, and I believe it is my right, as a foreigner, to ask to see the representative of my country, since America and Germany are not at war, but are friendly one to the other."

"That would be true if you were charged with an offence in a civil court. But in a court-martial there are no such rules. Once more, I believe your best course is to plead guilty. I do not know the evidence against you, but I can tell you that the court might be merciful if you admitted your guilt frankly, while it would probably treat you more harshly if you forced it to prove your guilt."

Fred shook his head, however. And so the trial began. It was a real trial, and fair enough, but a trial by court-martial is not like one in a civil court, especially in time of war. There were no delays. The judge-advocate stated the case against Fred very briefly. He called as witness the officer who had brought Fred into headquarters, who said that the prisoner had been entirely willing to come. Then the corporal who had found him testified. And the third witness, when he was called, was none other than Lieutenant Ernst, who had befriended Fred at Virballen! At the sight of him Fred's heart sank. He began to understand what a strong case there really was against him.

At Ernst's first words there was almost a sensation, for the lieutenant brought out the fact that Fred was related to the Suvaroff family. The fact that Fred had gone straight to the house of his kinsman came out as a result of Ernst's evidence, and Fred knew that it would be useless to say that this had been the result of pure chance, and that he had not even known of Boris's existence. It was true, but it was none the less incredible. It was easy to see when Ernst had finished giving his testimony, which he did reluctantly, and with a good deal of sympathy for Fred, that the court had made up its mind.

There were no witnesses for Fred to call. He told his own story, but it was not believed. The finding of the court was inevitable: "Guilty as charged!" And Colonel Goldapp, in an expressionless voice, pronounced sentence.

"The prisoner is old enough, though he is only a boy, to know the fate of a spy. He risked this fate. He will be shot at once. Captain von Glahn will take charge of the execution of the court's sentence."

Fred passed through the minutes that followed as if he were in a dream. It seemed to him that it was someone else who was led into the garden, placed against a wall, and blindfolded. Von Glahn, a young officer, came and stood beside him.

"The firing squad will be here at once," he said. "I am sorry. Is there any message I can deliver for you?"

And then outside a bugle rang out, and there was a burst of wild, frenzied yelling and the next moment a crash of firing.



Chapter XI

The Cossacks


Something fell against Fred, something heavy and warm. It was a full minute before he realized that it was von Glahn, staggering, coughing. He supported the German officer for a moment. Then they went down together with von Glahn, still coughing terribly, on top. That saved Fred's life. For over him now, for the next five minutes, there raged a furious fight. Horses were all through the grounds; Fred heard them, and the savage, unearthly cries of their riders. For the first minute there was a good deal of firing. He guessed that the firing squad that had been meant for him was putting up a stiff struggle; later he knew it.

Then abruptly it was all over. There was no sound save the groans of wounded men. The firing ceased, and with it the fierce shouts of those who had invaded the garden at that most critical of moments. Fred realized afterward that he must have fainted, for when next he could see and hear, there was a faint light in the sky. He was aroused by the moving of the heavy weight of von Glahn's body, and looked up to see a bearded man, small and wiry, in a rough sheepskin coat, who grinned down at him.

"Not hurt, eh, comrade?" said this man in Russian. He seemed surprised when Fred answered in his own tongue, and started back. But he had pushed the body of the German captain away, and Fred rose to his feet a little unsteadily. It was a wild, strange scene upon which his eyes rested. All about the place where he had lain the ground was covered with evidences of a furious struggle. Nearly a score of Germans lay about, dead. Among them were half a dozen Cossacks, and over one of these stood a riderless horse, muzzling his master's body inquisitively. Fred was about to question the man who had relieved him of von Glahn's weight when there was a sudden rush, and Boris, sobbing with delight, threw his arms about him and kissed him on both cheeks.

"Here -- I say, Boris, don't do that!" he cried.

"Oh, I forgot that is not your custom!" said Boris. "But I thought you were dead! I thought they had killed you! I saw them bring you out from my window, and if the sentry had not stopped me, I would have thrown myself out to join you! Come with me -- my father is here!"

Fred was still dazed. His escape had been so miraculous that he wanted to pinch himself to see if he were still awake. A month before he had been at home in America, envied by the rest of his patrol because he was actually to go to far-off Russia by himself. And since then he had been three times a prisoner, had been in danger of exile to Siberia, and just now had escaped by mere seconds meeting a blast of bullets from a German firing squad, a victim of a war that had not even been dreamed of when he had sailed from America!

But there could be no real doubt of the truth as he followed Boris into the house. In the dining-room where he had been sentenced to death, he came upon Lieutenant Ernst, chatting amiably with half a dozen Russian officers in their white coats. The German grinned at him.

"You're in luck, youngster," he said. "I'm not so sorry, really! They didn't get what they came after, you see."

"No, worse luck!" said a Russian. "How did the old fox know we were coming?"

Ernst only looked wise, and did not answer. Fred was surprised by the way in which captive and captors mingled, seemingly on the most friendly terms. But when he thought it over, it did not seem so strange. Ernst and these Russians knew what a huge thing this war was. Each had his part to play, and would play it as well as he could. But individuals, after all, could not count for much, and the man who was prisoner to-day might be on top to-morrow. Later bitterness and personal hatred might come, but as yet, as Fred began to understand, these men hadn't come to that. They were like players on rival football teams after a hotly contested game. In the play each man would fight his hardest; after the whistle blew, friendship ruled. The referee's whistle had blown when Ernst was caught in a trap.

Boris pushed on into a smaller room. Here Fred saw a man he would have known anywhere as Boris's father, and, for that matter, as some close relative of his mother. Alexander Suvaroff, General of Division in the Russian army, looked very much like Mikail, but there was a sharp difference between them. This Suvaroff was as kindly in aspect as the other was repellent and harsh. His eyes twinkled affectionately when he saw Fred.

"Welcome, cousin," he said. "Even if our chief purpose failed, I am glad we got here in time to save you. You heard that General von Hindenburg got away?"

"I knew that before we were caught," said Fred, "but I didn't know you had come for him."

"Of course they did!" said Boris. "Your wireless message told the staff he was here, and my father led a cavalry raid behind the German lines to try to catch him. But -- he ran away!"

The general laughed at the contempt in Boris's tone.

"Of course he ran away!" he said. "I only wonder how he knew we were coming! That was bad luck -- because not once did we strike so much as a German patrol as we rode."

"I can tell you," said Fred. "An aeroplane brought word. Its pilot must have seen you as he flew overhead, and suspected that you were coming here."

"So!" Suvaroff frowned. "I did not think of that! However, it is better than what we suspected at first. It looked as if someone at headquarters must have betrayed the plan. Well, it was too good to come true. If we had caught him and his staff, we might have hastened the end of the war by a good many months. Von Hindenburg is the ablest general in Germany, though he has been in disgrace for years. They sent for him as soon as war came. He'll do good work."

Fred was thinking.

"If that aeroplane saw you coming, general," he said, "isn't there danger that they may try to surround you here?"

"Yes, more than danger. They are sure to try to do it! But their cavalry is very slow, and I do not believe they have infantry enough near by to make any trouble for us." He frowned thoughtfully. "There is something very peculiar about the whole situation around here! If von Hindenburg is here, it means that their chief concentration on this front must be here. And yet we get reports of an astonishingly small number of troops! Not more than two corps."

Boris looked eagerly at his father, and then at Fred. But before he could speak General Suvaroff went on, crisply.

"You can ride?" he asked Fred. "Good! I will see that you and Boris have horses. Then we shall start. We can be back in our own lines before daylight."

Fred hesitated. Then Boris took the words from his mouth.

"Father, I want to stay!" he said, eagerly. "It will be safe. I can get back to the house and they can never catch me there, you know! They may not even search for me, but if they do, I can hide from them in the tunnel. And you say the German movement about here is puzzling. Would it not be well to have some way of sending word from here? Ivan is at work. But no matter what he discovers, if we are not at the house, it will do no good. Let me stay!"

"I should like to stay, too," said Fred.

"Impossible!" said General Suvaroff at once to that. "You would be shot as soon as you were caught -- you are under sentence now. They would not treat you as a prisoner of war, even if they caught you among my troopers."

"But if they did not catch me -- "

"No! I cannot let you take so great a risk. You are of my kin, and I owe a duty to your mother. I shall see that you get back safely to Russia and are sent home by sea from there."

"But if I go into Russia, I shall be arrested -- those are Prince Mikail's orders," said Fred, quietly. "I am sure to be caught there, and here there is a chance that I may not be found. If you take Lieutenant Ernst with you as a prisoner, no one among the Germans will know me, except as I appear now. If I change back to my own clothes, I shall be safe from anything worse than detention. None of the officers of the court-martial escaped, did they?"

"No, that is true," said Suvaroff. He spoke thoughtfully. It was plain that Fred's argument was making an impression on him. "I have heard something of your affair with Mikail. I shall look into that. Eh -- I don't know just what to do!"

"Let us stay!" pleaded Boris. "We will be careful, and we know now just what dangers we must avoid."

"I think we shall be back here, in force, before the week is out," said his father, after a moment's reflection. "Very well, you shall stay! It is true that you may be of the greatest service. I have not the right to consider personal matters when the welfare of Russia is at stake."

It was light by now. In curious contrast to the shambles of the garden and the disorder of the house, its windows shattered by bullets, its furniture broken and draperies torn in the swift conflict that had followed the appearance of the Cossacks, roosters were crowing outside and birds were singing. General Suvaroff gave a sharp order; subordinates passed it along. A bugle sounded, and, five minutes later, after the general had said good-bye to the two scouts, the Cossack raiders rode away. They were strung out in a long column along the road. As they passed through the village Fred and Boris, watching from an upper window of the abandoned parsonage, saw the villagers watching. Boris had a powerful field glass, and through this he and Fred could see the very faces of the watching Germans. Hatred and fear mingled in the looks they sent after the invaders of their country.

"One can't blame them," said Fred, with a shudder. "War's rather ghastly, isn't it, Boris?"

He looked down into the garden, and Boris's eyes followed his.

"Yes," said the Russian. "That's the ugly part of it. It's all ugly. But sometimes war must come, it seems to me. We in Russia have never wanted to make war. We have fought because we were forced to fight. I think that is what history will say of us in this war."

"They are not going toward Russia," said Fred, looking after the raiders, who were melting into the landscape now. "Their road seems to be due west."

"They must ride in a long circle, I suppose," said Boris. "If they went straight back, they would run right into the Germans. There must be a lot of the enemy between us and the Russian lines -- their main body, you see. And my father won't want to fight. His object is to get back with as many men as possible. It would be useless to send a thousand Cossacks against an army corps."

"Oh, of course! It's wonderful to think of how they got here, Boris, riding right through the enemy's country! It's like the work cavalry did on both sides in our Civil War. They used to get behind the enemy's lines and cut telegraph wires and railways all the time."

In the village, there were now more signs of life. As the Cossacks rode by, the street had been empty, but now men and women were coming out furtively. They began to come toward the parsonage.

"Time for us to go," said Fred, with decision. "We wouldn't have much chance if they caught us here. And if we're to be of any use, those people have got to think that we've gone."

"Right!" said Boris. "Hello -- look up there! I was afraid of that!"

He pointed to a monoplane, flying high and coming from the north, from the direction of the Baltic.

"Looking for the raiders," said Fred. "Let's hurry. I think we ought to report what has happened by wireless. Your father's party may need help."



Chapter XII

The Trick


It was nervous work going through the lower floor of the house, through the garden, trampled by the rush of the Cossack charge, through bushes clipped and torn by bullets. All about was a curious silence, broken only by the sounds that the birds made, and the humming insects, which were not at all disturbed by war and the ruin it left in its wake. It was a relief to both scouts to pass into the tunnel. There everything seemed normal, strange though the place was. And in a few moments they were back in the great hall of the Suvaroff house, and were being greeted with delight by old Vladimir, though he reproached them, too, for coming back.

Their first thought was for the wireless. Fred sent a brief report of what had happened, describing the escape of General von Hindenburg. And then, as he was about to end the message, Ivan stood beside him. His eyes were shining and he seemed greatly excited.

"Tell them that von Hindenburg has only a masking force here with very few first line troops," he said. "Most of the Germans are far to the south. Their plan is to join the Austrians in an advance from Cracow. Here they hope to hold the lakes with a few troops. They expect our army to advance. They will give up Johannisberg and Ortelsburg. They will make no stand at all until we come to Allenstein. The whole movement here is a trick. They hope to lead us on here and then drive a great wedge into the heart of Poland, until they can strike at Warsaw."

Fred made no comment. He sent the message, then asked his own questions.

"You know of the raid last night?"

"I heard something of it -- and that the old fox Hindenburg escaped. Tell me the rest."

"I'll be off," he said, when they had done. "Half a mile away I have a cache. There is a motorcycle and the uniform of a German soldier -- a man of the cycle corps. I shall follow General Suvaroff."

"Can you catch them?" asked Boris, doubtfully. "They ride fast."

"Not so fast," said Ivan. "There may be fighting to do as well as running, and for fighting you need horses that are not too tired. It would be foolish to save an hour or two by hard riding and lose everything at the end for lack of the power to break through. And a motorcycle can do better than the fastest horse."

"But how did you get one?" asked Fred. "And the German uniform?"

Ivan smiled significantly.

"I met a man of about my size," he said. "I was walking. And I was tired. I took his cycle and his uniform away from him."

There was something about his tone and the look in his eyes that made Fred refrain from asking any more questions. He admired Ivan greatly, but he was a little afraid of him, too. In him he could see what lay behind the general belief that Russia was still a barbarous, partially civilized state, the underlying truth of the old saying: "Scratch a Russian, and you will find a Tartar beneath." He was glad that Ivan was on his side, and was bound to him, moreover, by his loyalty to the name of Suvaroff.

"Listen, now," said Ivan. "Here it is very dangerous. Stay as long as you can, but never let yourselves be caught in the house by any Germans. Do not let the villagers see you. Take to the tunnel without hesitation if there is an attack upon the house, or a search. I think you will be safe as long as you are watchful, but you cannot be off your guard for even a moment. The Germans will think that you went back with the Cossacks but they will try to make sure."

"We will be careful," said Boris. "You are sure of what you have learned? There will be no more than two army corps in this region?"

"That is certain. I have scouted for twenty miles to the west and I have been along the railway lines. If there were more troops coming, I should have discovered it. I am sure of that."

"And now you are going back toward our lines?"

"Yes. I may be of service to your father. And, in any case, I shall be of more use if I am with the German advanced position than if I stayed here, far in the rear. Good-bye!"

He departed through the tunnel. And then for Fred and Boris began a task almost harder than any that could have been set. They had to wait. There was nothing for them to do except sit in the little turret room. Below, Vladimir and the others kept a sort of guard, but there seemed little reason even for that.

From the turret, whence the wireless waves were sent pulsing out through the air, a fine view of the surrounding country for a good many miles was to be had. For the most part this was a level section, slightly undulating, but with very few high spots. From their vantage point the roads stretched out like ribbons or like lines on a map. Fred opened the wireless and amused himself by listening. At first he could hear only a confused jumble through the receivers that were clamped to his ear. Then he changed his wave length, experimenting until he got a clear series of dots and dashes.

"I think I'll take this down," he said to Boris. "It'll be like Greek to us, of course, but it's all German wireless talk, and it all means something. Perhaps if we're lucky, we'll stumble on to the key of the code they're using, and that might be useful."

After a time Boris, who could receive well enough but was an inexpert sender, relieved him, and Fred, taking the field glass, began to search the horizon. Soon something caught his eye and held his attention. At first he thought he saw troops moving, coming from the east. It seemed strange that German troops should be in retreat so soon, but in a moment he understood. He did not see soldiers moving along the road, but a company of civilians, with carts that were drawn by men and women. At first the sight puzzled him, but then he understood, and he called to Boris to look.

"They're clearing out the villages toward the border," he said.

Boris only glanced through the glass.

"Yes. They were doing it the day after the war began, too," he said. "It's better for them, of course. If civilians are about where there is fighting, they are in danger from both sides. The Germans wouldn't stop a minute at shelling one of their own villages if we were holding it. Fred, I think they must be going to send our little lot away, too. There are soldiers coming along the road -- Uhlans."

Fred looked down and saw a picket of lancers approaching, headed by an officer. And in a few minutes there were signs of great activity in the village. Soon the exodus began. And then the Uhlans turned at the road leading up to the great house, and began to climb.

"Coming to warn our people, I suppose," said Boris. "We'll make ourselves scarce, Fred. Vladimir can talk to them when they arrive."

But Fred did not go without one more sweeping look about him. And it showed him something that surprised him.

"I've got a curious feeling," he told Boris, when they had slipped into the secret passage. "I've got what we call a hunch in America -- a feeling that Ivan has been fooled. You didn't see what I did just now. I'm perfectly certain I saw troops marching on two roads that aren't very far apart, to the north."

"Marching east or west?"

"East. I think a real trap is being prepared, Boris. And -- I'm going to try to find out the truth!"

"How?"

"I'd better not tell you, Boris. Go back and listen -- see what you can hear at the thin wall. I'm afraid that if we both go we might be heard, if they are near there. I want to know where those Uhlans come from."

"All right," said Boris, wondering a little. He went off, and Fred, as soon as he had disappeared, began to make his way very quietly, almost stealthily, indeed, toward the other end of the tunnel -- the one that gave to the open air.

"He'd never have let me go if I had told him," he said to himself, feeling the need of justifying what looked like treachery, since his own conscience was accusing him. "And I didn't lie to him. I didn't say that I would be there when he came back. I only hope I get out before he finds I've gone!"

When he reached the opening he felt safe, and there he stopped and wrote a note to Boris, telling him what he meant to do and why he had not taken him into his confidence before.

"He's sure to find that," said Fred to himself. "He'll come down here looking for me, and I suppose he'd go out, too, no matter how dangerous it might be, if I didn't leave this note."

As he swung the door that let him out, Fred felt the little thrill that always came to him when he opened the way thus to the outer air. Ever since he had come upon the German soldier here the first time, he had had this feeling. This time, however, the way was clear, and he slipped out and made his way swiftly toward the parsonage. He took advantage of every bit of cover for he had no wish to be seen, at least as yet. Soon he reached the vantage spot he sought. From it he commanded a view of the village, and of the entrance to the great Suvaroff house on the hill as well.

The dismal procession from the village had already begun. The place, in fact, was already almost entirely deserted. Orders from the army evidently counted for a good deal here. Fred wondered what Americans would have done in a like case. But the departure of the villagers, who knew him, and might have recognized him even in his German guise, relieved him immensely. Before the house on the hill he could see a mounted Uhlan on guard over the horses. The rest had gone inside. There were only five of them altogether, which made him feel confident that none would be left behind. There were too few for that.

As time passed, he wondered why they stayed inside so long. In a way, it was to his liking that they should, but it made him nervous. He was afraid that a real search was being made; afraid that, by some stroke of misfortune, Boris's hiding-place had been revealed. But at last he saw the solitary horseman outside the house stiffen to rigid attention. Then the others came out, and he almost shouted in his relief when he saw that they brought no one with them. The officer swung to his saddle and in a minute more the little command was cantering down the hill. Fred looked at the village searchingly now. There was no one left. A quarter of a mile away the rear end of the wretched procession of refugees straggled along the road, going west. They were not looking back.

Now it was time to put his plan to the test. The chances of full success, as he understood perfectly, were most remote. And the danger was great. He had not seen these Uhlans; there might well be someone even in that small party who would recognize him. And he knew what would happen then, if he were caught. But his plan compelled him to run that risk, and he emerged from his shelter, and struck out boldly along the road the Uhlans had taken to come to the village. He walked northeast, and he knew that that in itself would be suspicious, but it was all part of his plan.

He had not long to wait for the plan to begin, or at least to work out according to his calculations. Behind him he heard a shout, but, affecting not to hear it, he did not turn. And in a few moments he heard the sound of galloping hoofs behind him. Even then he did not turn until a Uhlan had ridden past him.

"Stop!" cried the soldier. "Where are you going?"

Fred looked at him blankly.

"Stop!" said the German again, for Fred, after having looked at him, had moved on. Still Fred paid no attention, and the man rode up to him and leaned over, dropping a heavy hand on his shoulder and shaking him in no gentle way.

"Where are you going, I say? Answer!" roared the Uhlan.

But Fred only smiled and pointed first to his ears and then to his mouth. By pantomime he pretended to be deaf and dumb. And when the officer came up, Fred was still smiling -- and silent. He knew he had never seen this officer before.



Chapter XIII

The Escape


"What's the matter with him, Schmidt!" asked the officer.

Fred knew enough of German uniforms by this time to place him as a lieutenant of the lowest grade, and was thankful that he did not have an experienced man to deal with.

"Deaf and dumb, I think, Herr Lieutenant," said the man. "I rode up behind him, calling to him and making a good deal of noise, but he did not even know I was coming until I was on top of him."

"Well, he can't go this way!" said the lieutenant. "How are we to make him understand that?"

"If I dismounted and turned him about, he might perhaps understand," said the soldier.

"Try it!"

Fred had hard work to conceal his amusement but he managed it. The soldier solemnly turned him about and pushed him in the direction whence he had come. But Fred immediately turned around, walked a couple of paces as he had been going, and then stopped, smiling broadly. Then he turned around, shook his head violently, and turned back.

"He's trying to tell us he wants to keep on the way he was going," said the lieutenant.

The two Germans seemed to be puzzled, but then the officer got an idea. He produced paper and pencil and wrote hurriedly.

"Who are you? Where are you going?" he wrote. Then he handed the paper to Fred. Fred hesitated for a moment. He understood German and could talk it very well. But he was a little nervous about writing it, especially in the German script. He could write it, but he was not sure that he could write it so well that it would seem like the work of a German. However, he took the chance.

"My name is Gebhardt," he wrote. "I come from Munich, and I am visiting my uncle and aunt here at Gumbinnen. My uncle sent me to Insterberg and then I found I could not go back by train. Soldiers have made me turn around so many times that it has taken me all this time to get here. Why can I not go to Gumbinnen?"

The officer took the paper and, when he had read it, told the soldier. They seemed to find Fred's explanation plausible, and his writing had passed muster.

"Here is a fine mess!" said the lieutenant. "Poor boy! I feel sorry for one with such an affliction! And is he not between the devil and the deep blue sea? In Gumbinnen there will be Russian cavalry by to-morrow -- and at Insterberg, I suppose, the first real battle will be fought!"

Fred caught his breath. He was getting what he wanted now, certainly! If only he did not betray himself! If the officer would only go on and tell him a little more! And he did go on, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

"If his people have any sense, they will have cleared out of Gumbinnen before this. He knows someone at Insterberg, perhaps, but if it is the plan to let the Russians come so far without fighting and then strike while they are there, the population will have been ordered out. And they have been unloading troop trains at Insterberg, too -- so that the Russians would not find out how many men we had here. Eh -- take him up behind you, Schmidt! We can't abandon him. Perhaps the hospital people or the cooks can make some use of him."

Fred heard this with a start of dismay. It was decidedly more than he had bargained for, because now that he had the information he had come to get, he wanted to get back to the wireless as quickly as possible. It did him no good to know the German plan, or to have a hint of what it was, unless he could pass on his knowledge to those who could make some use of it. But he could not protest when the officer wrote down an explanation of what was to be done with him, telling him that the road to Gumbinnen was not safe, but that he would see to it that Fred should get to a safe place.

So when the soldier Schmidt patted his horse's back and indicated that Fred should climb up, Fred had no choice but to obey. He had plenty to think of, too, as they rode along. For one thing, while he had taken his chance and won, since this officer had not seen him before, there was every prospect that he would be recognized if he were now taken to headquarters. He supposed that that was where they were going, and he knew that a number of the officers who had left the parsonage with General von Hindenburg on the night of the Cossack raid would be present. It would be strange, indeed, if none of them knew him. And it took no imagination to guess what recognition would mean.

There was just one thing in his favor now. It was beginning to get dark. He did not know how far they had to ride, but he hoped it was a long way. Ordinarily, he would not have wanted the ride to be prolonged because his position was highly uncomfortable. Fred could ride well himself, but riding alone on a horse and sitting behind a man who fills his own saddle with very little to spare are two different things.

Try as he would, Fred could not think of a means of getting away. To escape from five mounted men by slipping off the horse and running for it was manifestly impossible. He gave up that idea before he even elaborated upon it. But soon the glimmering dawn of an idea did come to him. The pace slackened, and he noticed that he and Schmidt were falling behind. The lieutenant called out sharply, and Schmidt, growling to himself beneath his breath, used his spur and brought his horse up into alignment with the others again. But only for a hundred yards or so. Then the horse faltered and fell behind again. Now the lieutenant reproved Schmidt sharply.

"I'm sorry, Herr Lieutenant," said Schmidt. "My poor beast is very tired, and he is carrying an extra burden. He has had more work to do to-day than any of the others. If you would permit me to drop behind and come in alone -- it is not so far now?"

"Very well," said the lieutenant. "We'll never get there if we hang back waiting for you." And he gave the word to ride on.

Schmidt at once began to take things more easily. Fred heard him grunting to himself.

"Those verdamter young officers!" he grumbled. "Just because they have a pair of shoulder straps, they think they know it all! I would like to put some of them across my knee!"

Fred knew enough of German discipline to be vastly amused by this. But he had no time now to think of trifling things. His whole energy was devoted to finding some way to turn this new circumstance to his own advantage. It seemed to him that there ought to be some way of managing it. And in a moment he got the idea. Schmidt was as tired as his horse, or even more so, and by this time he was swaying in his saddle and half asleep, as a trained horseman often does. Fred leaned forward and very quietly cut the saddle girth almost through. He knew that the slightest strain would finish the work. Schmidt was utterly unconscious of what was going on. Fred could tell, from the man's breathing, just what his condition was. He would snore a little and then, with a start, he would arouse himself, breathing normally for a minute. Then the snoring would start again. He was trusting himself entirely to his horse.

Dusk had fallen now, and Fred decided that it was time to see if his plan was feasible. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, rolled it into a ball, and flung it straight ahead, so that it fell, unrolling, right before the horse's eyes. The effect was inevitable. The frightened horse reared. At the strain the severed girth gave, and the saddle, rolling, spilled both Schmidt and Fred into the road, while the horse bolted. Fred lay still, watching Schmidt, who rose, cursing fluently, and stood for a moment staring stupidly after his horse. Then he began to call, and broke into the awkward, lumbering run of the cavalryman.

Fred might have slipped away then, but he was sure that Schmidt would catch the horse, which must, he thought, be trained to stop even after a momentary panic. And it was not his plan to seize a chance that might after all not be as good as it looked. He wanted to make as sure as possible of getting away. And now, as soon as Schmidt had started after the horse, he crawled over to the saddle, which lay where it had fallen. He took the heavy revolver from the holster and was duly grateful for one thing he had noticed -- these Uhlans carried no carbines. Their only weapons, seemingly, were their lances and the revolvers in their holsters.

He was not a moment too soon. Schmidt came back almost at once, leading his horse. He was scolding it for running, and he was also expressing his opinion of government saddles and leather. He found the broken girth, and sat down at once to mend it. Fred scarcely dared to breathe for a moment. But Schmidt did not notice the empty holster, and though he growled and swore when he saw how the girth had snapped, he did not seem to notice that it had been cut almost through.

Fred went over and looked at him. Then, idly, indifferently, he went to the horse, which was standing perfectly still, though its flanks were still heaving. Fred patted the horse's head. Schmidt glanced around at him. His back was turned, and he seemed to see nothing worthy of attention in Fred's attitude.

And then, with one spring, Fred was on the horse's back, and, bending low, was urging the tired animal back over the road he had travelled so slowly. With a cry of mingled rage and surprise Schmidt leaped up and began shouting. But the horse, ready enough to obey when it was running riderless away, now obeyed the more convincing orders of its rider. Fred, moreover, was a welcome contrast to Schmidt's big bulk; there was a difference of at least seventy pounds.

Fred turned once to look at Schmidt, and saw him staring with an expression of stupefaction at the empty holster. Then he devoted himself entirely to the road ahead. It was as he had thought and hoped; Schmidt did not have another pistol. And, with Fred urging him on, the horse galloped on as if it had been really fresh.

"Thank heaven he's stupid, that Schmidt!" thought Fred.

Then he had a fit of remorse. He was afraid that it would go hard with Schmidt, for he knew that in the German army excuses are not readily accepted. However, it was not a time to think of sentiment. Fred was taking desperate chances himself, and it had been a case of seizing any chance of escape that offered itself. Not only his own liberty, but very probably his own life had depended upon his getting away. He knew enough, by this time, to understand that the outcome of the first campaign of the war might depend upon the accuracy of the information the Russians obtained of the German movements.

It was plain to Fred that the Russians, in this quarter at least, had not been well served by their spies. He was surprised at the absence of initiative the Russians had shown in some ways. Aeroplane scouting, for instance, would have made it impossible for the Germans to spring such a surprise as evidently was in preparation. The Germans were using their aerial scouts. It was one of them, detecting the approach of General Suvaroff and his Cossack raiders, who had spoiled the plan for the capture of von Hindenburg.

But though he had felt that he was perfectly justified in sacrificing Schmidt to his own need to escape, Fred could not help feeling sorry for the poor fellow.

"I hope he'll be able to think up a good story!" he said to himself. "And, by George, I hope I don't meet any more German soldiers! They would certainly finish me off if they found me riding on a German horse! There isn't anything I could do that would make them think that was all right, no matter how stupid they were!"

He urged his horse on now as hard as he dared, tired though he knew it to be. His plan was simple enough. He meant to ride to within a mile of the village, and then dismount, letting the horse go wherever it liked. Its usefulness to him would be over as soon as it had put him past the possibility of pursuit. He thought his troubles were nearly over. But suddenly, around a turn in the road, came a glare of light, and in his ears sounded the bugle of a German military automobile.



Chapter XIV

Altered Plans


Fred's horse did for him what he could scarcely have done for himself in time. It reared and threw him, then bolted. Tired already, the sudden appearance of the monstrous ray of light and the roar of the approaching motor was too much for that horse. Fred was not hurt by the fall. Having had no stirrups from which to disengage his feet, he was able to let himself go. And he had no sooner landed than he was up. For just a moment, he knew he must be plainly visible in the glare of the searchlight. But he dashed for the side of the road and made his way through a hedge and into the field on the other side. There he began to run as fast and as hard as he could.

He had two chances, he thought. One, that he had not been seen at all; the other, that whoever was in the car might think he had passed on the flying horse. If he had been seen, however, he could not hope to escape by running. He was too tired, for one thing, after the strenuous experience of the previous night, and for another, he was almost certain to be seen, for after he had traversed a space that was covered with shrubs and young trees, he would be in the open. And a bullet could travel faster than he could.

And so, after making his dash, he stopped running and threw himself down, facing the road, to watch and to listen. At first he thought he was safe, for the car roared by. But in a moment his ear caught a different note in the sound of the motor, and then the engine stopped. It started again in a moment, but now the headlight was coming toward him again! The car had been turned around. It was back, undoubtedly, to look for him. Still he decided not to run, but to stay where he was, though every instinct prompted him to take the chance of flight. That, however, was pure panic, and he fought against the impulse.

The car came along slowly. He was not more than a hundred feet from the road, and the headlight showed him the progress of the car. Its blinding light, however, made it impossible for him to see the car itself or its occupants. It gave them the advantage. Finally the car stopped, and he groaned. It had stopped exactly opposite his hiding-place! He had hoped that they would not be able to tell just where he had left the road, but in a moment the explanation came to him. He had trampled down the hedge in getting through, of course, and had left a trail that a child might have followed.

Then the headlight was switched off, and for a moment he lost the car altogether. His ears, rather than his eyes, told him that someone was coming. He heard the breaking down of the hedge, and then footsteps moving slowly, but coming closer. And in a moment he saw a little stabbing ray of light that wandered back and forth. Whoever was stalking him was evidently not afraid of him.

Suddenly he remembered his pistol, the one he had taken from Schmidt's holster. He gripped it convulsively. After all, he was not as helpless as he had believed. He waited. Should he risk all now, with a shot -- a shot that might warn this stalker off and give him another chance to escape, even though there were others in the car? He drew out the pistol, and cocked it. Then, at the faint sound, a voice called to him out of the darkness.

"Do not fire! It is I -- Ivan! Ivan Ivanovitch!"

For a moment Fred thought he was going to collapse, so great was the relief and the slackening of tension. He did laugh out, but caught himself at once.

"Ivan!" he said. "I thought it was a German officer! It is I, Ivan -- Fred Waring!"

"I knew it," said Ivan, coming up close. "I saw you for just a second as your horse reared. It was just a flash of your face, but if I have ever seen a face once, I never forget it. And you have the look of a Suvaroff about you, even though you are different. I would have known you for one of the breed had I met you anywhere in the world, had no one told me who you were. And so I turned to find you and follow you."

"But what are you doing here? I thought you were to rejoin our own army?"

"I was pressed into service as a chauffeur. This car was needed near the front, and there was no one to drive it. I deceived them wholly, with my uniform, and my motorcycle. And so they forced this car upon me! My plan was to use it, instead of my cycle, to get past their lines."

"But you are riding straight to Gumbinnen -- and they are near there in force!"

"No, they have retreated from there. They know that we are too strong for them, and they do not care to fight."

"Yes, and do you know why? Because they have been bringing troops up secretly to Insterberg, and are planning to fight a great battle there on their own grounds! You were wrong, Ivan, in the information you sent."

Wasting no words, he quickly told of what he had learned that evening. And Ivan smote his hands together for he was deeply troubled.

"And I thought I knew all their plans!" he said, savagely. "If the staff had acted upon my information, we should have marched into a trap!"

"Now I must get to the wireless," said Fred. "That was what I meant to do when you frightened my horse there in the road."

"Come, I will drive you back. It will not take long, and your work is more important than mine now. It is safe, too. You can be hidden in the car in case we encounter any Germans. But that is not likely. They are not as thick in this district as they were forty-eight hours ago."

They made their way together to the car, and Fred laughed.

"I don't think I was ever so scared as when you turned and came back. It was worse, in a way, than when they were going to shoot me in the parsonage garden. I'd been so sure I was safe -- and then to hear that bugle call on your car!"

"It is not right for you to run such risks," said Ivan. "I wish you were behind our lines! You are not even a Russian, and yet you have been near to death for us."

"Don't you worry about me!" said Fred. "I don't suppose that I would have started this, but when I was pushed into it as I was, I feel like doing all I can. If the Germans had caught me when Boris hid me in the tunnel, they would have treated me like an enemy, so I thought I might as well give them a good excuse, since they were going to do it anyhow."

"Here we are," said Ivan. "Even if you were frightened, this may turn out well. You will save some time, and I can take you to the very opening of the tunnel."

"Well, it's only fair for this car to do me a good turn after the fright it gave me," said Fred.

Ivan drove swiftly when they started again. On that deserted road, through a country that had been blasted by the approach of war, though as yet there had been no actual fighting, there was no reason for cautious driving. And five minutes brought them to the parsonage, and so to a point as close to the opening of the tunnel as the car could go. As the motor stopped Ivan swore in surprise.

"Look!" he said.

To the west there were a dozen darting searchlights winking back and forth across the sombre sky. And below the searchlights were hundreds of tiny points of fire.

"They're advancing!" he cried. "And listen!"

From the east there came a dull sound that rose presently to a steady, loud roar.

"Everything has changed!" cried Ivan, his face white. "We are pushing the attack -- we must have occupied Gumbinnen! The Germans are being driven back -- and they are bringing up their supports! They must mean to fight here to protect the railway! This place will be the centre of a battle before morning! I shall give up my plan. The only thing that counts now is to get word to the staff of what is going on back here! Come!"

"What about the car?"

"If it is still here after we have sent word, good! If it is not, we must do without it."

Ivan began running toward the mouth of the tunnel. But Fred, before he followed, switched off the lights and ran the car off the side of the road, so that it was under the wall of the parsonage garden and sheltered, to a certain extent, by the heavy foliage of a large tree, whose branches overhung the wall.

"I'd like to think that that car was where we could get at it," he said to himself. "I have an idea that this place is going to be mighty unpleasant before long."